The Winds of Khalakovo

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  The strange thing was how composed he looked, how free of care even after everything that had happened. His palotza was besieged, his Duchy at grave risk and had been for weeks, but one would wonder whether he was going out for a ride in the countryside as little as he seemed to show it.

  There were two doors. From behind the one Iaros had used to enter the room she could hear men gathering and talking softly.

  “You were my son’s lover,” Iaros said, pulling her attention back to him.

  She smiled, wondering whether he was trying to put her off balance. “I was not aware that our relationship had ended.”

  “I’ll have to remember that,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “and discuss it with Nikandr when I see him again.”

  “And when might that be?”

  She hoped that if he had any information about Nikandr that he would share it, but instead he simply frowned and shrugged his shoulders. “When the ancestors see fit to reunite us. Now you’ve come a terribly long way and through more than a little bit of danger to speak with me. What is it you want?”

  She was hesitant at first—it felt like speaking with the enemy—but once she started, she found the floodgates opening wide. She told him of her knowledge of Nasim and how he had come to land on Khalakovo, how Ashan had stolen him away from the Maharraht, how he had summoned the suurahezhan and her assumptions as to why it had happened. She told him that Nasim would now have been recovered by the Maharraht. She told him of the grave danger Khalakovo was now in, and the ritual that Soroush would perform this very day at sunset. She knew that she was giving up more information than a woman like her should have, but she didn’t care.

  Iaros’s expression changed little during the entire exchange, and when she was done, he combed his beard with his fingers, studying her face as the silence lengthened.

  “You are Maharraht?” he asked plainly.

  So conditioned was she to hide the truth that a denial nearly came from her lips before she could prevent it, but instead she took a deep breath and looked him in the eye and replied, “Da.”

  “Then tell me, why should I believe a word of this? Why shouldn’t I stand the gibbet in the courtyard above and let you hang from it?”

  This was the moment she had feared the most—the point at which Iaros would have to decide if she was telling the truth. She had thought long and hard on how to convince him, but she knew that any profession of honesty would fall upon deaf ears. So she said the only thing she could.

  “Because I love your son.”

  Iaros’s head jerked back and his eyes widened momentarily. “Pardon me?”

  “Perhaps such a thing is hard for you to believe, but it is so.”

  “Does he return your love?”

  “Nyet,” she said flatly. “I do not think he does.”

  “Then why? Why risk everything for a man who cares less for you than you care for him?”

  She shook her head. “You don’t understand. Nikandr was a bridge. A bridge I needed to return to myself. Strangely enough, Atiana served in much the same manner. I can no longer follow the path of revenge and hatred. I must follow the path of healing, for Nikandr, for my daughter, even for you.”

  “So kind of you.”

  “I don’t care whether you appreciate it or not.”

  “Well, forgive me if I find this all difficult to believe, but perhaps there is a way to determine whether you’re telling the truth.”

  “How?”

  “We’ll ask Nikandr about it when we see him.”

  She glanced at the door, hearing more men gathering behind it. “And how will we do that?”

  Iaros nodded toward the door that would lead back down to the caverns. “Why, the same way you entered.”

  CHAPTER 60

  Nikandr knew that a soulstone had been placed into his palm—there was no mistaking the feeling of a stone once it touches the skin—but he had to admit that it didn’t feel like his. He knew enough to keep it hidden until Atiana and Grigory had left, though in an attempt to appear nonchalant, and after the beating he’d received from the streltsi, he nearly dropped it. His hands didn’t completely betray him, however, and soon, thankfully, they had left.

  He waited for what felt like an interminable period of time, convinced that the moment he looked at what he now held in his hand the gaoler would peer inside the room and discover it the very same moment he did.

  He did not speak. That had been the excuse the gaoler had needed the last time to enter the room and beat him senseless with two Bolgravyan streltsi. Ashan had pleaded for them to stop, but the only thing that had done was to shift some of their attention to him. They had exercised some restraint with the older man, and for that Nikandr was glad.

  As the minutes passed he realized that the stone was indeed his, but it had been tainted, and it didn’t take much to figure out why. Grigory, that baseless spawn of a goat, had worn it. He had done it so that Nikandr could feel his presence, so that he would always feel it. It would fade with time, as the memories would, but there would always be a part of Grigory imprinted upon the stone.

  He could feel something else as well. Nasim... He was not imprinted upon the stone as Grigory was. Rather, it was more like Victania described the aether, how she could feel others at a distance though they were hundreds of leagues apart. This was how it felt with Nasim—as though he could call out and Nasim would answer. The only trouble was that he had no idea how to do such a thing.

  He turned his back toward the door and opened his palm carefully. And there it lay. His stone. As alive as it had been after Nasim had somehow reawakened it. He wondered where the boy was now. The Maharraht wanted to use him to widen the rift, to create a gap that would lay waste to Uyadensk and perhaps the entire archipelago.

  He could not risk speaking with Ashan. Not now. The only real course of action was the one that Atiana had given him: he had to reach his mother. You should have foreseen it, she had said, as well as your mother and father. She had clearly been referring to the attack that would be launched against Radiskoye. Her words were a warning to get out of this fort tonight, not only because they were apparently ready to move him but because an attack was imminent.

