Golden Age (The Shifting Tides, #1)(121)

Dion continued to loose arrows into the mob below, but he knew that despite his efforts the struggle was pointless. He tried to aim at the Ileans cresting the wall but there was too much chance of striking a Phalesian.

He reached for an arrow, but his quiver was empty.

Then he saw Chloe.

She had a sword in her hand and was high on the cliff, climbing up the steep stairway, heading for the Temple of Aldus. Realizing she planned to defend the ark to the end, Dion scanned the ground, frantic as he bent and his hand closed around the hilt of a fallen soldier’s blade. He tried to push through to the edge of the embankment, striving in vain to reach the base of the steps against the surge of soldiers.

Amos and a hundred hoplites were now the last men trying to hold the wall. Scores of yellow-cloaked soldiers made it to the embankment with every passing moment. Amos fell when a shield struck his forehead. The blue-cloaked soldiers around him turned and ran.

Dion deftly weaved around the fleeing Phalesians as he reached the base of the cliff. He turned and faced the agora, feeling the iron hilt in his hand burn, and knowing the sensation now for what it was, knowing that it stemmed from who he was, what he was.

He prepared to defend the steps, protecting the ark with his life.

Protecting Chloe.

The attacking soldiers knew the sun king’s desire, and as they swarmed into the agora while the consuls fled in front of them, a broad-shouldered Ilean with a plume of orange horsehair cresting his helmet saw Dion, the sole defender of the path to the Temple of Aldus.

The soldier charged.

The sword felt impossibly heavy, even though Dion held the hilt in both hands. He nonetheless lifted the weapon and knocked aside the first savage thrust of his enemy’s spear. Dion raised the weapon again and attempted a fumbling thrust, but the blow was easily deflected by the shield on his opponent’s left arm. The Ilean suddenly threw his spear and Dion barely managed to lunge to the side as the weapon skewered the air.

Revealing a scarred, snarling face under his plumed helmet, the enemy soldier drew his sword from the scabbard at his waist. He took his time, slashing overhead and forcing Dion to raise his weapon to block. The force of the blow made the sword fall out of Dion’s hands, clattering to the stone.

Dion prepared to die.

Then a horn rumbled, deep and thunderous, overriding even the battle cries and the crashes of steel against steel. The strident note sounded from somewhere down in the city. He heard a roaring voice he knew well: ‘The sun king’s head is mine!’

Like a rising tide creeping up from the lower city, countless crimson-cloaked warriors of Xanthos swarmed into the agora, crashing against the sun king’s men and fighting in a fury of hand-to-hand combat. Nikolas’s bearded face was twisted in a fierce snarl as he led his men in the charge. The fleeing Phalesians cheered as they changed their path, turning to join the newcomers.

The hoplites smashed into the attackers before the Ileans had realized their peril. Soldiers in yellow cloaks continued to crest the wall and pour into the breach. Soldiers in red rushed the agora in greater and greater numbers to meet them. With a new danger to face, Dion’s opponent turned, uncertain, then ran to the aid of his men.

Still standing on the steps to the temple, Dion watched with wide eyes as the melee in the agora became a frenzy of blood and death.

The battle could go either way.





59


Solon, king of kings, ruler of the empire of Ilea, was standing close to the water’s edge, the bulk of the Nexotardis above and behind him. He was confident of victory: his stronger, more disciplined soldiers had crested the embankment and would soon seize the city. Beside him the one-eyed eldran king, Triton, had his fists clenched at his sides.

Solon frowned as he saw Kargan running in the wrong direction. For some reason Kargan had descended the steps; he was leading hundreds of men away from the defensive wall.

He raised an eyebrow when Kargan arrived, covered in blood. The big man gasped and wheezed as he made his report. ‘The battle is lost! We must retreat.’

‘Lost?’ Solon’s eyes widened. ‘The city is yours!’

‘The army of Xanthos has arrived,’ Kargan panted. ‘We don’t have the numbers to push them back.’

Shielding his eyes as he gazed up at the city, Solon saw soldiers in crimson cloaks fighting with savagery as they cleared the embankment. The Ileans began to flee, their flight becoming a desperate retreat down the steps as the bravest among them tried to hold against the onslaught of the soldiers at their backs. Yellow-cloaked soldiers tumbled from the high wall of the embankment, screaming until they struck the ground.

Kargan barked orders at his men. ‘Get the ships off the beach! Hurry or you’re all dead men!’

‘No,’ Solon said, shaking his head. ‘No!’

Kargan turned his dark gaze on his king. ‘Solon, your prize is lost. If we don’t leave now we’ll lose the fleet.’

Solon watched in disbelief as Kargan ordered the men who’d stayed with the warships to get them afloat. As more soldiers rushed down from the city he bellowed commands and instilled order in the terror-filled men.

The newly arrived Xanthian soldiers, under the leadership of a broad-shouldered bearded warrior in a crimson-plumed helmet, poured down the steps and began to gather in numbers, preparing to make a final charge to destroy their fleeing enemies and seize as many ships as they could.