Ashan looked back toward the grey tower, the top of which was barely visible over the wall. “I’ve not seen them since we arrived and I was placed in one of the uppermost cells. They were not in the tower when we searched. We looked in every cell.”
Over Styophan’s shoulder, the bulk of the men were helping the wounded. He did a quick count. There were perhaps twenty still able to fight. Twenty. How in the name of the mothers and fathers was he going to save the Kamarisi with only twenty men? And how was he going to save Nasim and Sukharam at the same time?
He told Ashan quickly of what Styophan had told him, that the Kamarisi had become an unexpected ally, that the Haelish were even now ready to attack and kill him. “The Haelish,” Nikandr said to Styophan. “Will they listen to you?”
“If we can find King Brechan, he will hear our plea, but I can’t say what his answer will be.”
That was their only hope, then—to find Brechan—for they would never be able to fend off the forces the Kamarisi would have amassed there.
Nikandr turned to Ashan. “Can you find Nasim and Sukharam?”
Only moments ago, Ashan’s alabaster stone, the one set into the circlet upon his brow, had been dull and lifeless. Now it was glowing—not brightly, but enough to make it clear that Ashan was now bonded with a havahezhan. “I will find them, son of Iaros, if they can be found at all.”
Nikandr stepped in and hugged him. “Five of my men will go with you. The rest will wait for you in the stables.”
Ashan tried to smile, but his eyes took in the carnage around him. “Go, Nikandr. Save the Kamarisi if he can be saved.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Nikandr rode atop a tall black stallion with Styophan beside him on a roan mare. The rest of his men—eighteen in all—rode behind, the thunder of their hooves ringing through the city as the citizens of Alekeşir, those few who remained in the streets, noted their passing with widened eyes. Their destination, the massive dome at the center of the city, was easy enough to see, but the streets of Alekeşir were confusing and difficult to navigate. And strangely enough, there was a cloud of birds high above the city, circling slowly, directly above the dome. Perhaps here in the capital the birds had learned that crowds might leave scraps of food.
Nikandr might have chosen to go straight east along the main thoroughfare—it would have brought them to the dome faster—but their purpose was not to blunder onto the grounds of the dome, but to remain hidden for as long as they could, and most importantly, to find Brechan before he attacked. They would have no chance of doing this at all had Styophan not known their basic plan. Brechan was coming in from the north with his most trusted men, and they were the ones who would wait for the Kamarisi to be flushed toward them by the others, who would sweep in toward the dome from the south.
Nikandr was well aware that noon had passed. He was also aware that the conflict at the kasir might have caused the Kamarisi to have been alerted. But even if men from the kasir had gone to the dome, they most likely would alert only Bahett, not the Kamarisi, and knowing Bahett, he would consider the threat to the Kamarisi minimal. Plus, in the end, Bahett wouldn’t much care if Selim was killed. He would remain regent one way or the other.
They came to a square where the top of the white dome was in clear view of a row of two- and three-story buildings.
“Here,” Styophan said as they came to a halt. “We should fan south from here.”
The square was deserted. This close to the dome, anyone refusing to attend the address would be punished severely, which had left the streets blessedly empty. This was part of the old city, and as such the streets were narrow and serpentine. Six of them led from this old square with a well at the center. It was as likely a place as any for the men of Hael to have come. From here they could easily spread out to cover the entire area directly north of the dome.
“Good,” Nikandr said. “Styophan and Soroush, with me. The rest, spread out in threes.” He pointed to the two northward streets. “Even there in the event they were late in coming.”
The men did so while Nikandr, Styophan, and Soroush headed directly south toward the dome. As they rode, Nikandr heard a young man’s voice calling over the eery silence of the city. By the ancients, it was Selim. He was still giving his address. They’d come in time, then.
“Why wouldn’t they have attacked by now?” Nikandr asked.
Styophan spoke softly. “Perhaps they wanted the Kamarisi’s speech to be delivered in full before they took his life.”
