The Winds of Khalakovo

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “All quiet,” came a voice that was soft but nonetheless carried over the entire ship.

  By the time they reached the deck, the men on the shore had given up. Minutes later, nearly a league out to sea, Nikandr saw the barest form of a windship scouring the waves. Their ship had veered from their initial course, however, and was now heading in a northerly direction.

  Minutes passed, and slowly it became clear that the pursuing ship would not find them. And finally, Nikandr breathed a sigh of relief he’d been holding since the first shot had been fired outside the keep.

  Nikandr couldn’t sleep, partly because of his wounds, partly because of his inherent distaste for waterborne craft, and partly because he was so unsure about what the coming day would bring. Kapitan Lidan would tell him little except that he had been ordered to take the desyatnik and his men to the coast of Duzol and to bring him southeast when they returned.

  “But there is nothing to the southeast,” Nikandr said.

  “The Matra said you’d be transferred.”

  “To what?”

  “I’m sorry, My Lord Prince, she didn’t say.”

  Most likely there hadn’t been time to arrange anything more complex. It was probably wise, as well, not to tell the man too much in case they were caught. There would probably be a windship sent to pick him up. He only hoped it came sooner rather than later, for his stomach’s sake if nothing else.

  He abandoned his cabin well before dawn. The air was bitterly cold and blustery. As the sky brightened in the east, the black wings of a bird could be seen heading toward them from the south. It became clear that it was a rook, but it did not land. It only turned and flew southward again, a sign that they should follow. If Nikandr had judged their speed correctly, they were heading toward the Shallows, an area directly south of Uyadensk that had a mass of sandbars spread over an area nearly as large as Duzol.

  As the sun rose, a high layer of clouds rushed in from the west. Not long after, snowflakes began to fall—an ill omen for the day to come.

  Two airships were spotted off the portbow flying low over the sea. At first he thought they belonged to one of the traitor dukes, but then he recognized a ship he had sailed on three different occasions—a massive four-masted galleon known as the Hawk of Rhavanki. Then he saw where they were headed: a mass of seven windships anchored in the sandbars.

  Clearly an important gathering had been called, and it made a certain sort of sense—the traitor dukes would be scouring the islands, all of them, in search of Nikandr and in hopes of suppressing any incoming resistance. Father’s only hope for surprise was to avoid such places and to have the allied Matri mask their presence from the others.

  Ashan stood on deck, watching. He had a concerned look on his face, as if this was the last thing he had hoped for.

  Nikandr stepped close to him and spoke softly, even though he was among allies. “In the cell last night, you said that Nasim would be healed if I drew him across.”

  “That is what I believe.”

  “Why? What does the rift have to do with it?”

  “It is only at the rift, Nikandr, the deepest part, that we will have any hope of success.”Ashan glanced around the deck,then up to the rigging,making sure no one was close enough to hear.

  “And my stone?”

  “That is what will draw him. He will see it and you will draw him to our world.”

  They fell silent as Kapitan Lidan joined them. He pointed up to the sky, to a skiff that was headed their way. “Best you get ready.”

  Soon they were on the skiff and headed toward the Zhabek, a ship of Mirkotsk nearly as large as the Hawk. The snow had begun to fall more heavily, though it was still only a light snowfall. On deck, Nikandr was surprised to see several dukes: Andreyo Rhavanki, Heodor Lhudansk, and Aleg Khazabyirsk were speaking beneath the helm, and they were not dressed in their rich coats of office, but the long, dark cherkesskas cut in the style of the windsmen. Each had the designs of their Duchy and other badges of honor upon their left breast.

  “What is happening?” Ashan asked. His face was tight, the wind whipping his curly hair about his forehead and cheeks.

  “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  “But Nasim...”

  “I’ll do what I can, Ashan. For now you must trust me.”

  Father stepped out from the kapitan’s cabin along with Yevgeny Mirkotsk. He came to a standstill, however, when he noticed the incoming skiff. Nikandr couldn’t help but notice his reaction. It was one of anger, of disappointment, as if it were Nikandr who was to blame for everything that had happened.

