ALSO BY JAMES MAXWELL
THE SHIFTING TIDES
Golden Age
Silver Road
Copper Chain
EVERMEN SAGA
Enchantress
The Hidden Relic
The Path of the Storm
The Lore of the Evermen
Seven Words of Power
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by James Maxwell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477805138
ISBN-10: 1477805133
Cover illustration by Fred Gambino
Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com
For my wife, Alicia, with all my love
CONTENTS
MAP
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
1
Dion brought his horse to a sudden halt. From his position on a high mountain trail, he had a clear view of the village of Brook Farm in the valley below. He watched as dozens and dozens of red-scaled dragons descended toward the houses. He could almost hear the screams of the folk fleeing in all directions. The dragons tucked in their wings to plummet with speed. Jaws bit down on unarmed peasants. Soldiers astride the dragons thrust spears or hacked down with axes and swords. This village, almost identical to so many others in Xanthos, had no stronghold for people to flee to, no soldiers to fight back. It wasn’t war, it was butchery.
‘Dion?’ Cob’s concerned voice broke through his reverie.
Dion blinked and the dragons were gone. He realized he was clutching the reins tightly. The village was as it had been before: a small settlement of thatched houses with smoke snaking up from chimneys. Nearby, fields of wheat made a patchwork of the lowlands, while goats and sheep milled on the green hills. The people who lived in the houses and worked the fields led simple lives, centered on family and the flow of the seasons. They were the lifeblood of Dion’s kingdom. Their efforts fed the urban population in the city. If war came – when war came – he didn’t know how he would protect them.
He saw that Cob had brought his wagon to a halt. The old man sat on the driving seat, his round, bald head turned to look back at Dion. His worried expression was familiar. Cob had been like a father to Dion ever since he’d first taught him to sail as a boy, and lines of concern were etched into his weathered face.
‘Lad?’ Cob’s voice was rough and gravelly.
‘It’s nothing,’ Dion said. He nodded ahead, indicating the trail they were following. ‘We should push on.’
Dion dug in his heels and his horse put on a burst of speed to catch up with Cob. Heading north, they would soon be leaving Xanthos behind. The dirt road was wide enough for both Dion’s horse and Cob’s wagon, and drooping trees by the roadside provided blessed shade from the burning sun. It was high summer, and the two men were tanned a deep brown.
Holding the reins, Cob grunted at the cart horse and then glanced at Dion again. Cob now looked curious rather than concerned, but Dion kept his thoughts to himself.
The vision of dread stayed with him.
Dion had taken valuable time away from preparing his defenses to make this journey, and he prayed to all the gods that he would be successful. He had shaved and dressed in his finest tunic, which was crimson, the color of Xanthos, and belted with a golden cord, marking him out as royalty. His flaxen hair was neatly combed, and his pale-brown eyes were filled with purpose. But he hadn’t brought an escort with him. Something told him that the man he wanted to make an impression upon wouldn’t appreciate the arrival of armed soldiers. And so Dion and Cob traveled alone.
‘Subtle,’ Cob said, nodding at a sign by the road. It was a vertical stone slab; the lettering on it was clear and crisp: You are now leaving Xanthos. The domain of the king ends here.
Worry gnawed at Dion’s stomach as he rode. He was a king, and accustomed to being treated as such. But the man they were visiting, the famed philosopher Xenophon, had deliberately sited his school outside the border. The statement was obvious: he was ruled by no one. Xenophon answered only to himself.
The trail continued to climb for mile after mile. Cob tried to make conversation but gave up; Dion obviously wasn’t in the mood. Time passed, and then the road rounded a bend to reveal a distant stone wall and a pair of wooden gates. Dion’s anxiety grew; he had so much to do and hoped this journey wouldn’t be in vain.
Dion and Cob came to a halt at the trail’s end and exchanged glances. Dion was about to dismount when the gates began to draw apart. They opened just a short way and then stopped.
A man exited. He was middle-aged and plump, with a wart on his nose, and wore a white tunic. Dion nudged his horse forward to meet him, while Cob drove the wagon alongside.
‘This is Dion, king of Xanthos, here to see the philosopher Xenophon,’ Cob announced.
The man at the gate inspected Dion with interest. ‘I am the scholar Petros. What is the purpose of your visit?’
‘I need to speak with your master,’ Dion said.
‘To what end?’
Cob growled. ‘We have come a long way—’
Dion silenced Cob with a look. ‘Petros, I come as a supplicant. I bring no escort other than my friend Cob. I must speak with the philosopher Xenophon.’
The scholar’s eyes rested on the dagger at Dion’s hip and traveled to the axe hanging from Cob’s belt. He then focused his attention on the cart. Its contents were covered in sackcloth, but there were lumps and bulges that suggested whatever was hidden was big.
‘And what do you have there?’