Nikandr nodded, granting him that. The Haelish might indeed wish to embarrass the Empire by waiting for this speech of power and permanence to be complete before they drew blood from the very one who’d spoken the words.
At an intersection, Nikandr looked down a narrow alley and saw three of his streltsi riding along another street. He saw no fear in their eyes. They were ready, these men, ready for whatever would come. Nikandr waved and they waved back, and then they all continued on. Selim’s voice was coming clearer now, though he couldn’t yet make out the words. Surely the address was coming to a close. It was well past the noon hour.
Nikandr watched among the stone buildings, down the alleyways and arches. The darkened doorways and the occasional plum or lemon tree in the small yards that could contain them. They were nearing the point where the sound of the horse’s hooves might be heard by the people in the circle by the dome. Nikandr was ready to call for a halt when Styophan pointed ahead to a doorway that was partially open.
The sun was bright enough that he couldn’t see into the shadows, but Styophan was already snapping the reins of his horse and moving ahead of the group. He didn’t call, but he waved his hands above his head, waiting for the person within to recognize him. The door opened a moment later and a tall man with broad shoulders stood in the doorway. The man remained as Styophan and the others approached, but Nikandr could see now that he was jittery, as if he had smoked too much of the foul black tar the drug dens of Alekeşir were famous for, but his eyes were too sharp—angry even—for that to be the reason.
Styophan slipped down from his horse and approached the doorway. “We must speak with Brechan.”
“The time for that was last night, Styophan of Anuskaya.”
“The time is now.” Styophan turned and motioned to Nikandr. “We’ve found our prince, but there is reason to keep the Kamarisi alive.”
The Haelish warrior regarded Nikandr impassively and shook his head. “No reason Brechan will hear.”
“Let him be the judge, Datha. This could be the ruin of us all. The withering. The rifts. The deaths of so many in Hael. It will not stop unless we can reach the islands, and Selim has promised help.”
“Lies,” Datha said. “Lies for the benefit of the Empire.”
“I have no love for Yrstanla. You know this. So believe me when I say I would do nothing to help them. It is they that will help us. There is little time left, Datha. I only wish to speak with him.”
Datha stared down at Styophan with uncaring eyes.
Styophan, however, stepped toward the towering Haelish man. Nikandr had no idea what he was doing until his hand had shot out and punched Datha in the throat.
Datha doubled over, holding his throat and reaching for Styophan at the same time, but Styophan had stepped back, forcing Datha to stagger forward in order to reach him. The moment Datha did, Styophan ducked and slithered behind him, catching Datha’s leg in a twisting move that brought the big man crashing down to the dirt road. In a blink Styophan had Datha’s arm behind his back and his pistol to the back of Datha’s head.
With his black eye patch and grim expression Styophan looked like death itself. “You may not care if you die this day, but when the gun goes off it will alert the Kamarisi and his guard. Now tell me where he is.”
Datha’s answer was to face downward, and lift his head into the barrel of Styophan’s gun, daring Styophan to pull the trigger.
Nikandr slipped down, ready to order Styophan to hold, but his
words died on his lips, for just then shadows played across the ground in front of him and behind him and all around. A flapping of wings came. A white-breasted jackdaw came to rest on the edge of the roof of the building to Nikandr’s left. Another came, and another, then dozens descended. But it wasn’t the birds that drew Nikandr’s attention. It was the girl that walked down the street, partially hidden by the shade of an ancient, slouching pistachio tree that hung over the stone wall of a hidden yard. She had straight, jet-black hair, and she wore a flaxen dress with simple-but-elegant embroidery around the hem and sleeves. She walked not as a normal child might, but with a strange, shambling gait.
The akhoz, Nikandr thought. The akhoz are here.
But when she stepped into the stark sunlight, he realized the girl’s condition had nothing to do with those strange, twisted creatures from Alayazhar. Her eyes were half-lidded, but at least she had eyes, and her skin… Her skin was the normal olive hue of a child from the Empire’s heartland, not the sickly grey of the akhoz.
