He spun on his heel and ran toward the ships. ‘Get moving! Everyone on board!’
Too many of the survivors were still gathered on the ice rather than climbing the gangways to the ships. But at the mention of the kona, they paled and fled for the vessels. Kyphos’s men tried to get them in order; too many were going to some vessels and too few to others. Kyphos raced among them, herding groups to other gangways, even as the war cries of the kona became louder.
The gangways were narrow, forming bottlenecks that forced people to queue, pressing up against those in front. Kyphos glanced back and could make out individual warriors: men with topknots and ceremonial scars. They were lean and athletic, accustomed to a life of hardship. Running in a long, ragged line, they spread out to enclose the twelve bobbing vessels.
Kyphos dashed to the nearest tether and yanked hard at the rope, trying to dislodge the wooden stake embedded in the ice. Giving up, he took the axe from his belt and swung down, slicing the rope through. He glanced at the ship the rope led to and saw the last of the survivors rushing up the gangway, even as the vessel began to drift away from shore.
He ran to the next rope and hacked down at it. Taking the cue, one of his men was cutting more lines. Kyphos swiftly scanned the row of vessels and saw them moving away from the shore in ones and twos. Oars slid out from the ships’ sides. Paddles splashed at the icy water.
‘Kyphos!’ Elmar waved frantically from the deck of the Targus.
Kyphos realized that his ship was soon going to be too far out to reach. He quickly checked that every vessel was moving, and that every survivor was on board. He was the last to leave, sprinting as hard as he could toward the Targus. Up on the deck men cried at him to hurry. Arrows sailed over his head. A rope was thrown out. Cursing his short legs, Kyphos reached the water’s edge and then jumped.
He flew through the air, catching the rope as it was tossed. A moment later he slammed into the hull. The force of it knocked the wind out of him, almost causing him to lose his grip. But he gritted his teeth and held fast as the men on the top deck hauled at the rope to pull him up.
He gripped the rail and threw himself over. Bow strings continued to thrum. An arrow whistled through the air and sank into the mast.
He caught his breath for a moment until a man held out his hand and lifted him up. Kyphos immediately turned his attention to the shore.
Fifty paces separated the frozen ground from the departing ships, a distance that grew swiftly as the oarsmen hauled the fleet away with furious strokes. The tribesmen stood watching them depart, faces contorted with frustration and anger. It was no longer worth their arrows.
Kyphos wiped a hand over his face. He gathered himself; he knew his men were watching. He turned to look ahead. The floating slabs of ice were opening up. There was a clear channel in front of them.
‘Raise the sail!’ he called. ‘Take us out of here.’ His voice lowered. ‘And let’s pray we never see this place again.’
33
Amos stood with hundreds of veterans along the embankment. There were no longer any men on the walls, on the roofs of the houses, or on the high cliffs near the shore. Everyone who remained in Phalesia was here.
After all, what the dragons wanted was people. Rather than defend an empty city, Amos had focused his men on this one place, where they had a clear view of the sky in all directions and dozens of ballistae prepared and sighted. He had chosen it out of sentiment as much as military reason. The grand city around him was focused on the agora, with all the high surrounding temples gazing down on it. The embankment was the bulwark that separated the agora from the sea.
Like Amos, the archers, hoplites, and ballistae crews were all volunteers. They were almost uniformly old men, those who were willing and ready to give the sons and daughters of Phalesia time to escape. They had no illusions; they would face nearly one dragon for every man. Every creature they managed to kill would be a small victory.
Amos was surprised that he wasn’t afraid. Instead feelings of sadness and regret coursed through him, along with a strange sense of peace. As the hours passed and the sun climbed the sky, he thought about his life.
His one great regret was that when Nilus betrayed his old friend Aristocles, he hadn’t been there to protect him. Aristocles was murdered in cold blood, leaving Chloe and Sophia without a father. That great man deserved better.
A stronger sadness came when he thought about Sophia.
