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 fell 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.
Ashan stared at them. “What can we hope to do now?”
“You can summon the winds as you did on Zhabyn’s ship. We’ll take a skiff and escape.”
Ashan was already shaking his head. “I released the bond to my havahezhan on Ghayavand. It is not so easy to forge another.”
“You must try, Ashan. It is our only hope.”
“There is much you must do before you can—”
“If you cannot, then we must submit to the Maharraht.”
“You may not realize it, Nikandr Iaroslov, but you cannot bond a hezhan simply by willing it so.”
Nikandr’s heart began to sink, but it quickly turned to horror when he realized Nasim had opened the door to the cabin and was walking out onto the deck.
“Nasim,” he whispered harshly, “come back!”
They rushed forward just as a huge gust of wind blew across the deck. One moment, Nasim was framed within the cabin doorw
ay, his hair and clothes whipping about, and the next he was whisked upward and away like a withered leaf by a brisk autumn wind. Nikandr ran to the doorway and was blown off his feet as the wind shrieked. He slipped along the decking and struck the gunwale, but he saw Nasim tumbling up into the sky.
“Nasim!”
He continued to fly higher in the sky toward one of the Maharraht ships.
The forward guns shot upward at the ship, but Nikandr screamed at them to cease firing. “Do not harm the boy!”
Grigory, standing near the center of the ship, looked at him, dumbfounded, and then stared upward as Nasim slipped over the top of the ship and was lost from sight. Immediately the ship turned to port and set a southward course to follow in the wake of its sister ship.
CHAPTER 56
When Atiana woke, it was to the sound of her door opening. By the light of early dawn she saw Kapitan Malorov standing there, his stubbled face grim, his eyes judgmental. “Come,” he said gruffly.
The air on deck was crisp, and the wind was strong. Summer had nearly ended, and soon the skies would be filled with high clouds and terrible winds in preparation for the long winter. Below the ship was an island. Atiana was confused at first—it should have taken days to reach Vostroma—but as she looked at the island she began to understand. This was Duzol, the smaller island south of Uyadensk. The shape of it was unmistakable, as was the small spire that rested in Oshtoyets, a keep standing on the edge of a broad set of white cliffs.
She turned and saw the larger island in the distance. She also saw a handful of circling windships—they looked like little more than insects from this distance.
She was ushered into a skiff, where an Aramahn woman, no older than Atiana, waited. Once she was aboard, the skiff ’s mooring ropes were released and it drifted away from the body of the old warship. The journey was silent as the woman fought with the ropes and the single sail to guide the ship landward. They reached the grassy flatland of Duzol’s coast in short order, and soon Atiana was left alone, watching the skiff as it floated up toward the ship.
Her attention was taken by the flapping wings of the old rook, Zoya. It winged down from beneath the ship and glided in an ungraceful arc as it fought the stiff wind every bit of the way. It beat the air as it landed, and then studied Atiana with something akin to amusement.
“Enough, Ishkyna. What have you done?”
“You give her too much credit,” said the rook.
“Mileva?”
The rook cawed. “Ishkyna and I spoke upon her return, and I must say I was so taken by your plight that I felt forced to help.”
“Nyet, sister. You felt guilty.”
“And why would I feel guilt?”
“For abandoning me,” Atiana said.
The rook clucked and bobbed its head. “Very well. Perhaps I felt you were owed something for what might have happened in Radiskoye. But perhaps one day you’ll thank me when you discover the new arrangements that Mother has made for you.”
“What arrangements?”
“I’m surprised our dear brother hasn’t told you.”
“Must you always play games?”
The caw it released was so loud it made Atiana cringe. “Your new husband, Tiana. Mother has decided it with Alesya.”
Alesya was Stasa Bolgravya’s wife and the Matra of Bolgravya. If Mother had made arrangements with her, it could only mean that Atiana’s marriage to Nikandr had been cast aside in favor of one of Alesya’s brood, and that, of course, meant that her hand had been promised to Grigory.
“Never,” Atiana said, and she meant it, more than she thought she might at such a thing. She had taken her marriage to Nikandr lightly, almost as more of a jest than anything else, but she had come to see a side of Nikandr that she never thought she would: he was a good man, an honest man, a man she could be proud of.
“Perhaps so, sister, but you had better begin to work magic if you hope to change your fate.”
“Why?”
“Because Nikandr is being held at the top of the cliff, in the donjon of Oshtoyets.”
“It cannot be.”
“He was found and captured by Grigory on Ghayavand.”
“And the boy?” If Nasim had been found, too, then there was a chance that they might be able to step away from the edge of war. They might be able to repair the damage caused by her father and the other headstrong dukes.
