The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Nikandr slept fitfully, thinking of Hilal. He knew the other six mahtar as well, but he knew Hilal the best. He’d taken Fahroz’s seat after she’d left with Nasim for Mirashadal. He was a gentle man. A learned man. But most of all, he was a caring man. He, much like Ashan, seemed to embody the calmness of center that the Aramahn were ever searching for.

  Had it been Hilal who thought of the idea of offering themselves for the lives of the Maharraht? It had been a day Hilal most likely thought he’d never see: so many Maharraht forsaking their ways and taking up the life of an Aramahn once more. Many of the children would never have been exposed to any other life, and here they were being offered to the people their parents had betrayed in their quest to drive the Landed back to the Motherland.

  And now, in order to protect them, Hilal had given himself. He and the other mahtar. In a way, it made sense—the Aramahn were quick to sacrifice themselves for the greater good—but that made it even more discouraging. This was an unprecedented event. One or two Maharraht had returned to the fold of the Aramahn over the years, but never so many at once. It might even have become a bridge to peace. But not now, not if those six men and women were killed.

  In the end, Nikandr couldn’t sleep. He woke well before the four Vostroman streltsi came for him. When they did, he pulled on his cherkesska and followed them, hoping to speak with Borund away from others where he might at least listen to reason.

  When he came at last to the long hall that led past Radiskoye’s central garden, he could see through the leaded glass windows that a gibbet had been stood in the center of the courtyard. He could see men gathered there, but he didn’t realize that none of them were Khalakovan until he stepped out from the hall and into the chill morning air. The smell of the sea filled the air, and the sound of the surf rose up from the base of the cliffs far below the eyrie of Radiskoye.

  A handful of Vostroman royalty watched him pace forward. Borund and Viktor were among them, and they were flanked by two dozen streltsi wearing the seal of Vostroma. Their faces, to a man, were judgmental, angry, as if Nikandr had somehow called down the fury of Yrstanla on their homeland. He thought surely there would be at least one representative from Khalakovo. Ranos or Victania or Yvanna. But there were none.

  As Nikandr was led forward, a portion of the courtyard previously blocked by a jutting corner of the palotza came into view. Here the gallows stood, and when he saw it against the backdrop of the eyrie and the cold gray sky, he stopped, his fingers going cold. Through the shrubs in the nearby garden, the wind whined before dying down once more.

  Four men and three women stood on a raised wooden platform, Hilal and Amra and Saeeda and the rest. Black woolen sacks covered their heads, and nooses hung loosely around their necks, trailing up to the stout wooden beam above them. A hangman, a stout, hard-looking man whose left arm ended in a stump, stood on the far side, waiting with his hand on the lever that would drop the trap doors beneath the mahtar.

  The courtyard was a study in silence. The sigh of the surf and the distant call of gulls were the only sounds to be heard. Knowing Borund as he did, Nikandr was sure that he’d ordered it so to let the scene sink in.

  At last Nikandr’s escort of streltsi bowed and stepped aside and Borund broke away from the gathered royalty and stepped close to Nikandr, most likely so they could speak for a moment in peace. He held a rolled proclamation in one hand, but Nikandr could spare no time to wonder how it might read. He was too struck by how much Borund had changed. The Borund of five years ago was large, healthy, vibrant if a bit headstrong. This Borund looked beaten and crooked, even defeated.

  “Don’t do this,” Nikandr said to him, loud enough for only Borund to hear. “These are innocent men and women.”

  “They sheltered our enemy.”

  “So you would hang them?”

  “Some must pay, Nikandr.”

  “Nyet. They are innocent. They need not die.”

  “They are not innocent.” Borund’s face became splotchy with anger. “How could you bring them here, Nikandr? They were Maharraht.”

  “They have forsaken their ways. Don’t you see?”

  “They were Maharraht,” he repeated, loud enough for many of those gathered to hear.

  “They weren’t,” Nikandr said, softly but sternly. “Not any longer. They were going to allow themselves to be burned.”

  “What is burning when their minds are still willful and full of hate?”

  “They were not willful!”

