The Straits of Galahesh loa-2

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Nikandr had been in many battles, but something about the darkness and the sound of the creature staggering toward him made him shake, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

  “To me!” Nikandr called.

  With the two akhoz coming closer and closer, the men of the Grand Duchy rushed forward.

  Nikandr sighted carefully down the length of his musket and pulled the trigger. The musket bucked, and he saw the akhoz go down again.

  It rose one last time before three more musket shots felled it.

  Some of the Maharraht came forward, including Soroush, but Nikandr waved them away. “Keep loading! We need more powder!”

  As more musket shots tore into the other akhoz, calls were taken up by their brothers and sisters, some from afar, but many nearer.

  “Go!” Nikandr said.

  Soroush did, and the Maharraht moved as quickly as they could with their heavy loads.

  More akhoz reached the base of the hill, a dozen at the least.

  “Another five minutes,” Nikandr shouted. “That’s all we need! Hold fire! Be ready, and give them two shots each!”

  No sooner had he said this than musket shot zipped over his head.

  “Down!” Nikandr called as he dropped to the snow-covered ground.

  The first shot was followed by another, and another. The strelet next to him took a meaty shot in the center of his chest before he could lie down. He grunted, long and hard, and fell to the ground.

  The rest dropped as more musket shots punched into the earth around them.

  The akhoz were nearing their line now.

  One of the Maharraht behind Nikandr cried out. He dropped the barrel he was carrying and fell heavily to the ground.

  “Fire!”

  Their muskets rang out, not in quick succession, but staggered so that they could see if an akhoz was down or not. Soon, though, the akhoz were coming too close, and the shots were released in a frenzy.

  Nikandr fired. The akhoz he’d sighted fell, but there were two more behind it. He came to a kneel and reloaded-powder, shot, and ramrod-and fired one more time before the first of the akhoz reached the far right of their line.

  It crouched and belched flame from its mouth even as it was struck by four musket shots that had been fired in desperation. The akhoz collapsed, but more took its place, breathing gouts of flame. One of his streltsi was caught in the blasts, and then another, both of them screaming as the flames licked their woolen cherkesskas and black kolpak hats.

  One dropped to the snow, trying to douse the flames, but the other threw aside his musket and took up his berdische axe. He swung it high over his head, his death cries rising high into the nighttime sky as he brought the axe down on the nearest of the akhoz even as the creature blasted him with another column of bright, searing fire. The akhoz was split from neck to navel. The strelet, amazingly still aware and able to fight, tried to pull the axe free, but then another akhoz leapt on him from the side and bit deeply into his neck.

  “Close!” Nikandr called. “Close!”

  And then the akhoz were among them.

  Nikandr drew his sword and cut one from behind that had just begun to gout flame. It cried out and arched backward. Fire licked Nikandr’s sleeve, but he stepped away and batted it out.

  The Maharraht were still pulling barrels toward the skiffs, but a dozen had now joined the fray. Several were dropped before they could reach the fight, however-victims of musket fire coming in from the base of the hill.

  “Pull back!” Nikandr shouted in Anuskayan. “Pull back!” he shouted again in Mahndi.

  They retreated, though many fell before they’d made it halfway to the skiffs.

  A shout drew Nikandr’s attention. He looked beyond the chaos before him and by the light of the akhoz’s flames saw a low form-naked and childlike-gallop like a mongrel dog into the building.

  “Run!” Nikandr bellowed. “Run!”

  He turned and sprinted for the skiffs. Sensing the danger, his men followed, as did most of the Maharraht. They’d gone only ten strides before an explosion ripped through the night. It tossed him like a rag doll onto the snow.

  Groaning with the pain running through his chest, he turned and saw stones flying outward from the rear of the building as a fireball, black and roiling, curled up into the air.

  He scrabbled backward as stone blocks and burning wreckage plowed into the ground around him. Some sizzled against the snow. A piece of stone the size of a mastiff fell on top of Jonis, the young boatswain, killing him instantly.