  The skiff dropped its sails and was reeled in at the stern of the ship, and when Nikandr disembarked onto the aftcastle, Father was there waiting for him. He pulled him to the landward side. As Ashan stepped calmly onto deck, he was met by several streltsi, who led him amidships.

  Father studied Nikandr with a cross look on his face, hands clasped behind his back as the chill wind tugged at his beard and hair.“Do you realize what might have happened, leaving as you did?”

  “I know what it did cost, Father, and I still believe it was the right thing to do.”

  “Because of the blight...”

  Nikandr had been ready to argue against his father’s position. To hear him leap to the very reason for Nikandr’s flight from Radiskoye those weeks ago made him feel as if he’d slipped on a rain-slick deck.

  “Da, because of the blight.”

  “And what have you found?”

  “I believe it can be healed.”

  “Through the boy?”

  Nikandr cocked his head, confused. “How did you know?”

  Father looked to the stairs leading down from the aftcastle and made a beckoning motion with one hand. The soldier standing there immediately bowed and left.

  “What is it?”

  Father did not reply, but a moment later the strelet returned with Rehada in tow. Snow fell across the ship. White snowflakes landed on her black hair before melting away. When the strelet had brought her to their side and left, Rehada met Nikandr’s eyes only for a moment, as if she were embarrassed to acknowledge his presence in front of his father.

  “What has happened?” Nikandr asked, sure that Rehada’s presence meant something momentous was about to happen.

  Father looked up to the sun, which lay behind a large gray cloud limned in white.“When the sun strikes noon,a battle will begin such as the islands haven’t seen since the War of Seven Seas.”

  Nikandr still hoped, perhaps foolishly, that bloodshed could be avoided. “We could speak with them. They might—”

  Father held up his hand, forestalling him. “They will not listen to reason. Not now. Not when their advantage has been pressed so far. We will attack, for truly there is no choice left to us.”

  “The Matri...”

  “Are as prepared as they will ever be. Everything has been arranged, Nischka. Now, there is something I would very much like for you to discuss with your dear friend, Rehada.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “She has confessed to me that she is Maharraht.”

  Nikandr’s blood rushed to his face. He had known this since Ghayavand, but some small part of him had still held hope that it had been a lie. He looked to Rehada, but she refused to meet his eye.

  “For years she has been plying from you secrets that should have remained safely within the walls of Radiskoye. Yet she came to me through no small amount of danger to tell me of Nasim and the plans the Maharraht have drawn.

  “So, I put it to you, Nischka. Weigh the truth in her words. If you think she can be believed, then so be it. Take her to find the boy and bring him back if you can. But if you believe she is lying, that she works for our enemy still, then you will tell me so, and we will settle this before the hour is out.”

  With that Father walked away, his bootsteps heavy on the deck, leaving Nikandr alone with a woman he had come to love—a woman he loved still. It pained him to see her cowed, a wom
an who had always burned brightly from within, but then it occurred to him just how gifted she was at acting.

  “Is it true?”

  She finally raised her head and looked him in the eye. “Yeh.”

  “All that time?”

  She nodded. “I was Maharraht well before I landed on Khalakovo.”

  “How, Rehada? Why?”

  She shook her head. “I will not repeat the litany of reasons here. Some day, if the time is right, I may do so. But I won’t defend myself.”

  “You had better.”

  “I won’t.” She stood taller, her eyes fierce. “When you see your wife again, ask her of my history.”

  “Atiana?”

  Rehada’s long black hair played in the wind as she stared at him with dark, pained eyes.

  Nikandr felt his heart hardening. “My father was deadly serious.”

  She leaned over and spat at his feet. “Kill me if you will, son of Iaros. I have no fear of dying.”

  Nikandr felt himself gritting his jaw, felt the tightness in his chest and stomach. He forced himself to breathe deeply and release it. He waited until the tightness eased before speaking again. “Tell me at the least why you changed your mind.”