  Borund looked at Nikandr with naked disgust. “You have been among them too long, Nischka. Too long by far.”

  “Those Maharraht were ready to lay down arms. More might have followed. It might have been a path to peace, Borund. But none will do so now, and any that had thought to rejoin their brothers will redouble their efforts to harm us, to kill and to slaughter.”

  Nikandr glanced to the gallows, where the Aramahn stood serenely. He turned back to Borund, his mind wild with possible ways to change Borund’s mind, none of them likely to succeed.

  Until he came to one.

  He stared Borund in the eye, willing him to listen. “What if I confess?”

  Borund’s eyes went wide. His hand adjusted its grip on the proclamation. “Nischka, be quiet.”

  “Borund, what if I—”

  Borund’s fist came so fast there was nothing Nikandr could do to stop it. It connected across his jaw, sending him sprawling to the stones.

  Borund’s footsteps crunched over the river stones. Nikandr tried to rise, but Borund leaned down, the bulk of him blocking the light of dawn, and placed one meaty hand against Nikandr’s chest, pinning him in place. “Say nothing, Nikandr, or I’ll be forced to put you on the gallows next to them.”

  Then Borund took the front of Nikandr’s cherkesska with his two massive fists—the rolled proclamation crumpling—and pulled Nikandr to his feet.

  Nikandr turned his head and spit to clear his mouth of the blood that was welling from the cut inside his cheek. He stared into Borund’s eyes. He was shocked—not by what Borund had done, but the reason behind it.

  By the ancients, Borund was protecting him.

  He wondered, then, why Viktor had been sent. Perhaps Borund’s place on the throne of Khalakovo was not so strong as Nikandr had imagined. Or perhaps Viktor had come of his own accord.

  Whatever the reason, it was clear that Borund thought it certain that Nikandr would need to die as well were he to confess to bringing the Maharraht to the shores of Khalakovo.

  Borund turned to the gallows, finality in his eyes.

  “Bora, I would not have brought them if I feared they would harm us. You must know this.”

  Borund licked his lips. He swallowed.

  “I brought them to the very doorstep of Radiskoye. Why would I have done this if I thought they meant us harm?”

  Borund raised his arm.

  “Borund, don’t!”

  And brought it back down.

  The hangman pulled the lever.

  The trapdoors swung, and seven mahtar fell, jerking against the ropes. Their arms flailed. Their legs kicked. And then one by one, they all went still, while the wind sighed through the garden’s short trees and the surf called up from the cliffs.

  Nikandr didn’t know how long after the hanging Borund began to read, but he heard his low voice, reading in somber tones the contents of the proclamation. “Let it be known that as of this day, the sentence of death for Nikandr Iaroslov Khalakovo is to be stayed, pending his duty to the Grand Duchy, which takes precedence. Upon successful execution of those duties, the stay shall be writ permanent.”

  Upon this, the expressions of the Vostroman royalty turned to distaste. Viktor stared hard enough that Nikandr thought he might pull his pistol, shoot Nikandr in the chest, and be done with it once and for all.

  While Nikandr stared at Borund, confused, the royalty and the streltsi began to disperse.

  Borund turned to him. “You
are to take command of the Lihvyen.”

  Nikandr stared, the words of Borund’s proclamation still swirling in his mind. “For what purpose?”

  Borund gripped the scroll so tightly it creased in the middle. “They’re attacking the spires, Nikandr. Last night, they destroyed the one on Ildova, and Mother fears they’ve done the same thing to the spire on Tolvodyen.”

  Nikandr was numb. He could hear the creaking of the ropes as the bodies swung in the wind. The notion that Yrstanla was attacking the spires didn’t make sense, and he could only think to ask one simple question. “Why?”

  “We don’t know. It’s sent a wave of storms through the islands of Vostroma and Nodhvyansk… We’ve never seen the like.” Borund stared deeply into Nikandr’s eyes. “If you want to protect the Grand Duchy, as you say you do, then go. Use the gifts the ancients have given you. What few ships we’ve held back in the North are gathering. More ships will be outfitted from the merchants, but you must go now. Take the Lihvyen. Stop them from taking Vostroma.”