  More musket shots rained in as the few soldiers who’d made it to their feet descended on the remaining akhoz. Their mewling cries rose above the sounds of the fire. The acrid smell of their breath mixed with the bitter smell of burnt gunpowder.

  “Hurry, My Lord!”

  Nikandr turned. It was Styophan, and he was pointing toward the skiffs.

  “You’re coming with me.”

  “ Nyet, My Lord. You’re needed on the skiffs”-he pointed to the Hratha coming slowly up the hill-“and I’m needed here.”

  Nikandr looked to the Hratha. They were many, and if they weren’t slowed, they would overrun the skiffs before they had a chance to leave.

  “Retreat when you can,” Nikandr said. “Lose yourself in the forest, and then meet us at the Spar.”

  “ Da,” Styophan said as he reloaded his musket, “now go!”

  He turned and ran forward, pausing once to fire toward the line of dark-robed men that were now halfway up the hill.

  Nikandr moved to the skiffs where Anahid waited. She began calling upon her dhoshahezhan immediately.

  Two more skiffs were loaded, each holding fewer men than before. Part of this was out of necessity-each barrel weighed nearly a stone-but part was the sheer number of men that had died in the furious battle.

  Nikandr helped Soroush up and into his skiff, and they were off. Musket shots tore into the hull, and Nikandr was worried that one would ignite the gunpowder. He heard two shots puncture the hull and the barrels, and then a third, but the ancients were watching over him, and nothing happened.

  Soon they were high enough and far enough that the Hratha gave up firing upon them.

  By the moon’s pale light, he could see the battle raging, but his men, along with the Maharraht, were already beginning to retreat.

  Nikandr put his fingers to his mouth and whistled loudly three times, and soon after, the men turned and ran toward the tree line. He tried to find Styophan but could not. They were too far away, the night too dark.

  But then Nikandr recognized something, or some one, through his soulstone. He pulled it from his shirt and held it tightly in his hand.

  It was Atiana.

  And she was near.

  She was out there in the night, with the akhoz and the Hratha. But there was something terribly, terribly wrong. He knew this, for he knew Atiana, and this was not she.

  “What is it?” Soroush asked.

  Nikandr did not want to admit it to Soroush, but he saw no reason to withhold it. He pointed toward the base of the hill, at the black shapes of the nearest buildings. “Atiana is out there.”

  The firefight continued in the distance, but it was softer now, like a memory beginning to fade. Soroush looked to the city of Vihrosh, to the Spar beyond. And then he turned to Nikandr. “Had I not been so blinded with rage, I might have listened to my heart, and Rehada might have been saved.”

  Nikandr looked to the Spar himself, the shadows of its arches barely visible against the dark gray of the white cliffs. By the ancients who guide, what should he do? But when he gripped his soulstone and felt Atiana, felt the taint upon her, he knew what he must do.

  He nodded to Soroush.

  Soroush took up a coiled rope and tossed it over the side. “Anahid, lower the skiff.”

  After only a brief pause, Anahid did.

  Nikandr felt like he was abandoning them, but he could no more deny this need than he could the need to breathe.
/>   “I’ll find you at the Spar.”

  Soroush nodded.

  And Nikandr slipped over the side.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  N ikandr padded along snowy ground with the twenty or so men who remained of the battle trailing behind. Styophan moved alongside him with an awkward gait that spoke of the pain he was experiencing. He was wounded. His shoulder had been bound hastily, but he had strength in him yet to fire a musket, and that was all Nikandr could hope for at a time like this.

  They had headed deeper into the forest to the north of the city and circled back in the hopes that Atiana would be held at the rear of the train marching steadily toward the Spar.

  Among the chill and distant calls of the akhoz, Nikandr’s anxiety had grown worse. Normally when he felt Atiana-or anyone else with whom he’d touched stones-he could sense, however faintly, their mood. Whether they were happy or sad or angry, it shone through their shared connection like a scent upon the wind. But in Atiana he could feel nothing-only her presence-and it terrified him. It was as if she were dead, lying in a room so that he could see her, feel her, but could not communicate with her.