‘Something for the philosopher,’ Dion said.
Petros opened his mouth, but then he saw Dion’s tight expression. He changed whatever he’d been about to say. ‘Wait here.’
Petros vanished through the gates, closing them behind him. As time dragged on, Dion tried to remain calm. He was desperate to be back in Xanthos. But he needed Xenophon more than he cared to
admit.
Finally the gates began to part; this time Petros and a fellow scholar opened them wide. Dion spurred his stallion forward and Cob followed after.
The dirt road gave way to a path of pale gravel that carved its way through green lawns. The school of Xenophon was surprisingly large, made up of a dozen stone buildings separated by flower and vegetable gardens, all connected via a network of well-worn trails. Dion saw pigs in a pen, goats nibbling at a hedge, and a stable with room for a dozen horses. Students of the philosopher carried water, washed linen, and tended to the gardens.
Dion and Cob came to a halt when the road ended at a wide graveled circle outside a two-storied manor that was the biggest structure of all. Dion dismounted while Cob jumped off the cart. Petros’s companion then led the two horses away to drink.
Dion cast an inquiring look at the manor, but Petros pointed away from the buildings, to where the grassland rose to form a tall hill.
‘You will find Xenophon there,’ the scholar said.
The sun shone fiercely, and Dion wiped sweat from his face as he and Cob climbed the hill. Bees buzzed over the field and the grass was soft underfoot, but Dion was too consumed with urgency to take in the tranquility of his surroundings. He straightened his tunic and finally saw a group of a dozen young men seated in a circle. No one paid him any attention as he approached; the students were all focused on the man in the center.
Xenophon looked comfortable, sitting cross-legged and now and then tugging absently on the blades of grass beneath him. He was an old man, but sprightly, with a crown of curly white hair and an immense beard stretching halfway down his chest. He was clad in a voluminous white robe and spoke in an easy, conversational tone.
‘But why be moral in the first place?’ he asked the young men seated around him.
His voice was smooth and full of confidence. He turned his head to direct his gaze at each of his students as he waited for a response. It was then that Dion noted the philosopher’s eyes. They were as blue as sapphires and bright with intelligence. Xenophon took note of Dion and Cob standing outside the circle but made no other sign of acknowledgment.
‘To lead a just life,’ one of the students answered.
‘But why be just?’ Xenophon pressed. ‘To explain that we are moral because we must be just is no answer at all.’
‘To please the gods,’ another student with a scar under his eye said. ‘To be judged and found true.’
‘And why is it so important to please such distant beings?’ Xenophon challenged the same student.
The young man with the scar hesitated. ‘In order to gain entrance to heaven.’
‘So is it self-interest then?’ Xenophon raised an eyebrow. ‘Is it truly moral to be so consumed with self-interest? Is there no reason to be moral in this world, regardless of the next?’
An older student spoke. ‘We treat people the way we wish to be treated ourselves. If I help someone, he may help others.’
‘Then tell me.’ Xenophon raised a finger. ‘If a beggar drops his only coin on the street, why chase after him and return his money? The beggar has nothing to offer us.’
‘Our actions will be seen,’ the same older student replied. ‘They will influence the community.’
‘Self-interest again,’ Xenophon said. ‘So is it true then that we should be moral when it suits us, even gaining a reputation as a moral person, but act immorally if it gives us an advantage?’
Dion raised his voice. ‘We are moral because of the way it makes us feel inside. Acting with kindness and justice affects who we are, giving us the strength to treat others with more of the same, just as cruelty wears at one’s soul.’
Xenophon looked up to meet Dion’s eyes. ‘That is a good answer, one of the best. But surely, King of Xanthos, you can see that your reasoning is still circular. Being good makes us more able to be good, you say. But what is good? Why is it good? And your argument is still posed in terms of self-interest. Is there no true argument that can be put toward the logic for morality?’
The students pondered, silent for a moment, before one of the youngest asked, ‘What do you say, master? What is the argument?’
Xenophon spread his hands. ‘I know of none.’ He smiled when his words were met with puzzlement. ‘Go now and reflect. If you think you have the answer, share it with me.’
The students rose and dispersed, some casting curious glances in Dion’s direction. Xenophon climbed to his feet without groaning; the old philosopher was clearly in good health. He waited until the students had left and then spoke. ‘Dion, son of Markos. I knew your father, as much as any man can know a king. A strong warrior in his day . . . though not much of a thinker.’
‘This is Cob—’
‘Cobrim,’ Cob interrupted. He gave a small bow. ‘An honor to meet you, philosopher.’
Xenophon looked from face to face. ‘Now, why don’t you tell me why you are here?’
‘I have something to show you,’ Dion said. ‘If we may?’
Xenophon shrugged and fell in beside Dion and Cob as they headed down the grassy hill toward the area of stone buildings.
