The Winds of Khalakovo loa-1

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  The same emotions took hold of her. She pulled him tight against her chest and ran her nails down his back. He thrust harder. She pulled his hair and bit his neck. Each thrust felt like an accusation. She cried out, knowing in her heart it was true. She had strayed from the path they had started on together, and after this night, they would walk on paths that would never converge, only cross.

  As he spent himself inside her, releasing an urgent groan through clenched teeth, she held him tight and gripped his waist with her legs and pulled him deep inside her and surrendered a muffled cry of her own into his long black hair.

  Slowly, they fell from the heights to which they had risen, and soon they had fallen asleep in each other’s arms.

  When Rehada woke in the early morning hours, Soroush was snoring softly next to her. There was no light coming into the cavern, and the fire had gone cold, so she lit the darkness with the gem held within her circlet. Soroush’s face was filled with worry; she could tell from his eyes that he was dreaming.

  As softly as she could, she pulled on her clothes and left the cave. The wind outside was cold. The ephemeral summer of the islands was coming to a close once more, and soon the winds of autumn would descend upon them, a harbinger of the bitter winds yet to come. The eastern horizon was awash in indigo, and it would soon be light. She had to be far away from here by the time he woke.

  She had just started down the trail leading toward the lowland forest below her when she caught movement from the corner of her eye.

  Soroush stood naked at the mouth of the cave.

  She had been sure last night that he had decided to let her go, but as he stood there, his eyes judgmental and his stance rigid, she wondered whether he had changed his mind. She wondered whether, once she had given him what he wanted, he would kill her as he had done to so many traitors to the cause.

  She realized that she didn’t care. If he would kill her, then it would be so. And yet, another part of her hoped that he would succeed. It was why, despite her better judgment, she had given him the azurite stone.

  She turned and began walking away.

  “I know where he is,” Soroush said. “I can feel him. We will have him before the day is out.”

  She stopped in her tracks. She did not turn around, however. She couldn’t find it in herself to look at him-whether it was from fear of what he would do or a doubt that she lacked conviction to leave him she didn’t know. She realized in those small moments of silence just how lonely Soroush must be if he would call to her, even now, hoping that she might return.

  “You need only one stone, then,” she said.

  “ Neh.”

  A chill ran down her spine. She turned, slowly, to find Soroush holding a rounded opal, beautiful to behold even in the thin morning light.

  “How long have you had it?”

  “Months,” he said simply. “I liberated it on Rhavanki when the first of the hezhan was summoned.”

  The pieces began forming quickly within Rehada’s mind. “When will it happen?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  One day, then. One day was all that stood between Soroush and the culmination of his plans.

  She turned away from him, knowing she must leave now. As she continued down the rocky trail, she could feel him watching her. She could feel the bond they once shared fading, slipping through her fingers like sand, and she was not at all sure that this was what she wanted.

  But she had chosen, and so had he.

  She headed south among the leafy trees as the sun touched the horizon. She had thoughts of returning to Iramanshah, but the truth was that she had no idea how she might be received. There was no telling what Muwas might have told them. It was ironic-though not surprising-that the people from whom she had worked so hard to distance herself, her own people, were not the ones she could turn to in this time of desperate need.

  Her thoughts turned to Ashan and Nasim and Nikandr. Everything now rested with them, and she had learned practically nothing of them since they’d left Volgorod. It was with this dire need for information that her destination was resolved.

  Radiskoye.

  It was the last place she’d ever thought to find herself turning for help. It was a place she once, given the chance, would have burned to the ground. But times had changed. She had changed. And everything now rode on her ability to reach them.

  CHAPTER 55

  As Nikandr sat within one of the holds aboard the Kavda, the ship dipped and rose, dipped and rose. His stomach heaved. A pewter pot of water hung from a hook on the ceiling, but he didn’t have the heart to drink any more of it. It would only fuel his nausea.