  As they left the forest and entered the fields surrounding Vihrosh, he could tell that she was close. She might be near the center of the city now, and he was sure that if she were there, then so would be Muqallad and Sariya. They pushed, marching at the quick, and came to the edge of the city as the sound of battle on the far side of the straits rose to new heights.

  As they entered a square with decorative trees, a bird winged down and landed on the cobbled street. It was the gallows crow. “She has been taken,” it said. “You must hurry. You must save her.”

  The way the bird spoke those words, it reminded Nikandr of someone, but the thought seemed preposterous. “Ishkyna?”

  The crow cawed over and over, a low, sad sound. “Speak not her name!”

  Nikandr didn’t understand, but he knew better than to question her. “How?” he asked. “How can I save her?”

  “I failed her. Sariya’s hold on her was stronger than I had guessed-much stronger-and now the Atalayina has her in its grasp. She is lost in its depths.” The crow stumbled and fell to the ground, its wings trying ineffectually to help it remain standing. He could see something clutched in one of its talons, which it dropped onto the cobbles. The thing clinked and made a shink sound as the crow hopped away. “Take it to her, Nischka. I hope it will return her to herself.”

  With that the crow shivered along its whole length. It regained its feet and flew off in a rush, as if it had just then awoken to find itself among men in a place it had never been.

  Nikandr reached down and found a necklace, a soulstone necklace, and he knew just by touching it that it was Atiana’s. How the crow had come by it, and how Atiana had lost it, he didn’t know, but he was glad to have it. It gave him hope.

  “Hers?” Styophan asked.

  “ Da.”

  “What do we do now?”

  Nikandr pulled Atiana’s soulstone necklace over his head. It felt good to have it resting next to his own. “What is there to do but go on?”

  They resumed the chase, faster than before. Light began to fill the eastern sky. Gone were all but the brightest stars on the horizon, the weakest replaced by a swath of indigo that foreshadowed the dawn. They knew when they were coming close from the calls of the akhoz. Few had appeared at the battle at the munitions building, which made sense, for if the ritual was anything like the one on Rafsuhan, most would have been sacrificed to make the Atalayina whole.

  They came to a place where six roads met at a large circle with a lawn at its center with a lone, towering larch. This was the heart of Vihrosh. The ponderous stone buildings were old remnants of the power that Vihrosh had once held as the seat of Yrstanla’s power here on Galahesh. On the far side of the larch, running down the opposite street toward the circle, was the silhouette of a woman.

  “Nikandr!” Atiana called. There was a desperation in her voice that he didn’t understand.

  Until he saw the creatures bounding after her.

  He sprinted toward her, his men close behind. They passed the larch and reached the entrance to the street in little time. The akhoz behind her uttered sickening brays that made Nikandr’s skin crawl. They galloped along the cobblestones like dogs. In moments they’d be on her.

  “Down, Atiana!” Nikandr called as he skidded to a halt and swung his musket up to his shoulder.

  Atiana either didn’t listen or hadn’t heard, and the first of the akhoz leapt upon her back, driving her to the ground.

  It cleared a path for him. He fired at the second akhoz. Styophan, standing to his left, fired as well, as did two Maharraht.

  Two akhoz dropped, writhing on the ground as the one that had leapt on Atiana fought with her, snarling and clawing as Atiana screamed.

  Nikandr charged forward, pulling his shashka.

  Atiana twisted away and kicked at the akhoz. It rolled away momentarily, but it gave Atiana enough leverage to kick again, this time much harder.

  The akhoz was much smaller than Atiana, and it was sent reeling backward. It struck the cobblestones while releasing a sound that was half growl, half mewl. It spun over and was back on all fours when Nikandr swept in and brought his sword down hard, aiming for its neck. The creature ducked, receiving a cut across its shoulder blade. It scrabbled away, but Nikandr lunged forward and drove his sword through its gut.

  It screamed to the night sky. The sounds echoed among the buildings. It grasped at the sword blade, slicing its fingers open as it clawed for Nikandr’s hand. He jerked the sword free, and at last it collapsed to the ground.

  “Atiana,” Nikandr said as he stepped close to her.