  She stared at him, as hard as ever, but then her look softened ever so slightly. “Because there are things greater than the Maharraht, greater than the Grand Duchy.”

  “No grand words, Rehada. Not now.”

  “We stand on a precipice. Soroush would push us over the edge—all of us—if only to begin the world anew. I no longer believe there is wisdom in such a course, no matter how much I might once have wished to do the same. There is something in Nasim, something precious, something Soroush would use against you. If he’s allowed to go through with his plans, it will be destroyed. I have no doubt of this, and it’s something I would see saved. That is why I have come. Not for you. Not for Khalakovo. Not even for the Aramahn. It is for Nasim and the worlds he walks between.”

  Nikandr stood still, breathing, weighing her words. There was truth in her words, but he realized that he should not be allowed such judgment. She had been Maharraht since before the day they had met and he had failed to uncover the truth of it. He was the wrong person to be standing here, determining if she should live or die. She may very well be orchestrating a trap for the Maharraht that might lead to something worse. With the wrong decision he might give the Maharraht exactly what they wanted.

  But he also knew, as he stood there looking into her defiant eyes, that he was trapped. She had pulled him into her net long ago, and he could no more order her death than he could his father’s—not when everything rang so true—and he realized that his father must have known this as well.

  Father wanted to believe her words.

  And with that, he knew what he must do, and he left Rehada to render his decision.

  CHAPTER 62

  Nikandr watched as the first of the ships far ahead were lost from view in the snowstorm that had progressed steadily from a dusting to an outright blizzard. He had been too brash earlier. He had declared the storm an ill omen without considering its ability to hide them as their ships descended on Volgorod.

  Behind the swiftest ships—which had been placed at the vanguard of the attack—were nearly five dozen more. It represented the entirety of their resources. Some were warships, more than ready for battle. Some had been hastily fitted with cannons in order to play a role in the battle—Nikandr could locate these easily by the way they listed to one side, the cannons not having been aligned properly with the masts. Other ships were decoys that had been fitted with cannons that were no more than mast poles painted black and affixed to cannon mounts. They would fool no one if they came close, but that was not their goal. They were there to provide cover so that Nikandr and Ashan and Rehada would have enough time to do what was needed.

  Nikandr stood at the helm of the Adnon, a twelve-masted brigantine. Rehada was nearby, peering into the gray clouds as snow fell upon her dark robes and hair. She looked grim, as opposed to Ashan, who stood in the center of the deck near the mainmast, as calm as ever.

  The first of the cannon shots came before they had closed to within several leagues of the shores of Uyadensk. It was not long after midday, but the sky was a leaden gray, the snow splashing across it in vast, eddying swaths. A return volley sounded. It was impossible to tell who was the attacker and who the defender. The return shot had been fired quickly, which pointed to a prepared crew—a state that would probably not describe the enemy. Then again, they might have been more prepared than he had guessed—they would be expecting some sort of attack, after all—or the Matri may have sensed their approach.

  As agreed, their ship and two others assigned as escorts lowered their altitude. Only minutes later a twelve-masted brigantine appeared in the air ahead of them, on a near collision course with the ship to their landward side. It fired its forward cannon even before it had begun to tail off its original course, but when it did, it began to veer across the Adnon’s path.

  “Fire!” Nikandr shouted, “And dive, men! Dive!”

  After an adjustment to the fore cannon’s aim, the gunner holding the firing brand lowered the glowing red tip to the touch hole. A tail of white blasted forth from the mouth. Nikandr could feel it in his feet as the shot tore into the seaward foresail of the oncoming ship.

  “Dive!” Nikandr repeated.

  Their dhoshaqiram was a man no older than Nikandr. He was very gifted, the Duke of Mirkotsk had said, and so had been assigned to Nikandr’s ship, but he was not working fast enough. The oncoming ship’s hull would sail past—barely—but the ships’ rigging was going to tear both ships apart.