  They had been caught in a windstorm for over a day, but it felt like weeks. He had long since emptied his stomach onto the floorboards. He had thought himself a stout windsman, but he had always taken to the deck when things got bad. Never had he remained belowdecks-unable to gauge the winds-for more than a few hours at a time, and now that he had it had gotten to him.

  Someone coughed. Nikandr looked up at Ervan and two of his men who were bracing themselves in the corner of the hold. They looked as sick as Nikandr felt. Other than Jahalan, Ashan, and Nasim-who were being kept in another hold somewhere on the ship-they were all that remained of the crew that he had brought with him on the Gorovna. He looked away, unable to hold Ervan’s gaze.

  So many had died, but it was Pietr that occupied his mind the most. The others had died trying to save themselves, but Pietr-if Ashan was to be believed-had given himself willingly that Nikandr might live.

  “Where do you think they’re taking us?” Ervan asked, his voice a croak.

  It took Nikandr some time before he could reply, for his stomach always grew queasy with words. “I doubt-I doubt they would bring us to Vostroma. Grigory will-want to flaunt his prize”-he coughed-“in front of the dukes. And Vostroma, no doubt, will want to use me as a bargaining chip.”

  Through the floorboards Nikandr could feel and hear wooden gears turning. Finally there came a heavy thud. Immediately the ship began to turn, to right itself so that it was once again aligned with the ley lines running from Vostroma to Khalakovo. They had reached the currents where the ship’s keel could once again be used to maneuver the ship-as it was meant to be-and even though this meant they were close to being handed over to the traitor dukes, Nikandr didn’t care. He would give almost anything for a break from the incessant movement.

  Eventually, the ship began to glide more surely on the wind, and Nikandr took heart, taking it as a good omen despite their circumstances.

  A short while later, a muffled cawing filtered down into the bowels of the ship. The rooks often called this way when landing on a ship, but the sounds kept going and going. It was ragged and raw and desperate, and he wondered whether someone was trying to kill the thing. Yelling could be heard over the bird’s caws, and though it was difficult to tell for certain, it sounded like Grigory. It continued for some time, the voice becoming higher in pitch and urgency.

  Footsteps rushed down the hallway a short time later. Three streltsi opened the door and ordered Nikandr and Ervan up to the deck. They were led to the rear of the ship where standing over Nasim was Grigory holding a cocked pistol.

  An old rook was flapping around the deck like a fish. After a moment, Nikandr recognized the old, miserable thing. It was missing one foot and had been with the Bolgravyas for more than two decades. Brunhald was its name, and it had seemed old when he had first laid eyes on it as a boy, now it seemed positively ancient-its feathers ragged, a bald patch on the back of its head, its beak chipped and misshapen.

  Grigory, who was more used to the wasting than most, stared at Nikandr with a faint look of disgust, as if he didn’t dare step too close lest the wasting take him as well. He pointed the pistol at Nikandr’s chest. “What has he done?”

  Nikandr shook his head, confused.

  “Tell me! What has this Motherless wretch done?”

  Nasim had done something similar to Nikandr’s mothe
r when she’d attempted to assume him, and he wondered whether Alesya had just attempted the same thing. He debated on whether or not to tell Grigory, but before he could say anything, Grigory stepped over to Ervan and pulled him by the arm to the gunwale.

  When he stepped back and pointed the pistol at Ervan’s chest, Nikandr raised his hands in submission and said, “ Nyet, Grigory! All right! My mother suffered something similar when I left Radiskoye!”

  “What had the boy done?”

  Nikandr tried to convey his confusion as best he could, if only to get Grigory to lower the weapon.“She had been studying him”-Nikandr could not, with the Aramahn close by, admit that his mother had tried to assume the boy-“and Nasim found her. He fought her and struck her dumb just before Borund took me away.”

  The rook continued to flap and caw and scratch its stump of a leg against the deck.

