Copper Chain (The Shifting Tides Book 3)

by James Maxwell

  ‘The king wants six of them ready to depart,’ Tarik was saying.

  ‘This one isn’t eating.’ The lean man stopped outside Dion’s cell, rubbing his chin as he looked through the bars. ‘It’s weak.’

  The pair regarded him for a time.

  ‘We have others now to take its place,’ the scar-faced magus finally said. ‘We already have more dragons than chains.’ He nodded as he made a decision. ‘Take its chains; we’ll use them on another.’

  The lean sorcerer threw the bolt and opened the creaking iron gate. Some property of the magical shackles meant that Dion was unable to do anything as he watched the magus come in close and begin to unfasten them.

  But then the chains were gone.

  He was still frozen into this form, but he could no longer be controlled with a thought. His eyes narrowed as he watched the magus beside him, gathering the chains in his arms. He wanted more than anything to open his jaws and bite the man in two. Instead, he lowered his head to the ground and glared at the two sorcerers. He glanced at the hunk of cooked goat meat in the corner of the cell. He was hungry, but he had to trust that his plan would work; if they wanted to talk to him they would have to let him change back to his normal form.

  Taking the copper chains, the lean sorcerer walked over to inspect the uneaten food. A moment later Tarik entered the cell and spoke to his companion. ‘Why do you think he isn’t eating?’

  The sorcerer shrugged. ‘Nothing wrong with the food. The others all ate.’

  Tarik approached, examining Dion from nose to tail, walking along the length of his body. ‘This one was the first. We need to find out what’s wrong . . . if he’s refusing to eat or unable to.’ He scratched the melted-looking tissue on his face. ‘I’m going to take his collar off so he can change.’ He crouched, scowling as he stared into Dion’s eyes. ‘Don’t forget what we can do to your woman.’

  The magus put a hand to his collar, accompanied by a sudden burst of heat.

  But then the collar was gone.

  The sense of relief was stronger than anything Dion had experienced before. With barely a conscious effort, he felt the sensation of changing, and then he was lying face down in front of the two watchers. He realized he was gasping.

  He was clad in the same tunic he’d been wearing when Kyphos came to his palace, but the material was ragged and crusted with dirt. His body felt like another garment, something worn rather than part of his being. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes as he sucked in deep breaths. The more time he was spending in another form, the more he was becoming like a domesticated animal.

  ‘Well?’ Tarik asked, collar held in one hand, staff clutched in the other. ‘What is it? Is it the food? Do you want it raw?’

  Dion rolled over and sat up, head spinning. He finally licked his lips and managed to speak. ‘I want to see her.’

  ‘His woman,’ Tarik snorted, raising an eyebrow at the other magus. He turned to Dion again, frowning down at him. ‘Here is what you are going to do. You are going to change back again, and then you are going to eat.’

  ‘No.’ Dion slowly shook his head. ‘I won’t.’

  With a growl of irritation, Tarik handed the iron collar to his companion. He then took his staff in both hands and stepped forward. Tilting the staff, he brought the iron claw hovering near Dion’s abdomen. ‘Don’t test my patience, half-breed. We can force you to change.’

  Dion looked from side to side, taking in the other dragons, all penned in cages like animals at a slaughterhouse. He remembered the thoughts of fear and confusion his eldran senses had picked up.

  ‘These others didn’t even know they had eldran blood. They weren’t in control of it.’ Dion’s lips thinned. ‘I am. Push me off a cliff, or whatever it is you do. I’ll only die.’

  Tarik snarled. He pressed the iron claw against Dion’s side. The black metal at the end of his weapon glowed.

  Dion screamed. The pain was agonizing, a sensation of fierce burning, as if his skin was being peeled away in slabs and his insides ripped out. He smelled his own sizzling flesh as the pain went on and on. He was only able to writhe and gasp until the magus finally pulled his staff away.

  The pain eased, but it didn’t let up, leaving Dion twitching on the ground. ‘I won’t change,’ he whispered.

  ‘Wait here,’ Tarik said to his companion. ‘Keep an eye on him.’

  Dion felt something hard prodding him in the burned skin of his abdomen and his eyes shot wide open. He put a hand to his forehead, waiting for the pain to subside, swallowing to prevent his stomach from retching and causing him even more agony.

