‘We need to surround the place,’ he said. ‘We can’t let him flee.’ He tapped men on the shoulders. ‘Head off any escape. The rest of you, follow me!’
Dion almost groaned aloud when the pirates cheered, unable to help themselves. Scanning the area and seeing a path winding through the gardens, leading to a doorway in the manse’s lowest level, he waved for his men to follow.
Two of the biggest pirates pushed past him as they charged the heavy wooden doors with their shoulders. The crash as the two men burst into the interior was the loudest noise so far; suddenly more than one dog was barking and loud voices called inside.
A uniformed guard ran forward and shoved his sword into the foremost pirate’s chest, withdrawing his weapon as the man crumpled and then hacking at the next intruder. Dion’s arrow took him through the throat. Another guard popped out of an interior doorway and behind him still more kept coming. Reaching for another arrow Dion cursed as he saw that too many of his men were now running into the manse for him to fire.
But these were the Free Men, and if there was one thing they were good at, it was fighting.
He saw Cob crack the head of his steel axe into a guard’s jaw and another pirate thrust his sword into a soldier’s abdomen. The clang of steel against steel was so loud it made Dion wince. Cries of pain and grunts of released energy accompanied each blow as over twenty men poured into the manse’s interior.
Dion looked for Finn and saw him in the distance, back in the gardens, tossing a coiled rope to an upper balcony. The rope went around a support and the end fell down from the other side. Finn saw him and waved, eyes shining with excitement as he began to fasten the rope to form a climbing line to the second storey.
‘I thought you said you were no pirate,’ Dion said as he joined him, helping him tie the rope around the trunk of a gnarled olive tree.
‘I said I was no sailor,’ Finn said with a smile and a final tug on the rope. ‘This is exactly my kind of caper. Want to go up first?’
‘After you.’
Finn nodded and pulled himself up, shimmying along the angled rope with ankles crossed. Dion swallowed when he saw how high he was getting and hoped his courage wouldn’t fail him when he made his own climb. Soon Finn was clambering over the balcony rail and drawing his stiletto as he gestured for Dion to follow.
But without waiting further, Finn then pulled the curtains apart and entered.
Cursing, Dion wrapped his fingers around the rope as high as he could and took a deep breath. Before he could think about what he was doing, he pulled and shuffled his arms still higher as his ankles wrapped around the rope lower down. Grunting and panting, moving with a series of pulls, kicks, and gasps, he kept his eyes on his destination and tried not to think too hard about the drop. When he reached the rail and awkwardly pulled himself up and over, he heard voices.
Knowing Finn might need him, Dion pulled aside the thick curtain of glossy silk to enter an opulent bedchamber.
He found himself in a room so large that it occupied the manse’s entire top level. Carpet after thick carpet lined the floor, the patterns barely distinguishable in the low light. The center was kept bare but items of furniture lined both sides: shelves filled with decorative baubles; stands displaying golden plates and vases; two silver mirrors; and bowls on benches, with each bowl containing ripe fruit. An immense bed draped in white cloth dominated the far end.
A gaping stairwell of marble steps led down to the lower levels, and it was there that Dion saw Finn.
Ignoring the shouts and clashes of arms downstairs, Dion walked forward to join him. Finn was crouched by the prone form of a grimacing man in a silk sleeping robe, holding his face pressed down against the floor. Finn had tripped him just as he’d been about to dash down the stairs.
‘Look who we have here,’ Finn said. ‘It appears our friend was about to make his escape.’ He grinned as he pushed down harder on his captive’s head. ‘Or at least try. I’m sure one of our men would have caught him.’
Dion examined the man’s features in the low light. He had a hooked nose and a gold ring in his flaring nostril. Jax’s nose had been sharper, more angular, but the hair and eye color were the same; the resemblance was unmistakable.
‘Lord Mercilles, I presume?’ Dion asked as he crouched.
‘You want gold?’ Mercilles glared back at him. ‘You won’t have it, not unless you want to raid every moneylender in the city.’