  “How?” Grigory’s voice was practically hysterical. “How can he do this? The Landless do not ride the aether.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Grigory’s face hardened. “You do know!” He shook the pistol at Ervan’s chest. “Now tell me!”

  Nikandr tried to find an explanation that would appease him, but the truth was he didn’t know the nature of the bond himself. Had he been able to speak with his mother or Atiana or even Victania he might have been able to understand it more fully, but other than the dream he had had on the Gorovna, he had not given it much thought. He hadn’t had the time.

  In his loss for words he could see the decision in Grigory as he turned his gaze upon Ervan.

  The muscles along his forearm tightened.

  “ Nyet!” Nikandr screamed.

  The gun roared.

  Grigory’s wrist recoiled.

  A burst of red appeared at the center of Ervan’s chest and he fell backward over the gunwale, his eyes wide with shock.

  The smell of gunpowder laced the air, and then was gone like so much dust upon the wind.

  The following moments passed with the sounds of cawing and the wind whipping over the ship. Nikandr stared into Grigory’s eyes and found smugness there, as if to say Nikandr had been asking for this ever since Stasa Bolgravya had been murdered.

  But then something caught Nikandr’s attention, and it drew him back from the urge to rush Grigory if only to strike him once before being shot. Above Grigory’s shoulders, slipping from one bright cloud to another, was a ship. It was far off, but it was using the clouds to hide its approach. He refused to look at it directly, not wanting to draw attention, but he dearly hoped it was a ship allied to his father’s cause. And so, in an instant, he made a decision. He had to delay. He had to give the ship time so that he and the rest of the crew might still be saved.

  Grigory, perhaps nervous now that he had no weapon with which to defend himself, held out his hand and received from a nearby strelet a loaded pistol to replace the one he’d just fired. As soon as he had the weapon in hand he stared down at the deck. The old rook was no longer cawing, nor was it moving.

  Grigory’s face went white as he stared at the bird.

  “The same happened to Higald, my mother’s strongest and most prized rook,” Nikandr lied. “No doubt the bond was severed when the rook died.”

  “You lie,” Grigory said, his red face examining Nikandr’s for any reason to raise the weapon and fire it on either him or Nasim.

  Nikandr went on, “I would not lie about a thing such as this. The Matri are above all.” The sentiment for the Matri was generally the same all over the islands, but he chose the phrasing that ruled in the south, hoping the note of familiarity would draw Grigory down from his perch.

  “How do you know she recovered?”

  “She found me, on the way to Ghayavand, and we spoke for a short time.”

  As if just remembering his own soulstone, Grigory pulled it out from his shirt and held it in his hand.

  “I cannot feel her.”

  “It was the same with me.” This was true, but it had been because the power in his soulstone had been all but extinguished at the time.

  Incredibly, the bird raised its head and scratched at the deck. A moment later it pulled in its wings and lay there, its chest expanding and contracting slowly. It looked sickly, as though it could just as easily die as pull in another breath.

  “You see,” Nikandr said, “if the bird lives, then your mother surely does too.”

  “We will see. If I find you have lied to me-”

  His next words were cut short by an explosion of wood at the bow. A moment later, the boom of a cannon rent the still air. Another volley of grape shot tore into the ship. Two more rang out in succession, cutting huge holes into the starward sails. One sailor screamed as he fell from a yardarm. He missed the deck and continued to plummet toward open sea.

  Grigory spun and fell to the deck, grimacing in pain and holding his left arm tightly. In moments his shoulder was swathed in red.

  A bell rang out over and over as the crew rushed to their stations. The streltsi manned the fore and aft gun positions, preparing the stout iron cannons to fire upon the two ships that were bearing down on them from above.

  Nikandr’s heart sank as he took them in. They were not Khalakovan, nor Bolgravyan. They weren’t from any of the Grand Duchies.

  They were Maharraht.

  They were small, fast-moving ships with two small gun emplacements, fore and aft. With superior numbers they were a good match for the Kavda and her three guns, but with the Kavda now hampered by the damage, it was going to be a slaughter.