Soroush slipped down from his horse and pulled his wheellock, but he paused as well. Even Datha seemed confused, for he turned his head to look at the girl, then arched awkwardly to take in the strange birds that were still collecting all around them. Except for the flapping of their wings they made not a sound, not the squawk or quorks the jackdaws would normally make. They merely stared, their collective eyes watching as the girl approached.
Some that stood in her way jumped and flapped to one side as she approached. They seemed of her, somehow. Connected in some way Nikandr couldn’t understand.
But then he felt through his soulstone something he hadn’t felt in months.
“Ishkyna.”
Hers was an imprint he knew well at this point, but it felt different, as if his memories were of a girl and here before him was a woman fully grown. The realization was unnerving, for it meant that Ishkyna had widened once again her already considerable powers.
“Ishkyna,” Nikandr said again, stepping forward.
The girl turned and looked to a nearby street that angled off the one they’d been riding along. She spoke with the voice of a little girl, but it came out in a croak, as if she were sick and hadn’t used her voice in days. “The King of Hael is two streets over, hiding behind a mule cart, waiting for their signal.”
“And when will that be?” Nikandr asked.
“Why, no time at all, Nischka.”
Before Nikandr could ask her what she meant, the rattle of musket fire came from the direction of the dome.
“Mount,” Nikandr called, running to his horse and swinging himself up and into the saddle. “Head down the street there.” Nikandr pointed to a narrow street that went westward up a steep hill.
Styophan remained, holding Datha’s arm tight.
“Leave him be,” Nikandr called. “One more won’t make a difference.”
Styophan glared down with his one good eye and released Datha. Then he mounted as well, and soon they were riding toward the street Ishkyna had indicated. As Datha sprinted southward, pulling a long, wide sword from inside his robe as he went, Nikandr guided his horse forward and reached down to the girl.
Ishkyna, however, merely stared westward, perhaps toward the king, perhaps to something Nikandr would never have the ability to see.
“Come, Ishkyna. Quickly, now.”
He shook his hand in front of her face, but the moment he did, the girl collapsed to the ground. She lay there motionless. Nikandr had no idea whether she was alive or dead.
The sound of gunfire grew, as did the shouts from the crowd. The streets were going to be utter madness in moments. The girl would be trampled.
Nikandr slipped down from his horse and carried the girl over to the edge of the road and laid her against the worn stone of the building there. She was still breathing, thank the ancients, and she’d be in plain sight here. Hopefully someone would find her and care for her.
He vaulted back onto his horse, grabbed the reins, and kicked the black stallion into action. It responded well. This was a horse of war. It was jittery from the sounds that were now coming closer, but not from nerves. This was a horse used to the smell of blood and the sounds of battle. He caught up with the others, who were waiting for a sign. As if in answer to their call, a swarm of jackdaws swooped down from above the height of the nearby homes and swept along the road heading south.
They followed the birds, turning right, then left, up an alley filled with the stink of a tannery, all as the first of the refugees from the Kamarisi’s address came running along the roads. The crowd was still thin, but the streets would be teeming in moments.
The sight of the jackdaws caused the Alekeşiri to stop in their tracks. They stared at the black, writhing vision before them—it looked more like a swarm of bees than a flock of birds—and then backed away as the birds flew overhead, revealing the eighteen pounding war horses riding down the street toward them.
They parted like kindling beneath the blade of a hatchet.
Nikandr and his men came to a wide thoroughfare, one of the major streets running north to south through Alekeşir, and here the birds swarmed over one figure.
“That’s him!” Styophan called over the din of hooves and the growing alarm of the crowd. “That’s Brechan.”
They headed straight for him, but as they did, Nikandr saw the mass of people and horses and soldiers coming down the street toward them. Somewhere, a woman screamed for her child. Citizens fled before a vanguard of janissaries on horses, and behind came a group of Kiliç Şaik. They surrounded a golden chariot pulled by two white horses with grey manes.