  The lean sorcerer moved to prod him again, but he shuffled away. His wary eyes on the gray-robed magus sharing the cage with him, he forced himself to stand.

  The sorcerer jerked his chin in the direction of the iron gate. At the same instant, Dion heard a quiet, feminine voice, familiar but quavering.

  ‘Dion?’

  Despite the pain he was in, he rushed to the iron gate, gripping hold of the bars and peering out. When he saw her standing on the other side, he drew in a sharp breath.

  Isobel had lost weight, and there were dark, heavy shadows under her blue eyes. Her once-lustrous blonde hair was matted, and the expression on her pretty face was wretched. Thin and sallow, she barely filled her plain linen tunic. She looked anything but the way a healthy woman should.

  ‘I . . . I wanted to see you,’ Dion stammered.

  ‘What have they done to you?’ she whispered.

  ‘Here she is then,’ Tarik said, standing beside Isobel with his staff in hand. ‘Now change your shape and eat your food. If we don’t see you eating, we’ll kill her right now, in front of you.’

  ‘How are you?’ Dion looked firmly into Isobel’s eyes. ‘Have they hurt you?’

  She hung her head and started to cry. ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Tarik spat. ‘Did you hear me? If you want her to live, do as I command.’

  Shoulders slumped, Dion glanced at the sorcerer sharing the cell with him and nodded. ‘Don’t hurt her,’ he said. ‘I’ll change.’

  He stood back from the bars, his eyes on Isobel the entire time. He hoped that she could be strong, for just a little longer, for both her sake and their unborn child’s. His plan was desperate, he knew, but it was all they had. He was without a collar. There were two sorcerers, but no soldiers. Isobel needed him.

  Dion’s heart began to race, hammering at his chest with powerful blows. Sweat broke out on his forehead as he closed his eyes.

  His brow furrowed as he imagined a new form. Finally letting his wild fury run free, he clenched his fists at his sides and began to feel the change coming over him.

  But rather than a winged creature, he summoned indomitable strength.

  Visualizing a powerful torso and limbs strong enough to crush a man with a single blow, he knew that in the thickening cloud, they wouldn’t know until it was too late, and he had to make every moment count.

  He felt his body growing in size. He cried out, the sound becoming deeper as his chest swelled. His shout became a roar and he opened his eyes, legs apart and arms raised above his head.

  Dion had changed into a giant.

  Thrusting head and shoulders above the mist, he roared, his gnarled head brushing against the ceiling as he looked down at the tiny sorcerer sharing his cage. With a single powerful blow, he swatted the gray-robed sorcerer to the side, sending him crashing into the bars with enough force to break his bones.

  A strong kick smashed the bolt holding the gate fastened and he tore it wide open. Dion stormed out of the cage, heading directly for Tarik. Eyes wide with shock, the scar-faced magus lifted his staff, but Dion’s fist punched into his torso, sending him flying through the air before he struck the wall, crumpling instantly.

  Isobel stood frozen with terror, gazing up at him. He knew how he looked – hideous, terrifying, three times her height – but he tried to communicate compassion with his eyes as
he bent down and picked her up in his arms like a child.

  Then he started to run.

  Knowing he had just this one chance, every thought focused on getting Isobel away from this terrible place, he rushed out of the chamber and into the wide, high-ceilinged corridor. He sprinted hard, powerful legs carrying him forward faster than a man could run. Exhaustion tried to slow him, starvation sapped his will, but he bellowed and pushed the sensations away. He needed to make it to the open streets. He had no other plan.

  Lumbering through the corridor, he followed the sloping path and then the curve of the tower’s wall. Finally he saw the broad archway and bright sunlight. Beyond, tantalizingly in reach, was the city.

  Still carrying Isobel in his arms, he ran for the archway, startling two soldiers with crossbows standing outside. He barreled into them, knocking both men sprawling to the ground, before setting Isobel down.

  He headed back to the nearest soldier, who gazed up in horror at the giant towering over him with both fists clenched above his head. Bringing down his arms, Dion caved in the man’s chest, the armor of steel links offering no protection. He took two steps to reach the other guard and stamped down with his leg, once, twice, finally letting his rage swamp all other emotions.