  Though he didn’t know for certain why the Maharraht had come, it was too much of a coincidence to ignore the fact that they were attacking the very ship that held Nasim. They would probably want the boy alive, perhaps Ashan as well, but the rest would be put to death.

  Seeing that he was all but forgotten, a rough plan formed in his mind. He grabbed Nasim and pulled him to the ladder leading belowdecks. The ship was already listing aftward. With so many holes already cut into the starward sails the seaward winds were pushing the ship off balance. If Grigory were not both very careful and very lucky, this was going to be a short battle indeed.

  “Wait here,”he told Nasim and then he sprinted down the passageway beyond where his men were being kept. Common men such as they would not be harmed and there was little they could provide in the way of information that Grigory didn’t already know. In order to give the Kavda time to escape, it was crucial that the Maharraht see Nasim escaping, but they also needed to be highly mobile in order to move fast enough to evade pursuit.

  He reached a door secured by an iron padlock. He kicked the door in and found Ashan kneeling on the floor next to Jahalan, who was unconscious but breathing evenly.

  “Come,” Nikandr said, knowing that if Jahalan were not able to move on his own he would have to be left behind.

  “Where is Nasim?”

  Nikandr pointed up the passageway as another volley struck the deck above them. “He is close. Now come, unless you want to give him up to the Maharraht after all we’ve been through.”

  Ashan frowned, but stood and followed Nikandr to the ladder. Nasim was cowering there, holding the ladder tightly. He left him to Ashan and climbed to the top of the ladder as another volley tore into the Kavda. One man’s screams were cut short as sporadic musket fire began falling on them from above.

  Grigory, holding his bloody shoulder tightly, was standing below the helm as a fat sailor maneuvered the three stout steering levers.

  “Descend!” Grigory yelled. “Descend!”

  Nikandr ducked out of sight as Grigory turned and ran toward the fore of the ship.

  Clearly he hoped to gain speed by dropping down near sea level, but if he wasn’t careful, they would end up in the sea, not riding the currents above it.

  As the ship began its descent, another volley howled in from the attacking ships. A series of groans and cracks ren the air. The starward main mast was tilting to port. Some of the rigging snapped and the mast f
ell to the deck, shattering the wooden railing. Without the mast connected to the bulk of the ship, the windwood had lost its buoyancy quickly but was still acting as weight upon the ship.

  Nasim, two rungs lower, began to whimper. Ashan held him close, shushing into his ear.

  “Prepare yourself,” Nikandr said to Ashan. “On the next volley, we will move quickly and quietly to the kapitan’s cabin.”

  The next volley crashed into ship moments later. Nikandr climbed out and ran aft to the ship’s rear cabin as another shot struck the yardarm and sails just above him.

  Ashan followed with Nasim in tow. The door was not locked, and they ducked inside as quickly as they could. No alarms were raised, so it appeared they were safe for the moment.

  Chopping sounds rang throughout the ship-the crew attempting to hack the rigging lines. It wouldn’t work, Nikandr thought to himself. They were going to fall into the sea and then he would die in this cabin. It was possible Grigory and some of his crew would be captured by the Maharraht and be held for ransom, but it was just as likely that once they had found Nasim-dead or alive-the rest would be left to the sea.

  As Nikandr began searching the cabin for his soulstone and for Ashan’s gems, the ship’s descent began to slow-the workings of Grigory’s two havaqiram, no doubt, but it would be too late.

  Then a sound of cracking wood and whipping ropes and the hollow thud of tackle was heard. All three of them were thrown against the floorboards as a ragged cheer rose on the deck. Their deceleration slowed, but Nikandr could no longer tell whether they had leveled or had started to climb again.

  He found what he was looking for in a small, unlocked chest in the lowest drawer of the kapitan’s desk. He pulled his soulstone on and gave the bracelets, anklets, and circlet to Ashan.