‘We don’t want gold,’ Dion said. He glanced at Finn as his companion put the point of his stiletto under Mercilles’ chin. ‘What we plan on taking is far more valuable.’ He smiled. ‘We’re going to seize your ships. No, not your merchant vessels, your warships. At this very moment my men are at your docks, seizing your four biremes and waiting for our arrival.’
‘Then what do you want with me?’ Mercilles snarled. ‘My son is dead. Killing me won’t bring him back.’
‘We want vengeance,’ Finn said.
Dion straightened and scanned the room. On a nearby table, he saw a wineskin and recognized the sigil of Stavros, the best winemaker in Sarsica. He strode over and picked up the skin, shrugging when Finn raised an eyebrow.
‘For the priest,’ Dion said. He nodded at the stairwell. ‘Should we get going?’
‘I’ll join you in a moment,’ Finn said. His face was grim as he glanced up. ‘Did Jax tell you how he got that scar on his face?’
Dion shook his head.
‘Leave me here for a bit. I want to take my time sending Lord Mercilles on his way to hell.’
48
Not far from the great city of Lamara, on the banks of the wide brown river, a secret gathering took place. The sun was low in the sky, casting a crimson glow over the yellow terrain as close to a thousand people milled near a natural rise where a platform had been hastily erected.
In the week since Aristocles had freed Kargan and they’d made the swift journey to Ilean lands, they’d been busy, and every member of the gathering had been carefully selected. The sailors, marines, and laborers who were Kargan’s first followers had entered the city and spoken with representatives from the army and the navy, as well as leading craftsmen and even the priests that they knew were friends. These key figures were taking a risk by attending, but for this first assembly Mydas was unaware of Kargan’s plans. That would soon change.
‘If Mydas was after my head before, he’s now going to want me tortured for a year,’ Kargan said. He scowled at Aristocles. ‘In the name of Helios, why are you so concerned with my appearance?’
Aristocles stood back and looked at him from head to toe before nodding. ‘That will do.’
Kargan glanced down at himself. He wore one of the bright orange robes he was known for, tied around his thick waist with a yellow cord. ‘The colors of Ilea I can understand, but should I not look more kingly?’
Aristocles smiled and shook his head. ‘You have to trust me. At this gathering you want to contrast yourself with Mydas. I know what I am doing. This is how you become king of kings, and rule the Ilean Empire.’
‘Then you and I bring about peace between Ilea and Phalesia. I remember.’
‘Just give the speech exactly as I’ve told you.’ Aristocles’ gaze turned to the milling crowd, waiting uncertainly for Kargan to climb to the podium. ‘It’s time.’
Kargan took a steadying breath as he scanned their worried faces; he’d addressed entire armies but now he was suddenly nervous. They all had grievances: the empire was crumbling around them; Mydas had melted the gold from Solon’s pyramid but rather than constructing improvements or equipping more soldiers he was using it to decorate his palace; and the weakened Ilean fleet was being readied for another assault far across the sea. In many ways these were the same complaints the middle ranks had always had; problems that were ignored by the king of kings, suppressed by force if necessary. But Aristocles had said that listening to their demands and promising change would give Kargan power. He already had the support of the navy, and l
ikely the army as well; now it just remained to win over the common people.
‘They’ll carry stories to their friends and colleagues,’ Aristocles said. ‘Make this count.’
Kargan strode up to the platform and climbed on with Amos’s help, the weathered Phalesian trying to hide his aversion to helping a man who’d so recently been his enemy. Ignoring him, Kargan raised his clenched fist as he strode to the center of the podium and a ragged cheer went through the crowd, while most of them continued to look worried.
Suddenly Kargan’s anxiety melted away. He was a leader of men. He was committed. He was destined to become the king of kings. And he knew he could do it better than Solon’s gold-loving brother.
He gave the speech that Aristocles had prepared for him, his parade-ground voice booming over the members of the gathering. He reminded them that he’d helped Solon form the Ilean Empire, and been pivotal to conquering the cities of Efu, Verai, and Malakai. He told the tale of his naval blockade of the Shadrian passage, holding out against sortie after sortie from Shadria’s allies as they tried to come to their neighbor’s aid. He disclaimed responsibility for the defeat at Phalesia, explaining that the sun king wouldn’t listen to his advice, and the nods of the sailors and soldiers among them told the civilians that his words were true.