  He gripped the stone tightly and closed his eyes, calling out to his mother. As always, he felt nothing in return. He never knew whether his calls had been heard until a rook found him or she told him so later. It was the nature of the aether, and there was more than a small chance that she would not hear him at all. The blockade had surely taken its toll. She had most likely been riding the winds for days by now, and her attention might be completely absorbed by other tasks. He also had no idea how strong she was after Nasim had attacked her. It was possible she was no longer as sharp as she once was.

  But she was also the most gifted Matri of her generation. If anyone could overcome such odds, she could.

  The gaoler entered the room nearly an hour later. It took Nikandr a moment to orient himself, so engrossed in concentration was he. The sunlight coming in through the small, high windows had started to dim.

  The gaoler brought cold bowls of cabbage stew, though there was barely more than a handful with a small crust of bread soaking up what small amount of liquid there was. Still, after the meager meals he’d been given the last several days, he was glad to have anything to fill his stomach.

  The gaoler left, closing the door behind him, and still Nikandr was silent. He dearly wanted to speak with Ashan, but he couldn’t risk it.

  The sunlight dimmed until early dusk reigned. He began to despair. If Mother had heard him she most likely would have sent a ship to rescue him near dusk when it was still light enough to fly and when their arrival might be masked. If it became too dark, particularly with the overcast sky, it would be nearly impossible to mount a rescue. When full night finally arrived, he began to accept that he would not be saved.

  He was startled some time later by the sound of the gaoler’s outer door opening. Two men talked, the door opened agai
n, and then all was silence.

  “Ashan,” Nikandr whispered, knowing they were finally alone.

  Ashan was sitting in the corner of his cell furthest away from Nikandr.

  His head was resting on his forearms, which were propped up against his bent knees. At Nikandr’s words he lifted his head and peered through the gloom. “Do not risk another beating, Nikandr.”

  “I need to understand what happened on Ghayavand.” He held up his soulstone for Ashan to see. It glinted softly in the darkness.

  “How did you?”

  “Atiana. Now tell me, what does it mean? The stone was dead before I entered the tower, and now the life of it has returned, brighter than before. And I can feel Nasim... I can feel him just by touching the stone.”

  “Sariya did nothing?”

  “She was holding Muqallad back, preventing him from finding us.”

  “Not us. Nasim.”

  “Nasim, then.”

  “And you said you had opened yourself to Nasim. Accepted him...”

  “You know this. I’ve told you.”

  Ashan frowned in concentration. “Pietr...”

  Nikandr waited for him to go on, but he didn’t. He merely stared straight ahead, picking at his lips with thumb and forefinger.

  “What about Pietr?”

  Ashan shivered as he turned and looked at Nikandr. “In essence, Nasim sacrificed him.”

  Nikandr coughed, trying and failing to understand the significance. “What of it?”

  “He gave a life to draw you forth, creating a small rift in the aether which he used to draw you back. I wonder if the same could be done for Nasim.”

  Nikandr coughed again, longer this time. The wasting seemed stronger here in Oshtoyets—either that or the disease was progressing faster. “I don’t understand.”

  They were interrupted by the sound of the outer door opening once more. The gaoler was speaking with several men in his antechamber. Nikandr recognized one of them, and his blood went cold.

  It was Borund.

  They had come to take him away, and now it would be impossible to escape. Impossible.

  Keys clanked in the door and Borund stepped in, followed by Grigory. Borund looked much thinner than he had weeks ago, though he had retained a certain heft. His dark beard was thicker as well, making him look more than a little like a wet bear.

  “War doesn’t suit you, Bora.”

  Borund laughed. The sound of it brought a host of fond memories from simpler times, but the look in his eye was the same as many—fear and distrust of those with the wasting. “I could say the same of you, Nischka.”

  Nikandr shrugged. “I do like flying more than fighting.”

  Borund waved at Ashan’s cell door, and then Nikandr’s.

  “I beg of you, Borund, listen to reason. Surely Grigory has told you that the Maharraht have stolen the boy. They’re planning something. They’re going to widen the rift that runs through Uyadensk. Let me go to my father and warn him. It’s not too late to bring this to a close before the very course of our lives changes forever.”

  Grigory began to speak, but Borund raised his hand, giving Nikandr a clear indication that Zhabyn Vostroma was still very much in command. “Too late, Nischka. It was too late the moment you refused to hand over that boy, and to claim now that he is an enemy of Khalakovo reeks of desperation.”

  Two streltsi picked Ashan up and led him out of the donjon as the gaoler unlocked Nikandr’s door.

  Nikandr did not try to argue. Anything he said now would only cement Borund’s opinion. The only hope he had now was to speak with Zhabyn, to convince him that a trade with his father was in his best interests. Perhaps he would agree to give Nikandr over if Father agreed to give up Radiskoye. The decision could not be allowed to stand, but it would give Nikandr the time he needed to locate the Maharraht and stop them.

  Waiting in the crisp evening air of the fort’s courtyard were a dozen mounts and a flatbed wagon. Borund and Grigory mounted ponies as the streltsi guided Ashan and Nikandr up to the rear of the wagon and chained them to heavy iron loops bolted through the bed.

