Golden Age (The Shifting Tides Book 1) (22 page)

34

A week passed with no further sightings of Chloe, while Dion spent his days building ships with Roxana at the harbor. Anoush came to him at the end of every day and gave him a report. Meanwhile Algar demanded more money. Dion’s supply of coin dwindled until he had just a handful of coppers left.

Despite the boy’s promise, Dion knew Anoush couldn’t watch the palace all the time. Dion contributed where he could, watching the streets near the palace until late into the evening. He knew that Chloe was inside, and that Solon had taken his army to Shadria and would be gone for weeks. There would never be a better time to free her.

But there was the issue of the huge warrior by her side. Dion knew he would have to kill the intimidating guard who was her escort. Once the man was dead and Chloe freed, he would take her to the
Calypso
– he had checked: the boat was still safely hidden outside the walls – and flee.

But then duty called. Reports came in that a wildran, a giant this time, had emerged from the mountains high above the village of Nara on the island of Amphi. It had killed a goatherd and his family, devouring its victims one by one.

Captain Roxana summoned the crew of the
Anoraxis
.

Dion knew it would be at least another week before he returned to Lamara.

Tomarys led Chloe to a dilapidated structure in the shape of a wheel, on the outskirts of the city’s poorest quarter. As she found herself at one of several entrances tall and wide enough for a giant to pass through, Chloe tried to fathom what it had once been.

She followed the tall warrior into the shadowed interior, walking along dusty passages long disused, staying silent for fear of disturbing old ghosts. Dust particles filled the air in Tomarys’s wake, swirling over each other, reflecting the few rays of light that made their way into the passage. She smelled wet stone as she heard faint dripping echoing through the corridor.

A cavernous opening beckoned ahead and she emerged into bright light. She shielded her eyes as she climbed steps to her left and joined Tomarys, where he waited for her approach.

She realized she was in the interior of the wheel, standing on one of many seats that also doubled as steps. All around her, to the left and right, ahead and behind, as well as on the wheel’s other side, were tiers of the steps, stretching from the high circular perimeter all the way to the bottom.

The floor was a circular space guarded by a partly fallen rail. Tomarys began to walk down to the floor, having no difficulty despite the steps’ uncommonly large size, and she hurried to follow. He reached the rail and pushed some loose timbers aside to enter the sandy floor. Chloe followed him to the middle, joining him in the epicenter.

‘What is this place?’ she asked. Her voice was instantly swallowed by the void.

‘The Arena. Not so long ago, in the time of Solon’s predecessor, men fought here to entertain the people of Lamara. It is now abandoned, but one day it may come to be used again.’

‘Fought? In battles?’

‘A better word is bouts, but yes, you could call them battles.’

‘To the death?’

‘To the death,’ he said grimly.

Chloe examined the sandy floor, almost afraid to find old crimson patches but unable to prevent herself looking. As far as she could see it was just sand.

‘Why here?’ she finally asked.

He raised his arms and gestured to the open space. ‘It is a good place to fight. No one will hear us or see us.’ He smiled, but then the smile faded away. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

Chloe nodded. ‘I’m sure.’

‘Then for now, watch, listen, and learn.’

She clasped her hands behind her back and waited in the center of the floor, Tomarys standing opposite her.

‘The first lesson’—Tomarys held up a single finger—‘and the most important of all, is thus. The seeds of victory are sown before the fight begins.’

‘So it’s best to prepare,’ Chloe said, nodding. ‘Better armor, better weapons, more training, more practice, good leadership—’

‘Girl,’ Tomarys interrupted, scowling. ‘I told you to listen, not to talk. Today I am the master and you the student. Understood?’

She reddened. ‘I understand.’

‘Yes, all of those things are important, but any fool’—he glared
at Chloe—‘knows that it pays to be prepared. We can take the les
son
further. The seeds of victory are sown before the fight begins . . .’ He
rubbed his chin. ‘Think about this. Two men face each other. One has a sword. The other is unarmed. Both are prepared. Who will win?’

‘The man with the sword.’

‘Ah,’ Tomarys said, holding up a hand. ‘But . . . The man with the sword has prepared himself to face an unarmed opponent. He attacks . . .’

He glanced around and then his eyes settled on the rail. Walking over he broke off a piece of wooden rail as thick as three of Chloe’s fingers, hardly showing any effort at all, and returned.

‘He attacks.’ Tomarys lunged with the three-foot-long piece of wood, skewering an imaginary enemy. ‘Confident of victory against his unarmed foe. But . . .’ He dropped the makeshift sword and faced the other direction. ‘His opponent pulls out a concealed knife.’ He reached into the hidden pocket within his vest and pulled out one of the short triangular throwing knives. ‘And slashes the hand holding the sword.’ Tomarys swept his arm down. He then straightened and looked at Chloe. ‘We all know who wins the fight. But what is our second lesson, which is really an extension of the first?’

Chloe’s brow furrowed. ‘Being prepared means having hidden surprises?’

‘Close,’ Tomarys said. ‘To sow the seeds of victory before the fight begins, we must play with expectations.’

He returned his knife to the sheath in his vest.

‘I appear to be unarmed. My vest is open at my chest, which further enhances this image, but both my knives and my vest were carefully chosen to fit together. I want people to think I do not have a weapon.’

He took off his vest, laying it on the sand, revealing a giant, hairy torso, and white whip scars across his back and shoulders.