  Nikandr looked up to the men and women swinging from the ropes of the gallows. “We are not done with this, Borund.”

  “We’re done for now,” he said as he turned his back on Nikandr and began walking away. “If you’re still of the mind, take it up with me on your return.” The sky was gray and the wind was blustery. A scout ship had been sent out in advance of the wing of ships Nikandr now flew with. He commanded the Lihvyen and seven other ships—all that could be cobbled together from the ships that hadn’t already been sent to defend Vostroma.

  Nikandr stood at the Lihvyen’s helm, working the levers of the rudder while Jahalan and Anahid stood amidships summoning the wind and controlling the Lihvyen’s heft. Near the helm stood a wooden perch. Upon it, tethered with a leather cord, was a black rook. It had been silent for nearly a day. Over the last three days, Victania and Mother and Borund’s wife, Nataliya, had assumed the form of the rook and spoke to him of the latest news—such as it was. None of them had so far been able to penetrate the storm surrounding Vostroma, and when the ships had approached the nearest of Vostroma’s islands the rook had gone silent. No doubt the Matri were trying to penetrate the storm, but had so far been unable to do so.

  Nikandr reached up and pulled his soulstone out. It had been resting against his skin, the way he preferred it, but he had taken it out every few hours to see if he could sense something—anything—from the Matri. While holding himself steady against the helm and gripping the stone in his right hand, he opened his mind to the darkness between worlds. He called to his mother, to Victania. He called to Atiana, hoping in vain that she would hear him, that she would know that he would come to find her when he could. But as it had been every other time since the rook had gone silent, he felt nothing. Nothing at all. It left him feeling cold, colder than the bitter winter wind could account for.

  Elykstava, the first of the islands in the Vostroman archipelago, sat east of their position. They had bypassed it on their way south, reasoning that the forces of Yrstanla would not have come so far north. There was part of him that wanted to continue past Vostroma and on to Galahesh, but he’d heard no word of Atiana or Ishkyna or their father, the Grand Duke. Another part of him wanted to go to Galostina to find his father, but this would be a foolish course of action as well. Yrstanla was attacking here, and if they’d learned anything in the past few days, it was that their spires must be protected at all costs.

  Something caught Nikandr’s attention near the horizon. He took his telescope and studied the western sky carefully. He soon found it—a small, six-masted cutter flying well beyond the safety of the ley lines. It was most likely a ship of the Grand Duchy, one that had fled the battle or been sent north to bring news. As he watched it became clear that the ship was adjusting course to meet them.

  They allowed the ship to approach, and indeed, they saw men of Anuskaya standing at the gunwales, waving their arms, cheering. And no wonder, Nikandr thought. Their ship seemed barely held together. Massive holes from cannon shot marked the hull, and the sails had been hastily repaired—no doubt only in the last few days—from innumerable tears and holes. The masts were generally in good shape, though its two starward masts both had lengths of iron buckled along sizable cracks to prevent the upper lengths from snapping entirely.

  “It’s good to see you,” Nikandr called across the distance to the kapitan, a man of Vostroma, as it turned out.

  “Not as good as it is to see you,” he shouted back. He held a canister in one hand, a tube of wood they transferred to the Lihvyen with a length of cord.

  Nikandr opened it and found a note contained within—news from Andreya Antonov. Ranos and Father had squared off against him during the Battle of Uyadensk, but Nikandr was glad to see him still alive, for he was a shrewd tactician. He wrote much the same news as they knew already—that the spires on Ildova and Tolvodyen had indeed been destroyed. He feared that the next to go would be Pradosht, for the forces of Yrstanla had landed and positioned themselves well. No doubt they would soon take the fort there and destroy the tower with gunpowder, either from the stores they’d brought or the stores in the very fort they sought to take.

  He asked that the Duchies of Khalakovo and Mirkotsk and Rhavanki spare no effort to send all the ships available and to connect to the fleet that had formed around Kiravashya. They hoped to stop Yrstanla there before they could get to Palotza Galostina, and so they asked all ships to make haste there to receive orders from Andreya.