  They left, tack jingling, hooves clomping, with Borund and Grigory at the fore, followed by four mounted streltsi, the wagon, and four soldiers at the rear. Flying as a captive to Grigory on the Kavda had felt strange, but it had been a relatively private affair. Here, being dragged in the open on the bed of a wagon like a criminal being taken to the gallows was much more personal, much more public. Grigory turned in his seat several times to look at him though the sun had long since set and there was only a faint amount of light in the western sky.

  The trail leading down toward the manor house was not in disrepair, but neither was it often used, and so the ride was rough.

  They were only minutes away from the fort when, in the brush to the right of the trail, a light flashed, followed immediately by the crack of a musket.

  A split-second later, the strelet riding furthest ahead dropped from his saddle and thumped to the ground.

  CHAPTER 61

  Shouts were raised as more flashes sparked in the darkness. Each shot illuminated, for one split second, the man who had fired the weapon—prone bodies facing the trail, eyes sighting along the length of a barrel. There were at least a dozen, and based on the rate of fire, Nikandr assumed they had each brought two loaded muskets with them.

  Five streltsi, and one of the soldiers driving the wagon, dropped in the opening volley. Two of the remaining men returned fire. The other kicked his pony with a “Yah!” and was off after Grigory and Borund, who had also given their ponies free rein.

  One more of the soldiers was shot before the remaining two dropped their weapons and raised their hands above their heads.

  Nikandr heard a man’s voice call from the darkness. “Quickly,” he said. Soldiers were now approaching the wagon. “Prince Nikandr Iaroslov...” the voice called.

  “I am here,” Nikandr said.

  Up the hill, a large bell began clanging within the walls of Oshtoyets. It would be only moments before the soldiers in the fort were on them.

  The soldier, bearing the stars of a desyatnik, hopped up to the wagon, stepping past Ashan to take a key from the driver. He used it to unlock the chains that secured Nikandr and Ashan to the iron rings. “Where is the other?” he said, referring to the key that would release their manacles.

  “I don’t have it,” the driver said quickly. “Prince Grigory kept them for himself.”

  Using his pistol, and that of his second-in-command, he shot first Nikandr’s and then Ashan’s manacles free.

  “Quickly, My Lord,” the desyatnik said, motioning Nikandr to the steep downward slope to the northwest.

  Nikandr needed no reminder of how little time they had before the pursuit was on them. He leapt down and then he and Ashan and the soldiers were off, running down the mountain at a speed that made Nikandr fear he would break an ankle at any moment. Ashan, despite his age, held up well, and all of them made it down to a plateau before the sound of galloping ponies could be heard from the trail behind them. The sound of barking dogs came as well.

  “Halt,” the desyatnik called. “Reload, one musket only.”

  They did, and they were as quick, even in the darkness, as Nikandr had ever seen. In less than twenty seconds, they were done, and as a group they descended along the next slope.

  The barking dogs, perhaps eight or nine of them, were gaining on them quickly. When it was clear they would not be able to outrun them, the desyatnik called for another halt and for the men to line up their shots. In fits and starts, a dozen shots rang out, and a good many of the dogs were felled; but three made it through, leaping upon the men, who defended themselves with muskets at the ready.

  Two soldiers cried out, but the others pulled long knives from the sheaths strapped to their thighs and stabbed the dogs until all of them lay dead or dying. They continued without pause, though it was with no small amount of regret since most of the dogs—perhaps all—had be
en Khalakovo’s. It was a terrible betrayal to kill beasts that had been raised to protect his father’s land.

  The pursuit was gaining on them. Nikandr spared a quick glance, seeing only silhouettes—perhaps a dozen of them—with more following on foot.

  The first shots rang out as they reached a gently sloping land that led down to the seashore. A waterborne ship waited in the distance. More shots were fired, and one of the men to Nikandr’s right was struck. He grunted—no more than this—and on they went. Another shot struck the ground near Nikandr’s feet. He cringed reflexively as a spray of loose gravel pelted his legs and chest and face.

  The ponies had reached open land behind them, and they were now galloping wide, clearly hoping to cut them off before they could reach the ship.

  They had not counted on the men from the ship.

  A half-dozen shots rang out, accompanied by flashes of white. Three ponies fell. The enemy reined in and fired into Nikandr’s group—ignoring the ship—as their reinforcements on foot began to close in. One soldier screamed and fell. Immediately two others shouldered their weapons and lifted him up, supporting him while moving as quickly as they could manage.

  “Reload,” the desyatnik called as more shots came in from the ship. They did so on the run, and as they finally neared the water’s edge, the desyatnik ordered them to fire. Most did so, the others continuing into the surf.

  Two rowboats waited. The soldiers levered themselves in as return fire came from the shore. They rowed furiously as the men on the ship attempted to suppress the fire of the men in pursuit. Another soldier was shot through the chest, but finally they rowed beyond the far side of the ship so that it would shield them from any more incoming fire. Immediately, the firing from the deck ceased as well—the men taking cover as the ship, which had already put on a good amount of sail, headed westward toward open sea.