It was the Kamarisi, Nikandr realized. Selim ül Hakan was coming, and Bahett was with him.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Nikandr watched as Styophan kicked his horse, urging it toward Brechan. Styophan slipped down and shouted to the Haelish King as the sounds of panic and screaming became first loud and then deafening.
The janissaries had seen Nikandr and his streltsi. They were still dressed in the uniforms of Yrstanla, but somehow they knew. Their commander was pointing. His men trained their muskets a moment later.
And then a man—seven feet tall if he was one, wearing a simple brown robe—swept in front of the charging horses, grabbed the reins of the lead horse, and yanked the horse’s head down so sharply the beast tipped forward and tumbled onto the stones of the street. The Haelish warrior was lost from view as several horses behind tumbled over the first. More and more crashed into the fallen beasts, and the screaming of horses rose above the din of the crowd and mingled with the smattering of gunfire that was raining down not just on Nikandr and his streltsi, but three Haelish warriors, who were just now charging with great swords drawn into the crowd.
“Ishkyna!” Nikandr called. “Stop them!”
The jackdaws had flown up above the buildings, but at Nikandr’s words they swept in around the Haelish men, who had already started swinging their swords, cleaving the soldiers of Yrstanla in their saddles or the legs of the horses they rode. Blood poured along the cobbled street like barrels of spilled ink.
As the hundreds—thousands—of black birds wheeled around the Haelish, they became confused. They batted at the birds, trying to carve a path to the Kamarisi, but the janissaries had recovered and they were firing en masse into these three hulking men. It was hard to discern, but Nikandr could see what looked to be chips of stone flying from the men as the shots bit into them. He knew it wasn’t stone, however, but skin.
Closer, Brechan stood and shoved Styophan away. His face was angry. He looked to his men. More of the Haelish had come now. Four more rushed in from a street Nikandr and his streltsi had ridden down a short while ago, and behind Nikandr six more advanced along the wide thoroughfare. The Kiliç Şaik beyond the line of janissaries had turned to face another threat—surely more of the Haelish, probably those that had flushed the Kamarisi in this direction toward Brechan and the others.
As the jackdaws spread out to harry t
he approaching warriors, Styophan shouted something to Brechan. Brechan drew his sword and rounded on Styophan.
Nikandr raised his pistol to fire on Brechan, but before he could the Haelish King stopped. He became stock-still. His face went vacant, but then it regained some of the emotion it had had only a moment ago—not the anger, but certainly the grim determination.
He turned and bellowed to his men. His words—spoken in Haelish—carried over the sounds of battle. The jackdaws flew higher and hovered like a black fog over the street as Brechan called again. He called out again, louder still, and his men turned toward him, their faces confused.
The fighting continued beyond the tight grouping of the Kamarisi’s guard, but closer, to this side of Selim and Bahett, the janissaries stopped. They watched, and a tenuous but mutual detente settled over this place in the heart of Alekeşir.
Nikandr kicked his horse forward, raising his hands in an appeal for calm. Heads began to turn toward him. The hostilities would end. At the very least he’d be able to speak for a moment with Selim to have him order his men to stand down.
This was when Nikandr caught movement along the top of a three-story building to his left. It was Datha. He was no longer wearing the brown robes he’d had on earlier. Instead he had only the soft leggings of the Haelish. Scrawled across his bare chest were primitive patterns drawn with glittering red paint. He called out a strange and throaty ululation as he leapt from the building and dropped onto one of the Kiliç Şaik. He’d chosen the only one wearing white armor, surely the leader of the Kiliç. Datha drove his sword straight down through him. It entered at the space between his shoulder blades and pierced his body like a pig on a spit. The rear legs of the horse the Kiliç had been riding collapsed. It neighed as it rolled, the other horses skittering away, and for a moment Datha was lost.
“Stop!” King Brechan called in Yrstanlan.
But Datha wouldn’t. He’d come to slay the Kamarisi, and even the words of his king would not stay his hand.
The Flames of Shadam Khoreh Page 44