  Nikandr read it again before rolling it up and putting it back in the tube. No doubt ships had been sent with similar messages eastward for Dhalingrad, Lhudansk, and Khazabyirsk, and southward for Nodhvyansk and Bolgravya.

  “Have you more to deliver?” Nikandr called loudly to the other kapitan, holding up the tube.

  “I do, My Lord Prince,” he shouted back.

  “Then go. Bring news to Khalakovo and beyond.”

  “I will, My Lord.”

  The ship continued on, and Nikandr wondered about the wisdom of Andreya’s words. It made sense to band the ships together in defense of Vostroma’s largest island, her largest cities, and her seat of power, but Yrstanla didn’t seem interested in taking land. Their purpose was apparently only to destroy the spires, and if that were so, why would they take their forces into the teeth of the lion? Why wouldn’t they bypass Kiravashya altogether and take out as many spires as they could throughout the undefended islands?

  In only hours, Nikandr and his wing of ships might reach Alotsk, but in doing so they would leave Elykstava defenseless. What if Yrstanla had targeted the furthest of Vostroma’s islands? Were he after the spires, that’s where he would go.

  He looked to the southwest, toward Kiravashya, toward Galostina and his father.

  I’m sorry, Father.

  “Styophan,” he called.

  “Da, Kapitan.” Styophan—as he had on the Chaika—was the ship’s acting master.

  “Send word. The four trailing ships will continue on and report to Kiravashya.”

  “And the lead ships?”

  “We head east to Elykstava,” Nikandr said. “If all goes well, we’ll return to Kiravashya shortly.”

  Styophan paused, but only for a moment. “Da, Kapitan.”

  The Lihvyen turned and with the two trailing cutters—both of them small and ill-equipped but fast and maneuverable—headed east. Nikandr’s stomach churned as they sailed toward Elykstava and the small fort that stood upon her northern shores.

  It took hours, but eventually they saw her, a hard black jewel among the ocean blue. As they came closer, he could see a small fishing village along the southern shore. He could see farmland on the higher plateaus.

  And then the fort and her spire came into view.

  Still standing, Nikandr thought, and not another ship in sight.

  They’d come for nothing. They’d delayed their arrival to Kiravashya by as much as a day, all because he thought Yrstanla would send some token force here.
r />   “Shall we turn back, My Lord Prince?” Styophan called.

  “Nyet,” Nikandr said. “Circle the island and let’s return.”

  “You’re sure?” Styophan said softly.

  “Call the orders, Styophan.”

  “Da, Kapitan.”

  They continued around the northern side of the island. As they went, Nikandr felt his stone. It had felt dead before, but here—perhaps because of his proximity to the spire—he felt something at last. It was not the feeling that a presence was near, as he felt with the Matri, but instead a yawning emptiness, as if he stood near the edge of a great chasm, and the closer the Lihvyen came to the spire, the more pronounced it became.

  “Prepare for battle,” Nikandr said to Styophan.

  Styophan snapped his heels and bowed his head, and then left, giving hand signals to the crew that were quickly passed around the ship and to the trailing cutters.

  Nikandr met Jahalan at the mainmast. “Can you feel it?” he asked.

  “I feel something,” Jahalan said, “though I know not what. It feels strange here. My havahezhan is distant, and it grows more so the closer we come to this island.”

  “Anahid?”

  Anahid sat at the base of the mainmast, her arms out and her hands barely touching the surface of the windwood. It seemed as though she hadn’t heard him, but then she answered, her voice hoarse. “The same, son of Iaros”—she swallowed—“though for me it is much worse than Jahalan describes.”

  Nikandr moved to the fore of the ship and stared at the fort, which was now in easy view, and he realized that though the flag of Vostroma was flying, there were no signs of life within the keep.

  He raised his telescope to his eye and studied the fort closely. There was no one. Along her tall gray walls. On the road leading eastward. No one.

  He remembered a cove that was set into the northern shore of the island, a place surrounded by steep hills. It had harbored, he recalled, many ships during a famous battle during the War of Seven Seas.

  He swung the telescope along the coast, searching for it.