  Nikandr pulled hard on the levers of the helm, causing the Adnon to tilt counterclockwise. The ship responded, but slowly. It wasn’t going to turn in time.

  Nikandr pulled harder than was wise—too often the workings of the keel would bend or snap outright if the steersman pulled too hard—and at the last moment the two forward masts passed one another. The two seaward mainmasts, however—longer than the foremasts—caught one another, and the Adnon’s—a single length of windwood—snapped a third of the way down. The other ship lost a spar and dozens of yards of sail and rope as it was ripped away by the Adnon’s wounded mast.

  Rigging and sails were ripped away as the ships cleared one another. A sailor was slipping along a rope, hoping to avoid the debris, but he was caught by a large wooden block across his back. He fell to the deck with a meaty thump.

  “Fire aft!” Nikandr shouted.

  The other ship’s kapitan called out the same command. The two cannons fired nearly simultaneously. Several of the Adnon’s crew, less than ten paces from where Nikandr stood at the helm, were ripped apart by the incoming grape shot. All three men fell to the deck, little more than bloody masses of flesh and lead.

  The chained shot his own men had fired a scant moment before they had died whipped outward, the two balls twirling before catching the starward mizzenmast halfway along its length. A huge crack rent the air, and the mast tilted forward noticeably, the three white sails flapping like sheets. The mast tilted to one side as the ship’s nose tipped higher than its rear.

  The Adnon continued on, Nikandr righting its heading and adjusting for the wounded mast. The other ship was soon lost from sight, swallowed whole by the howling storm.

  Nikandr released his breath slowly. At the very least there was no need to worry about that ship. With yards and yards of canvas gone or ineffective, the entire characteristics of the ship would be thrown off. In this wind, in the low visibility, it would not rejoin the battle. It would in fact be just as likely to crash into land or sea as regain the eyrie.

  Before they had gone another quarter-league, a crewman shouted, “Ship, aft!”

  Behind them, in the blowing snow, a small, eight-masted caravel resolved against the background of the dark gray clouds. Moments later, another came clear—a huge, sixteen-masted clipper.

  “Sound th
e bell,” Nikandr called.

  Nearby, the boatswain rang a brass bell three times, just loudly enough for the ship on either side of them to hear. Moments later, the two ships began tailing away as Nikandr ordered the ship to climb. He felt himself grow heavy as the ship obeyed. The landward ship dropped and trailed away. The other ship began slipping windward, maintaining altitude.

  Two shots came from the clipper, but they had been directed toward the starward ship. The other trailing ship, however, was ascending, hungry on the tail of the Adnon.

  Now that it was closer and the ship could be seen more clearly through the snow, Nikandr realized whose ship it was. To the confused looks of his men, he laughed—even Rehada stared at him with a dour expression—but he ignored them all while staring at the trailing ship. With dozens of ships sailing the winds, the ancients had seen fit for Grigory to have found him.

  “Get the gunners to the rear, boatswain,” Nikandr said, “and have them fire at will.”

  The boatswain clapped his heels and shouted for the men to move aft. They hauled their equipment with them, and several crewmen came behind, hefting sacks of powder and the wooden trays that held the burlap bags of shot.

  A rook flapped in and landed on the deck near Nikandr’s feet. It wore the device of Mirkotsk around its ankle.

  “Swiftly, Iaroslov,” the rook said.

  “What’s happened?”

  “The Maharraht have secured an area near Radiskoye. Vostroma’s men have either not noticed or are choosing to ignore them.”

  “Ranos?”

  “Has begun the attack on the eyrie.”

  “Then we’ll be alone?”

  The rook tilted its head backward and cawed as grape shot whizzed through the air above them. “It appears so, Khalakovo, but it may not hold.” It flapped its wings and took to the air. “It may not hold,” it repeated as it flew over the edge of the ship and dropped from view.

  Ashan, who hadn’t moved during the fighting, woke himself and climbed the stairs to reach the aftcastle. “We have reached land,” he said to Nikandr.