“The Kavda was attacked by the Maharraht. They took him.”
Atiana’s heart sank, more for the implications than the loss. The fact that the Maharraht had taken the boy would make it look like a rescue—as if the boy had been a tool of theirs from the beginning—and in truth she wondered if that might not be the case.
“Go,” the rook said. “Find a way to save your husband if you can, and I, in turn, will consider my debt paid. Oh, and give my regards to Grigory...”
With that the ebony bird flapped away, up toward the ship that was already a half-league distant.
Atiana turned and regarded the formidable hill. Only the tip of the spire could be seen from her vantage. It was all serious climbing, unless she wanted to head further up the beach, but that would take too long, and her gut told her there was little time to spare.
Atiana stood in the courtyard of the small, stone-walled fort as the polupolkovnik left to inform Grigory of her arrival. Given its inhospitable nature, the dukes would no doubt have taken refuge in a large manor house a few leagues south, but she was sure that if Nikandr was being kept here that Grigory would remain as well. Even as a boy, he had always been one to gloat, and now, even though he was older, he felt the need to make a name for himself, to do things that would attract notice no matter how overreaching they might seem.
Grigory arrived a few minutes later, still buttoning a coat that had once been fine but was now sullied by dirt and stains. It was clear that one arm was wounded, for he was using only one arm to button the coat while the other hung limp at his side.
“My dear Atiana. I was given no warning of your arrival.”
Atiana smiled. “As was my wish.”
“I don’t understand. Your father told me of your rescue only last night. He said that you were being brought back to Vostroma.”
“Da, that is what he believed.”
“Then forgive me, but how have you come to be here?”
“My dear Grigory, have you been informed of our pending marriage?”
Grigory’s awkward smile warred with the confusion in his eyes. “Of course.”
“And so have I, and if you think that I would allow myself to be carted away to safety before speaking with you, then you are sadly mistaken.”
His smile grew more confident. “I thought you would not approve.”
Atiana returned his smile, but she took care not to let things go too far—if her plan was to have any chance of success Grigory had to be convinced of her lies. “I don’t know if I approve, which is exactly the point.”
He laughed. “Do tell.”
Atiana shrugged and took a half-step closer so that she was just within arm’s reach. “There was a wisdom of sorts in the alliance with Khalakovo, but I had always thought that a marriage within the southern duchies would be wiser.”
The look on Grigory’s face was composed, but he was disappointed.
“And,” she continued, smiling briefly, “I have always thought that we were cut from the same cloth. Haven’t you?”
“I...” He swallowed. “I will admit that I have, but I must also admit that I never imagined you thought the same way. You have always seemed so... distant.”
“Out of necessity, Grigory. My mother told me when I was fifteen that I would one day be married to a man from the north. How could I reveal my true feelings knowing that? Now please, are you going to keep me in this infernal wind the entire day or are you going to invite me in for a drink?”
“Please”—he motioned toward the keep—“forgive me. Manners are the first thing to go in times of war.”
> As they walked side by side toward the iron-studded door to the keep proper, Atiana said, “I had no idea we were at war.”
“Do you smell peace in the air?”
Atiana held her tongue as they headed inside. She had thought at first that Grigory was merely boasting for her benefit, but he seemed too proud of his words. “There will be little bloodshed in the days to come. Khalakovo will see reason.”
They walked down the short, cold corridor to a room that held little more than a table and an unkempt bed in one corner. If Grigory had been the one to capture Nikandr, then no doubt he would also have his soulstone, and she doubted that there would be any place that he would keep it other than here in his chambers—however temporary they may be. She did not see, however, an obvious place where it might be kept other than the wardrobe in one corner or the stout chest that sat at the foot of the bed.
Grigory closed the door and motioned her to the table. She took her own chair since Grigory didn’t seem willing to pull it out for her.
“If all there was to this story was Khalakovo you might well have been right.” From a small table behind the door Grigory retrieved a dark blue bottle of vodka and two glazed mugs. “But there is much more that we might gain.”
He poured two drinks, grimacing as his wounded shoulder was put to work, and handed one to her. As he sat, he downed half his drink, swishing it around noisily before swallowing.
Atiana sipped at hers, being careful not to raise her nose at the sour bite from the liquor. “If you attack, the other dukes will come to his aid.”
Grigory smiled. “When you wish to kill a wolf, you do not go stumbling through the forest after it. You set out meat and wait for the scent of it to drive the wolf beyond caution.”
“The dukes are no pack of wolves, Grigory, nor are their Matri.”
“They’ll have no choice. They cannot allow Khalakovo to fall.”
The Winds of Khalakovo Page 44