He spoke of Mydas’s sacrilege in removing the gold from the pyramid that Helios had decreed, and his greed in using the gold to fill his fat belly and decorate his bedchamber. He said that Solon’s three sons had been kind-hearted, generous men, and that anyone with friends among the palace guards could find out for himself that Mydas had murdered the three heirs who stood in his way while they slept in their beds – and were under Mydas’s protection.
With passion he scorned Mydas’s failure to hold the empire together, evidenced by the unchallenged secession of Koulis and the open rebellion in Shadria.
‘Ilea needs change,’ Kargan said. ‘Not just a change in governance, but a change in the system of governance. Every man should have a say, and vote on matters of importance. We should elect consuls who are accountable for their actions, and the king should be accountable to his consuls.’ He knew Javid would be loving every word of this foolishness, but he kept his voice sincere. ‘I don’t want to be a king. I only want what is fair for Ilea. I am no noble. I am a military man, a man of action.’ He had balked at this: he was, in fact, a minor noble, but Aristocles had insisted on the wording. ‘I only want what is best for all of you. To institute the change we need, I have a plan’—Kargan emphasized the word—‘and you have a part to play—’
He broke off.
At the very moment that he’d mentioned a plan, a huge warrior wrapped from head to toe in white cloth with a wicked curved sword in his hand appeared from where he’d been hiding in the crowd. Shoving aside laborers, priests, craftsmen, and swarthy soldiers, waving his sword above his head, he ran directly for the platform and threw himself up without pausing.
Kargan stood frozen with shock. He was unarmed, wearing civilian clothing. But then his brow furrowed. As the swordsman swung clumsily at his head he ducked under the blow and struck his assailant in the chest with a clenched fist, followed by a powerful uppercut to his intended assassin’s jaw.
The huge man’s eyes rolled back into his head and he fell to one knee. The stunned people in the crowd looked on in shock as Amos then climbed up to the platform and ran the assassin through. They exchanged glances as voices began to fill the air with muttering.
Kargan stood tall and glared out into the crowd. ‘Anyone else?’ He pounded onto his broad chest. ‘Is that the best you can do, Mydas?’
The sailors from Koulis scattered through the crowd began to chant his name. The murmur became a rumble, and then a roar. Kargan raised his arms above his head as he left the platform.
‘Well?’ Kargan asked Aristocles, striding over after everyone in the crowd who wanted to speak with him had finally departed. ‘How did it go?’
‘Perfect,’ Aristocles said with a smile. The Phalesian was in his element. ‘Couldn’t have gone better.’
Kargan scowled as he looked over at Javid, now stripped of his white cloth. ‘Are all these theatrics truly necessary?’
‘Trust me. Stories are more powerful if they end in a fight. To them, it will be as if Mydas himself confronted you and you knocked him down. The poets and singers will tell your tale in Lamara.’
‘What about when Mydas actually does hear about what we’re doing?’
‘He will react. For now it’s best that we keep our ears to the ground and keep moving. For a time, we’ll let the people do your work for you. Even Mydas has a part to play, unwittingly perhaps, but important nonetheless.’
‘Eh?’
‘You will see, Lord Kargan. You will see.’
49
With festivity and fanfare, the city of Koulis welcomed King Nikolas of Xanthos, who had crossed the Waste leading three armies and a great number of mercenaries.
The citizens scattered flowers in front of him as he entered the gates at the head of his Xanthian king’s guard. They saw a burly black-haired warrior wearing a shining steel breastplate and leather skirt, with a helmet over his head that displayed a tall crest of crimson-dyed horsehair, matching the color of the billowing cloak on his back. At his waist was a broad-bladed sword with an iron hilt. A nose guard covered his face but couldn’t hide his thick black beard and the intensity of his dark eyes.