  Sweeping his eyes over the area, he realized he’d made it; he had escaped the tower and was standing in the streets. In all directions city folk were fleeing in terror, but he ignored them. He rushed back to Isobel. Now he needed to become a dragon, and he prayed she would know what to do and leap onto his back.

  Something sharp and painful kicked into his thigh.

  Whirling, he saw that two more soldiers had rushed from the tower, both with crossbows in their hands. Dion lumbered toward them, but his injured leg failed him and agony shivered through his body as he fell to one knee. A moment later the second crossbow thrummed, sending a flash of black iron through the air before a powerful blow punched into the left side of his abdomen.

  Glancing down, he saw two thick black shafts protruding from his body. Compared with his size, they were like harpoons embedded in the hide of a whale, but the pain was crippling. He reached down and grabbed the shaft in his leg, gasping as he pulled. He felt it tear, and then he plucked it out, tossing it away and reaching for the shaft in his lower chest. With a sharp grunt, he dealt with it like the other, ripping it from his abdomen and throwing the iron bolt to the ground.

  Pain now mingled with fatigue. Panting, he stood, before falling to his knees again. He involuntarily felt his shape slipping away from him.

  No. Hold on. You have to hold on.

  Panic filled him. The soldiers had fired their crossbows; he still had some time. The priority was to get Isobel free.

  He distantly heard the sound of swords being drawn, but he ignored the soldiers as he tried to drag himself back toward Isobel. His chest heaved as his face screwed up. He now tried to imagine himself as a flying creature. The sky was his element. He had wings that would carry Isobel to safety.

  But when he felt himself changing, he knew he didn’t have the strength. His size grew smaller, his body withdrawing into itself, collapsing like a wineskin with a hole in it. As gray mist clouded his vision, despair sank into his gut.

  He’d planned to fly away with Isobel. But now he was on the ground, returned to his normal shape. He looked up to meet her eyes.

  ‘Go,’ he said.

  Her wide, frightened eyes cast him a final plaintive look, before she turned and started to run.

  But Isobel took no more than three steps before Dion heard a twang.

  A metal bolt darted through the air. Strong enough to pierce a dragon’s hide, it speared her in the very center of her back. As it struck it made a sound like a fist punching a pillow, knocking her forward before sending her falling face down onto the stone.

  Shocked, uncomprehending, Dion traced the bolt’s flight back to the source: a soldier had reloaded. The string of his crossbow still thrummed. His expression was surprised.

  As a voice screamed in Dion’s head that this wasn’t happening, he started to crawl toward Isobel. He panted as he dragged himself along the ground, eyes burning, so stunned that he felt numb. His vision was blurred when he finally reached her.

  He heard a rush of footsteps. Suddenly he felt a sword point pressed into his back.

  ‘Soldier, stop! Don’t kill him.’ He heard Tarik’s rasping voice.

  Dion ignored the sword as he turned Isobel over and stared into her face.

  The breath rattled in her chest. ‘I . . . I . . .’

  Her lifeblood pooled underneath her, and her eyes glazed as she shuddered.

  He would never know what she was trying to say.

  35

  In a man-sized cell, somewhere far from all hope, Dion lay on the ground and shivered. An iron collar once more enclosed his neck, tight enough to hurt. His ragged tunic did nothing to ward off the chill, for the cell was dark and damp, and never saw natural light. But it wasn’t the cold that hovered over him like a shadow.

  He again saw the thick iron crossbow bolt, far too powerful for Isobel’s slender frame, plunging between her shoulder blades. He imagined how she’d felt, terrified, far from home, vainly trying to flee, before agonizing pain ripped through her insides. He again saw her quivering and shuddering as she tried to speak and then took her last breath. She was dead. The child she’d carried was dead with her.

  Once, Dion had dreamed that he would have a son or daughter, with a name, and a unique personality, and perhaps Isobel’s beauty. He would watch his child grow, nurturing his or her talents, imparting wisdom where he could. He would keep his child safe; for what was the most important role for a parent, if not to protect sons and daughters from danger?

  Trembling on the ground, he looked up when he heard a voice.