‘I need your help,’ Dion said.
The old philosopher tugged on his beard and frowned. He glanced at Dion while he walked. ‘I am long retired, as you no doubt know. Help with what exactly?’
‘Long ago you cataloged the library of Phalesia. You built the statue of Balal that stands outside the god’s temple in Xanthos. Your plow design is still in use throughout Galea, as is your axle and composite bow.’
‘I have made many more accomplishments than that in my time,’ Xenophon harrumphed. ‘The embankment wall in Phalesia. The pulley system used in the silver mines. The list goes on. But as I said, I am retired, young king. I am content to teach here in my school. I serve no one. Whatever it is you want my help with, I am not interested.’
The group of three reached the cart and came to a halt. ‘You know of the dragon army?’ Dion asked.
Xenophon gave a short laugh. ‘You have a problem that is far too difficult for me to solve.’
‘If Xanthos is conquered it affects you too,’ Cob said.
‘I think not,’ Xenophon replied, stroking his long white beard. ‘I have nothing to offer a conqueror, other than wisdom.’
‘Please, philosopher,’ Dion said. ‘Just take a look at this and give me your thoughts.’
Cob walked to the cart and unfastened the ties holding the sackcloth, before yanking the covering hard. In an instant it was revealed: an ugly black contraption made of wood and iron. Big enough to fill the whole cart, it had two curved arms at the front of a long channel. The cross-shaped base had been dismantled and rested on its side.
Dion said, ‘It’s a—’
‘—a ballista,’ Xenophon finished. ‘I know what it is, young king.’
The philosopher approached the cart and leaned forward to examine the weapon. He tested the thick string between his fingers and inspected the crank. He took his time to make an assessment, muttering under his breath, before straightening once more.
‘This is the best my engineers have come up with,’ Dion said. ‘It can fire a solid iron spear sixty paces with enough force to put a hole through a shield. But it is not good enough. It is complex to manufacture, takes too long to reload, and misfires one shot in five.’
‘I am not surprised,’ Xenophon said. ‘I can tell at a glance that this design has been improved on with trial and error. It needs to be remodeled from the ground up.’
Dion began to feel hope. ‘I need your help, philosopher, to make it more powerful, more accurate, easier to build, and more maneuverable. Our enemies will come from the sky. The dragons’ hides are thick, and their riders wear armor of steel chain. Ballistae could be essential to our struggle, but we must build them in quantity.’
‘I said it needs to be redesigned. I didn’t say I was the one to do it.’
‘So you cannot do better?’ Dion raised an eyebrow.
Xenophon
scowled. ‘The question is not whether I can. It’s whether I want to.’
Dion met the old philosopher’s piercing blue eyes. ‘Many people will die. Surely your morality teaches you to do what you can?’
Xenophon shrugged. ‘Perhaps I prefer to stay far from the fighting. Perhaps my morality is just an expression of self-interest.’
Dion tried to hide his frustration. He wondered what would appeal to the old man. If it was a strong challenge the philosopher needed, he had no shortage of problems to solve.
‘Xenophon,’ he said, ‘time is short. I don’t just need a new ballista design. I need to revolutionize the way my people work.’
‘Simple,’ Xenophon said. ‘Just break the design into parts, and get each worker to either focus on one part or assemble the pieces into the whole.’
‘Do you see?’ Dion pressed. ‘This is why I need you. What you just said makes sense to me, but I am no craftsman, nor am I an engineer. I need new fortifications and new weapons. I need to eke out the iron I have and use wood where I can. I can’t do this on my own!’ Dion broke off when he saw that his words weren’t having an effect. He thought again and then spoke firmly to Xenophon as he lifted a finger. ‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘While I am gone, I want you to think about how many people there are in Xanthos and Phalesia. Then think about this.’
Dion strode away from the cart toward the two-storied manor. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Xenophon cast a puzzled look in Cob’s direction, but Cob was as mystified as the philosopher. Dion walked angrily, heading behind the manor until the two men could no longer see him.
His speech had revived all his tension. His jaw was clenched tightly. Away from the other two men, hidden by the building, he had no trouble bringing on wild thoughts of primal emotion.
Mist clouded him from head to toe, billowing out and elongating. Dion’s body vanished from his awareness, replaced with a new, far larger form. He felt the familiar sensation of stretching.
Xenophon’s eyes nearly burst from his skull when he saw the black dragon with shining scales rise from behind the building. Dion beat his wings with slow, leisurely movements, his gaze fixed on the old philosopher. He decided to put on a burst of speed. He flew forward and swooped toward the old man in the billowing robe, and then drew up hard, blowing dust over the ground. Aloft and directly facing the philosopher, close enough to reach out and touch, he slowly parted his jaws to reveal sharp, knife-edged teeth. A low rumble came from within his chest, rising in volume.
Iron Will Page 1