Nikolas ignored the women calling out his name from the crowd lining both sides of the broad avenue that was the city’s main thoroughfare. Men cheered and pointed him out to their sons as they lifted them high in their arms. He hadn’t come for adulation; he was here for war.
‘The lyceum is in the middle of our agora,’ the lanky man in the yellow toga at his side said, skipping to keep up with his long strides. ‘The four other representatives await your arrival. Lord Lothar is anxious to meet you.’
Nikolas glanced at his escort and saw a weak man with soft hands and jewels on his fingers. He was a member of the Council of Five, but Nikolas couldn’t remember whether he represented trade, defense, agriculture, or water supply. The man reminded him of the consuls in Phalesia, someone who spent his time talking rather than taking necessary action, who expected others to fight his battles for him. He gave the orders, but he would never risk his own life on the field.
The lord licked his lips when Nikolas remained stone-faced. ‘Tonight there will be a feast. We will host you in—’
‘I didn’t come for feasts,’ Nikolas said shortly. He saw that they were approaching the harbor, where tall surrounding hills sloped down to the water, dotted with the villas of the wealthy. The buildings on both sides opened up in an agora, nearly as large as the Phalesian agora but unpaved, with market stalls framing the edges and a grove of trees in the center.
‘Of course,’ the lord said. ‘Please, King Nikolas, this way.’
Formed up behind Nikolas, the helmeted soldiers of the king’s guard marched in unison, their heavy steps resounding through the city. There were only fifty of them but they were Xanthos’s best, which made them the finest warriors on the Maltherean. He’d left four thousand men outside the city but the Council of Five already knew the number he commanded. He wanted them to see for themselves that the men of Xanthos, followers of the war god Balal, formed the core of his army and were men who would never break.
Nikolas saw a file of Koulisian guards standing motionless with spears erect outside the grove’s entrance and quickened his pace without realizing, cursing under his breath at the lord from Koulis as he was forced to slow – it wouldn’t be right to enter the lyceum with just four of the five members seated.
When he was a stone’s throw from the file of guards, Nikolas barked an order. ‘Halt!’
Showing fearsome discipline, the Xanthian king’s guard took one more step and then came to a complete standstill. Nikolas raised an eyebrow at the lord.
‘Er, yes,’ the lanky man in the
yellow toga said. ‘Please, follow me.’
Confidently leaving his retinue behind, Nikolas entered side by side with the lord. As soon as he passed the first guard, the man’s spear went up as he held the point high, followed by the next in line, their movements keeping abreast with his long strides.
He shook his head, wondering if this was supposed to impress him. Their movements were sloppy; even the boys at the training ground in Xanthos could manage better precision. He even saw rust on the head of a spear and almost stopped to berate the guard who held it before remembering where he was.
‘King?’
Nikolas realized he was scowling and smoothed his expression as he passed the guards and came to a tree-lined pathway. Ahead he could see a circular structure made of stone, raised like a dais and covered in a peaked roof.
‘Please, enter first, King Nikolas. I will follow behind.’ The lord bowed.
Nikolas gave a short nod and climbed the steps. He approached a row of five high-backed chairs and saw a sixth chair placed in the center of the structure to face the others. His escort scurried up the steps and took his place as Nikolas glanced at the chair, evidently for himself, and then looked at the skeletal silver-haired old man with the white tunic and heavy medallion dedicated to the god of fortune around his neck. Nikolas didn’t bother examining the other lords; they were unimportant.
‘King Nikolas of Xanthos, the Council of Five bids you welcome. Please.’ Lothar indicated the seat. Nikolas noted that his and Lothar’s chairs were of equal size and height.
‘I am a warrior,’ Nikolas said, his words contrasting him with the wizened lord in front of him. ‘I prefer to stand.’
‘As you wish,’ Lothar said.
Nikolas stood with legs apart and his fingers tucked into his belt. ‘I hear you are a plainspoken man, Lord Lothar. So I will arrive straight at my purpose. I come to reform the Galean League. Recent events have pitted Ilea against Galea, and—’
Silver Road (The Shifting Tides Book 2) Page 33