  A middle-aged woman was standing over him. She was dark-haired and slender, with delicate features, and wore a flowing chiton of pale-blue silk and a golden necklace. Her eyes were concerned as she crouched at his side.

  ‘My son.’

  ‘Mother?’

  ‘Your struggles are nearly over,’ she said. Kneeling beside him, she smoothed back his hair. ‘Let the darkness come.’

  ‘It hurts,’ he said, and he knew he wasn’t talking about the wounds on his body.

  ‘I know,’ she soothed. ‘Now you understand, don’t you? Why I hid what I was, even from your father. They’ll never see us the way they see each other. We’ll always be feared or used. Never treated as equals.’

  ‘I’m not an eldran . . .’ Dion murmured.

  ‘But you’re not human either, Dion.’

  He closed his eyes and then opened them again when he heard another voice. His mother, Thea, was gone. In her place was an older, broad-shouldered man wearing a tunic that left one shoulder bare. His white hair was curly and he had a wispy beard. He had a slight limp as he paced the cell.

  ‘If I’d known what you were,’ he growled, ‘I would have disowned you the day you were born. And now you’re the king.’ He sneered, waving his hands in disgust. ‘Look at you, boy! Some king you are. You thought you could do it better than your brother? Well, you thought wrong.’

  ‘I tried, Father.’

  ‘You tried.’ Dion’s father scowled. ‘I’ve been watching you your whole life. From what I can see, all you’ve done is fail.’

  Dion put his hands over his eyes, holding them there while he drew in a long, shuddering gasp of air. He waited, and when he finally slowed his breath and the pounding of his heart, he heard only silence. He took his hands away and looked up.

  There was another man standing over him. Tall and brawny, a younger version of Dion’s father, he had a barrel chest, thick black hair, and a matching beard covering his face. Where Dion’s father had been scathing, his older brother Nikolas gazed down on him with sadness in his eyes.

  ‘I cast you out because you are not human. You understand that, don’t you? I loved you, Dion. Why did you have to be some kind of
. . . monster? You hurt everyone around you.’

  ‘I am who I am,’ Dion protested weakly.

  ‘Exactly. And that has always been your problem.’

  Shaking his head from side to side, the vision began to slowly fade away.

  ‘Nikolas . . . Don’t go,’ Dion pleaded.

  But his older brother had disappeared. And now Dion found himself looking at a stooped, stocky figure peering at him through the bars of his small cell.

  The hunchback turned and barked at someone out of sight. ‘You. Yes, you! Get over here.’

  ‘What is it, Kyphos?’ An older warrior with a bald patch on his crown approached, wiping at his eyes and stifling a yawn.

  ‘Look at him. He’s at death’s door!’

  The old soldier’s eyes flickered disdainfully at Dion for a moment before he shrugged. ‘He’s a prisoner.’

  ‘Don’t you realize, you fool? He’s a king! He’s a valuable hostage. Go, quickly. Find someone to tend his wounds. And get some food and water. Go!’

  Casting a dark expression at Dion, the old soldier muttered to himself as he hurried away.

  Dion blinked as he looked up at Kyphos. He shivered again, still lying on his side, arms clenched around himself.

  ‘I never wanted her killed,’ Kyphos sighed, his shaggy eyebrows closing together over surprisingly sorrowful eyes. ‘But what is done is done. I’m sure you are wondering what is to become of you. You were important to us once. You may be important again.’

  ‘Nikolas . . .’ Dion whispered.

  Shaking his head, Kyphos walked away.

  ‘This was your fault.’

  Resting on the floor, with his back against the wall, Dion looked up sharply. Palemon stood outside the tiny cell, gazing down at him through the bars. He stood with legs apart, dressed for battle, with a chain shirt over his black trousers and the hilt of an immense sword poking up from behind his shoulder.

  Dion climbed slowly to his feet, pleased that in the days since Kyphos’s visit he was now able to stand and at least look his enemy directly in the eye. ‘My fault?’ he said softly. ‘As surely as night follows day, her death can be squarely laid at your feet.’ His voice strengthened. ‘You killed her father. You brought her here, against her will. You got what you wanted from me, and all she wanted was to go home. Instead, when she ran, you put an iron bolt into her back.’