Sophia was clever for one so young. She knew what he was doing, despite his attempts to convince her that he would soon see her at Sindara. She had held him tightly, afraid to let him go, tears streaming down her cheeks. She knew his reasons, and was wise enough not to try to convince him to change his mind, but it didn’t make it any easier. Once again, a man she loved as a father was leaving her. She had begged him to survive. She asked him to promise her. It was a promise he couldn’t give.
Amos took a deep breath and stared up at the sky. The sun was past the midpoint now, and still his men stayed at their posts. The tension was rising; he could see it in the set of their jaws, clenched tightly, and the way they gripped their weapons. He almost wanted the dragons to come, but he knew that every moment that passed gave the evacuees more time to escape. The worst outcome would be if the creatures came, butchered Amos and his men easily, and then left.
He checked the position of the sun constantly. He muttered prayers under his breath, working his way through all the gods: Helios, the sun god; Silex, god of fortune and the sea; Aeris, goddess of music and healing; Edra, goddess of love and fertility; Aldus, god of justice; Balal, god of war.
It was strange in Phalesia. Deserted. There were no ships on the shore or boats fishing out at sea. No hawkers cried their wares; not a soul walked the streets. Just these few hundred old men remained, some manning ballistae, others waiting with arrows nocked and ready to draw, the rest standing with shield and spear.
Like Amos, the defenders were all clad in armor. Thick leather covered their torsos, leaving their arms bare. Skirts of hide strips stretched past their knees. Steel breastplates shone on their chests. Steel helmets covered their heads.
As the hours passed inexorably, Amos began to grow worried. What if the dragons had spied the departing fleet, or the immense column of people marching toward Sindara on the Phalesian Way?
He shook his head. No, he reminded himself. It was unlikely. The dragons had seen there were people here. They had probed the city’s defenses time and time again. After discovering Xanthos empty, they would be ravenous and frustrated, filled with rage. They would come.
He started to pace, stretching his limbs, preparing himself. He had taken only three steps when he stopped.
He had been so consumed with the sky, and the men around him, that he had barely noticed his immediate surroundings. There was a terracotta urn, standing next to his basket of arrows. He frowned. He didn’t remember seeing it before. Stopping at the urn, he crouched and peered down into its open mouth.
There was black liquid inside. He sniffed and screwed up his face. It smelled terrible, like every foul odor combined into a sickening mélange. He saw writing on its side, hastily scrawled in dark ink, and recognized Sophia’s handwriting: poison.
Amos smiled.
He went to the basket of arrows and lifted one up by the shaft to inspect the point. The head was coated in black slime. Lifting his gaze, scanning the archers, he saw more urns near the other baskets of arrows. He pictured Sophia, about to leave her home, able to take just a few precious possessions on the journey to Sindara. Instead of gathering jewelry like so many others, she had instead spent her final moments in the city doing whatever she could to give him a chance at survival.
Keeping the arrow in his hand, Amos slung his bow off his shoulder. He stood in the center of the line of men, all guarding the embankment. He had a ballista on both sides and more of them scattered along the line. With his spear at his feet, and his sword in the scabbard at his side, he nocked the arrow to
the bowstring.
He again checked the sun. Noon had come and gone. The golden orb was now low in the sky. The afternoon shimmer sparkled off the sea. Amos began to believe that perhaps the dragons might not attack today after all.
Then he saw them.
They were coming from the sea, flying low over the water, forming a wide wedge. Soon twin arcs of wings with lithe bodies between them filled the horizon. Then it became clear that the creatures were red. Their wings were outstretched, beating up and down. Amos could make out the dragons’ tiny forelimbs, but knew that up close they would be muscled and powerful, far bigger than his own legs. Faint shrieks sounded louder and louder.
‘Ballistae!’ Amos cried. ‘Prepare to fire!’