‘But, in addition to this deception, I am also skilled without a weapon, using my hands and elbows, head and feet.’ He made swift striking motions with the parts of his body he’d named. ‘A potential attacker sees a big man, but big men are often slow. He sees an unarmed man. This gives me an advantage over a man with a sword. I play with his expectations. I cause him to be overconfident. I shape his tactics, before the fight begins.’

‘But wouldn’t you just rather have the sword? Many men carry swords in the streets of Lamara.’

Tomarys’s eyes lit up. ‘Another lesson. With two swords in play there is twice the danger you will be killed. Reality is not like the stories. Many fights end with both men taking blows.’

Chloe hadn’t thought about it, but it made sense. A sword or knife was designed to slice. Wounds would often be deep. Even a victor might suffer a bleeding artery, or leave the battlefield with a deep cut that could become infected. Even if he suffered only minor wounds, his strength would be sapped, making him less able to achieve victory against a second opponent.

Tomarys picked up his wooden stick, holding it out to demonstrate, his left side toward Chloe. ‘A man comes at me with a sword.’ He made a thrust. ‘There is one sword in play.’ He turned around. ‘I take that sword off him.’ He reached out and pretended to be seizing a man’s wrist, rolling his body until he had taken the sword from the first man. ‘There is still one sword in play. Mine.’

Chloe finally understood. She nodded in appreciation.

‘If I spend my time learning how to take a sword off a man, while my enemy spends his time training to be the perfect swordsman, I will win every time, for I will be the one with the sword. Understood?’

‘I understand. So why the knives?’

‘Throwing knives.’ He bent to retrieve his two knives from their hidden sheaths inside the vest and handed one to her. It was almost entirely blade, with a rounded hilt displaying a hole in the middle. ‘Be careful. It is sharp enough to shave with.’

Chloe touched her finger to the edge, almost cutting herself.

‘I can get them out quickly. They are silent. I can strike from a distance. And still I appear unarmed.’

He looked around and rested his eyes on a thick vertical supporting stump holding the rail.

‘Perhaps we will start here. Come.’

They moved until they were facing the stump, about ten paces away.

‘Hold it like this,’ he instructed, holding his knife between thumb and forefinger. ‘The hilt is thin and rounded so that it glides out of your hand. Try to strike that post.’

Chloe took a deep breath and, holding the knife in her right hand, brought it over her shoulder, then swept her arm down. She released as her arm was extended in front of her. The knife shot through the air but went wide, missing the post.

She climbed over the rail to fetch it and returned a moment later.

‘Not bad,’ Tomarys said. ‘Next time stand like this, facing front, with your left foot in front, and about an arm’s length between your left and right.’ Chloe moved to copy him. ‘Your heels should be lined up, but your feet are angled.’ She shifted. ‘Both knees are bent, especially your front. Aim at the height of your chest, so that you are making a clean throw in line with the release. Move like you are holding an axe, and you want to chop off a branch between you and the target. As you swing, release when the point of the knife is exactly on the target. Snap your fingers together. After releasing, do not stop your swing – go on with the movement. Follow-through is important. Now try again.’

Copying Tomarys’s stance, following his instructions, Chloe drew her arm back and down.

The knife plunged into the stump, quivering with the impact. She turned a surprised gaze at Tomarys.

‘Well done.’ He grinned. ‘But keep control of your breathing next time. Take shallow breaths. At this stage, hold your breath if you must. Let’s try again. When you are striking every time, we will increase the distance.’

Chloe made one more strike and then two misses before she began to get a feel for it. Tomarys walked over to her and adjusted her position, his strong arms surprisingly gentle. When she made three strikes in a row, he nodded.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘You have a natural talent.’ She looked to see if he was jesting, but his expression was sincere. ‘Before we increase the distance, I have one more lesson.’

Chloe let her arm fall to her side as she turned to watch, ears open to every word.

‘Our fourth lesson. As well as proper preparation, setting our enemy’s false expectations, and being the man – or woman – with the weapon, winning means choosing the right moment. You want your enemies to be distracted. Then, when you take action, be bold. Be strong. Be confident. Nothing is more powerful than the warrior who will achieve his objective or die trying.’

Chloe wondered if, when the time came, she would be up to the challenge. She vowed to herself that she would be strong.

‘Let us increase the distance. Come, Chloe, show me what you can do.’

Fifty miles away, on the shores of the isle of Amphi, Dion lay sleeping off his exhaustion after yet another harrowing battle against a wildran.

He rolled and mumbled in a restless slumber. His nightmares were filled with roaring giants and shrieking furies, thrashing serpents and savage dragons.

In his dreams he was in Xanthos, but all the people were various forms of wildren. Ogres roamed the agora and merfolk swam in the harbor. He was standing on the Orange Terrace outside the Royal Palace talking to his father, but Markos was a giant, a crown on his lank silver hair. Peithon was a coiled serpent, incredibly long, wrapped around the palace. Two furies that looked like Nikolas and Helena flew overhead, hand in hand. Everywhere he looked there were wildren.

Dion’s eyes shot open, and for a moment he didn’t know where he was. Remembrance slowly returned; he was far from home, on the Salesian side of the Maltherean Sea.

Leaving the circle of sleeping marines propped up around the fire, Dion walked down to the beach and stared into the water. He felt disturbed, although he couldn’t place the reason why.