  She stood, the whites of her eyes visible in the early morning light. She stared at him as if she didn’t know him.

  Nyet, he thought, as if she were afraid of him.

  “Atiana,” he said, softer this time. He reached for her hand, but she snatched it away.

  It was then that Nikandr realized that all of them-he, Styophan, the Maharraht-all of them were in a narrow stretch of street, one easily defended on both sides.

  “Reload!” he shouted, while Atiana stared at him with uncaring eyes.

  The men responded, but too slowly. Dark forms slid into the street from an alley ahead. They swept in behind.

  One of the Maharraht brought his weapon up.

  Three muskets flashes came from the men ahead, and in that brief moment, Nikandr could see that they were Hratha, their black robes merging with the deep shadows.

  The Maharraht grunted and fell to the ground. As he wheezed, a gurgling sound coming from a chest wound, the Hratha called in Mahndi, “Lay down your arms.”

  Nikandr had no intention of obeying. The Hratha could not be trusted, especially now with all their plans so close to fruition.

  He drew upon his hezhan, pulling the wind to swirl through the narrow street. Dust and dirt stung him as he grabbed Atiana’s wrist and pulled her back toward the edge of the alley.

  The Maharraht and the men of Anuskaya took this as his answer, and those that had already reloaded fired.

  The Hratha returned fire, and Nikandr saw a glowing stone of jasper upon one man’s brow. Another of azurite glowed a deep shade of blue. A cracking sound rent the ground. It shook the street and the nearby buildings.

  Nikandr held Atiana close as he called upon the wind to drive the Hratha back. He saw several raise their muskets, but only two shots were released.

  Nikandr opened himself wider. He stepped away from Atiana and spread his arms wide. The presence of the hezhan filled him. He felt the flow of the wind through the streets of the city and called upon it to converge here. He called upon it to scour the Hratha from their path.

  The wind answered, hungry for the breath of man, but just as it rose to a gale, Nikandr felt a rising fury within him. His mind went wild, memories of walking on the fields below Radiskoye coming to him, of planing curls of
wood as he worked on the helm of the Gorovna, of those nervous moments before he’d touched stones with Atiana years ago when they were to be married. Those and a thousand more came unbidden. He had no control over them, and soon after he felt his muscles going slack.

  He realized in a distant and disconnected way that this was no illness, that this was something being done forcibly to him.

  He was being assumed, he realized, and he couldn’t at first understand who would attack him in such a way.

  Stars filled the field of his vision as his knees gave way and he tipped toward the ground. As the ground rose up, he had a sudden moment of crystal clarity. He knew who had done this to him.

  He knew without a doubt.

  It was Atiana.

  He would have felt betrayed if it hadn’t been for the stone-hearted indifference radiating from her.

  He willed his arms to arrest his fall, but they refused him, and he struck the ground like a tree felled. And then the darkness, held at bay for so long, finally embraced him.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  A tiana watches as Nikandr falls to the ground.

  He goes limp. Beneath him, strangely, are two glowing soulstones, not one. She kneels down to inspect them, but the akhoz are hungry. They shuffle toward him until she holds her hand up for them to stop.

  Two of the Maharraht charge her, and she’s forced to back away.

  “My Lady Princess!” This comes from a strelet at the head of a group of soldiers. Atiana has seen him before. This is Styophan. For years he’s been Nikandr’s steadfast second, a loyal soldier who would protect him above all things.

  “Please wake!” Styophan runs toward the Maharraht, dropping his musket and pulling his eagle’s-head shashka from its sheath. The sword gleams for a moment in the early morning light. “Call them away!” he pleads, just before the first of the akhoz leaps through the air toward the Maharraht standing before him.

  The first of the akhoz loses an arm to a fierce swing of a blade from the first of the Maharraht, a young man with bright eyes and a black beard. The akhoz falls to the ground from the force of the swing, but it is up again moments later, blood pouring from its wound as it ducks beneath another hasty swing by the Maharraht. It is within the young man’s guard now, and it is vicious, grabbing the Maharraht’s sword arm and snarling forward toward his throat.