He waited, tensed. The bloodren were coming in quickly, heading directly toward the embankment. The distance between the dragons and the defenders closed to five hundred paces, and then two hundred. Pairs of almond-shaped eyes glared from demonic, reptilian heads. Jaws parted, revealing curved teeth as sharp as knives.
‘Fire!’
The ballistae jumped as they fired in unison, unleashing a volley of projectiles. The shafts of black iron flashed through the air, and in an instant eight monsters screamed as they fell from the sky to strike the water below in a series of splashes.
There would be no time to reload. Immediately the soldiers manning the ballistae dashed for their bows and spears.
‘Archers! Fire at will!’ Amos roared.
He lifted his bow and drew the string to his cheek, holding it for a split second as he sighted at a dragon with scars on its chest plunging down at him. He fired the poisoned arrow and watched as it crossed the distance faster than his eye could follow it. The point became embedded in the creature’s belly.
It was a wounding shot, but not decisive. Yet the dragon convulsed, halting its charge to fly erratically away. It rolled over and over, snapping at the shaft in its hide. It crashed down to the pebbled shore below the embankment, its shriek becoming plaintive.
Casting a quick glance around, Amos saw that a dozen or more bloodren had stopped their descent and arrows now sprouted from their bodies. Amos had taken the dragons’ measure and his men knew to fire on their softer parts, but usually arrows did little to harm them. This time was different, and there were several creatures snapping at the shafts in their hides. He silently thanked Sophia.
But still more came behind them.
Amos reached for an arrow and fired, and then another. He no longer worried about getting a clean shot on a dragon’s eye or its throat; instead he just tried to disable them with strikes on their undersides. Every time a creature screamed in pain, the others reacted, sometimes braking their speed, other times roaring at the humans below.
Suddenly the soldier on Amos’s left screamed in horror as a swooping dragon’s jaws clamped onto the top half of his body, closing down and tearing him in two. Amos fired an arrow, but it flew unchecked through the creature’s wing. Then he was forced to drop his bow and lift his spear when another dragon swooped with claws grasping. Amos ducked below the attack and whirled as he straightened. With both hands he thrust as hard as he could, upwards into the dragon’s belly. He felt the point plunge through the creature’s hide and sink into its guts. It was a mortal blow, but the dragon’s momentum was so great that it ripped the weapon from his hands.
Amos panted as the bloodren finished their sweep and flew away to regroup. But this time they obviously had no intention of flying away to find easier prey, and nor did he want them to.
He and his men had killed more than he had hoped, perhaps as many as twenty. But his objective wasn’t just to take as many with him as he could. He wanted to delay them. He needed the dragons to be angry enough to stay preoccupied with Phalesia. But he and his men also had to last.
Amos fought to regain his breath as he glanced at both sides. Half of his men were dead. In the brief skirmish with just a few of the most rapacious dragons, dozens of brave volunteers had been slaughtered.
‘Reload ballistae!’ he called.
These were hardened veterans, trained since birth in combat, and Amos was their commander. At the sound of his voice, they forgot their wounds and the blood spattered around them to race to the nearest ballistae and work with their comrades to get them loaded.
Amos looked out to sea, where the dragons hovered in the sky. He glanced at the sun; dusk was an hour away. The defenders had to last.
‘One more volley with bow and ballista!’ Amos cried. ‘Then we retreat to the temple.’
‘Yes, sir!’ the veterans growled.
Amos glanced over his shoulder. He and his men had chosen to make their final stand at the Temple of Aeris. It was somewhere they could defend, but also the dragons needed to see them. If they hid in some lord’s wine cellar, the creatures might fly away, defeating their entire purpose. The temple’s columns were spaced wide apart. There were healing supplies there, as well as more weapons. Amos had stung his enemies; he had their attention. Now he had to keep it.
He checked on his men and nodded when he saw that every ballista was loaded. He then watched the dragons shriek to each other, closing together, forming a tight wedge over the sea. This time when they descended, swooping down toward the embankment, it was in a mass.
