Golden Age (The Shifting Tides, #1)(14)

But in Xanthos, archery was not considered a suitable skill for a king’s son. The army’s strength came from the coordinated phalanxes of hoplites, working together with shield, sword, and spear. King Markos didn’t even stay long enough to see Dion’s proficiency before he forbade further practice.

The young Dion could no longer entertain a position in the army.

But Nikolas intervened again. He took his younger brother to Cob and asked the old man to teach Dion the handling of boats. Despite the fact that Xanthos had only a small fleet made up mostly of fishing vessels, trade by sea between Xanthos, Phalesia, and Sarsica was increasing year by year. A nation needed wealth to pay the men who worked in the army and fit them with armor and weapons.

Sailing came to Dion even more swiftly than archery. He knew he had finally found his path in life. In a nation preoccupied with the land, where mining and farming were the main occupations after soldiering, and where athletes competed at the Xanthian Games in swordsmanship, wrestling, javelin throwing, and running, Dion instead loved the sea.

And in his time trading and traveling, as crewman and rower, purser and occasionally captain, he had come to a startling conclusion. The future of the Galean continent would not be decided by hoplites alone. It would be determined by control of the ocean’s shifting tides.

‘Look,’ Cob said, pointing.

Dion saw that the cliff ahead, on the port side, leaning over the narrows, was newly broken. The earthquake that had taken place over a week ago had opened up a seam in the peak, and the protrusion had evidently splintered from the cliff and tumbled into the water.

‘We need to get closer,’ Dion said. ‘See if there is anything we can do to clear it.’

‘Clear it?’ Cob snorted.

Dion smiled and then the smile fell, his forehead creasing as he devoted his attention to examining the water ahead. The narrows had always been more of a blessing than a curse, for on the other side of the passage was a clear run to the harbor of Phalesia, which meant that any enemy arriving by sea first had to pass Xanthos’s neighboring nation’s fleet. He considered the sense of security Phalesia provided a mixed blessing, however, for it gave his father, King Markos, little incentive to develop his own fleet. Boats were for fishing and trading, according to Dion’s father, and little else.

He finally let some rope drift through his fingers, barely registering the friction on his calloused hands. The sail slackened and the small boat slowed as he approached the place where only sixty feet separated the island of Coros from the mainland.

‘Be ready to turn,’ Dion instructed.

As often happened, the order was met by a muttered curse, directed at his back.

Dion peered into the water ahead, but still the narrows appeared clear. The tip of the cliff must have fallen somewhere, but now that steep rock walls rose on both sides the boat was in shadow. The wind picked up sudden strength, gusting the vessel forward and dangerously close to the place where the gap was smallest.

Then he saw it.

It was directly ahead, a huge boulder with a jagged spear for a point, completely submerged under the water, but with the knife’s edge just under the surface.

The razor-sharp rock, newly broken, was just a stone’s throw in front of the boat.

‘Turn!’ Dion cried. ‘Quickly!’

He released the rope and pushed the boom out as far as he could, a trick that used the wind to initiate the turn. Staring back with wide eyes, he saw Cob had the tiller hard around. The boat began to turn.

But still its motion continued. Six feet became five, then four. The point of the boulder disappeared under the boat as it completed the turn.

‘Pull on the sail, you fool!’ Cob cried.

Dion grabbed hold of the trailing rope on the boat’s bottom and hauled, at the same time holding the boom so that the wind would catch the sail as soon as possible.

The vessel started to move and then she was sailing away from the blocked narrows. Dion let out a breath, then grinned.

‘Well the narrows are blocked, that’s for certain,’ he said, looking back at Cob, whose square face was red. ‘No trading vessels will make it over that.’

‘Good,’ Cob grunted. ‘We can go home now.’

‘Cob . . . We had to get that close.’

‘Why is that?’

‘I needed to see the boulder for myself to see what we can do to clear it.’

‘Lad, what in the name of Silex are you talking about?’

‘We have to remove the blockage,’ Dion said seriously. He hauled the sail in to lend speed to their journey, taking them away from the narrows and back toward Xanthos. ‘It effectively blocks our trade with Phalesia.’

Although there was a direct land route between the two cities, via the pass called the Gates of Annika, the Xanthian side was rocky and mountainous and had to be crossed on foot, with horses led by the reins. Runners with messages traveled on land, for it was generally swifter. But transiting a boatload of goods that was easily moved on sea would be impossible on land.

‘You understand, don’t you? If there is something we can do, we must do it,’ Dion said.

‘What we have to do is return to your father and tell him the reports are true. Then we can talk about clearing the passage.’

‘Father is a soldier, not a sailor.’

‘Aye, lad. But he will care when the silver stops flowing.’