‘Archers draw! Ballistae ready! Soon as you fire, get out of here!’ Amos shouted.
The winged creatures came on, late afternoon sunlight glinting off their red scales.
A moment later Amos roared again. ‘Ballistae! Fire!’
Six dragons fell from the sky with iron spears embedded feet deep into their bodies. The sea heaved when they struck the water.
The soldiers manning the ballistae immediately abandoned their posts, sprinting toward the temple. Meanwhile the archers held their bowstrings tensed, Amos among them. He sighted along his arrow shaft, choosing a dragon larger than its companions.
‘Archers,’ he cried. ‘Fire!’
Bowstrings thrummed. The air became filled with a hail of arrows. They made muffled sounds as their sharp, poisoned-covered heads struck tough dragon skin. Several arrows managed to find weak places and penetrate their targets. More dragons fell.
‘Run!’
Amos threw down his bow; it would only encumber him. He turned and sprinted toward the Temple of Aeris. Behind him the snarls and roars of the dragons made his skin crawl as he raced across the agora. The multicolored pattern of the tiles was a blur. Reaching the steps, he climbed them two at a time, seeing soldiers on all sides, ahead and behind, all sprinting to the same place.
The shadowed interior enveloped him as he sped between two of the stone columns supporting the peaked roof. He came to a halt just inside the temple, heart racing, bent over and gasping for breath. Everywhere around him his men were doing the same. Amos looked back.
Dragons were feasting, fighting over the remains of the soldiers who hadn’t made it, pecking over their carcasses like scavenger birds. The flashes of their teeth were red with blood. It dripped from their claws and the edges of their mouths.
Behind them came more dragons in wave after wave. Ignoring the feast below, they were heading for the temple.
Amos ran to one of the weapon stashes and grabbed another bow. He took an arrow from a basket and dipped it in the urn nearby. He then formed the fifty or sixty men remaining into a line following the temple’s perimeter.
Suddenly red dragons were everywhere, fighting to get in between the columns. One made it through, flattening its wings at its sides, but Amos shot an arrow into its eye. All around him soldiers were thrusting spears and hacking at sinuous necks.
Amos started to believe they might survive.
But then the worst happened. The frustrated creatures cast malevolent looks at the humans in the temple. They began to back away. First one, then another, stretched its wings out and flew into the air.
Amos exchanged glances with the old soldier next to him. Making a decision, he ran back out of the temple, until he
was standing tall on the steps.
‘Here!’ He waved his arms, calling to the creatures in the sky. ‘Over here!’
A few reptilian heads turned to look at him. The group reformed into a wedge. He didn’t know if they would come back.
‘Come and get me!’ Amos shouted as he ran farther forward, heading toward the agora.
Something crashed into him from behind.
It hit him with so much force that he was propelled forward, falling face first onto the stone steps. At the same instant that he was struck, a searing pain screamed in his shoulders, a tight pinching and stretching. Suddenly his body felt wrong.
He lifted his head and saw the dragon that had tried to grab him fly away. It performed a tight turn and opened its jaws to shriek triumphantly.
Amos laid his head back down again. He felt tired.
He heard the clatter of boot heels, followed by men’s voices. Strong hands gripped him by his armpits. He saw the back of men’s legs, and groaned as his body was dragged up the stairs and back toward the temple.
‘We have to put him somewhere safe,’ a voice said.
‘No,’ Amos whispered. ‘We have to hold. Have to hold, for as long as we—’
He closed his eyes. Darkness enveloped him.
34
Dawn came swiftly as the sun burst above the mountains, sending a cascade of bright-yellow rays over the forested valley. The last vestiges of purple and gold vanished from the sky, to be replaced with solid blue. If it wasn’t for the situation, the day’s beginning would have been beautiful.
Dion cursed it.
It meant that the second night of travel was over. The previous period of daylight had been bad enough, but somehow Amos had done what he had set out to do, and the dragons never came. The chance of discovery today was far greater.
Iron Will Page 22
