“After the next cannon shot, drift down as we agreed,” Nikandr called, “and prepare the skiffs.”
At the calls from the ship’s master, two dozen streltsi stormed up from belowdecks and moved themselves into the two skiffs waiting on either side of the deck.
The aft cannon fired, but its aim was too low and it tore a meaningless hole into the hull of the Kavda. As soon as the shot had been fired, every-one—the crew and Rehada and Ashan—grabbed onto whatever they could. The next moment, the dhoshaqiram allowed much of the buoyancy to leave the windwood, and the Adnon plummeted.
As soon as the Kavda was lost from view, the waiting streltsi filed into the skiffs. Ashan, Rehada, and Nikandr moved to the one on the landward side. Once they were seated, the crewmen above began cranking the windlass like madmen, letting out the stout ropes that held the skiff secure. The other skiff followed suit, and soon they were floating free of the ship’s seaward sails.
The wind was strong. It threatened to swing them into the sails, but these men were seasoned. They raised the skiff ’s sails quickly and released the catches on the two steel clamps securing the ropes.
Ashan, working alone, used the two ropes attached to the lower corners of the sail to guide the ship. He was their lone havaqiram, but he was exceptional, and he guided the ship forward and downward smoothly and quickly. The other skiff, steered by a younger havaqiram, was having trouble with the wind, but he was a man Father had sworn by, and he seemed to be holding his own.
The Adnon, now far above and ahead of them, was nearly lost from sight, but the Kavda had lowered further—perhaps overcompensating for the sudden drop of the Adnon. Nikandr was sure that they would launch skiffs of their own, but they continued doggedly. Nikandr was watching the deck closely when a silhouette stepped to the gunwales and looked downward through the swirling snow.
He could not be sure—he could see no clear details—but something inside him knew that it was Atiana. He nearly called out to her, but it was a foolish notion, quickly discarded. She would not hear him, and if she could, so could the others on the ship. Above all, it was pointless. He could do nothing to help her—assuming help was needed at all.
Their ship was drawn downward into a thickening curtain of white. They landed without incident, though as soon as they did they heard a long, ragged line of musket fire come to them through the swirling snow. The shouting of men—a battle cry—and cannon fire sounded in reply. From a further distance—muted by the weather—were more cannon shots. The nearer conflict must be the battle for Volgorod, and the farther was surely Ranos’s desperate attempt to wrest back the eyrie. With those two loci and their relative distances judged by the cannon fire, it didn’t take long for Nikandr to determine where they were. He had judged the distance well. They were no more than a half-league from the site of the suurahezhan’s crossing, the event that had started all of them on this long and winding path.
As the streltsi gathered their equipment and readied themselves, Nikandr beckoned Rehada and Ashan and the two Aramahn from the second skiff.
“Can you do anything about the snow?” Nikandr asked Ashan.
“You wish me to stop it?”
“Nyet, I’d like more to cover our approach.”
Ashan nodded. “I’ll see what can be done.”
Atiana felt her legs move, felt them lead her about the ship. She tried to stop, to simply stand still, but when she did her muscles, her very bones, screamed in pain, and she was forced to relent. She tried to speak, and once even managed a guttural sound, but then Grigory’s mother exerted her control once more, relegating Atiana to watching as she decided what Atiana would do.
Atiana should have been able to protect herself from the Matra’s attack, but Alesya had hidden her intentions well. It made Atiana wonder how many times Alesya had done this before. Plenty, she thought, and there was a growing certainty within her that Alesya would not allow her to pass this information along to anyone. When the need for her had passed she would take an unfortunate fall, she would tumble into the sea, and Grigory would deliver grave apologies to Vostroma for their loss.
Alesya had rooted from her mind the location of the rift and had bid Grigory to set sail for it. She wanted him to prevent whatever it was that Khalakovo was planning with the Maharraht. She wanted for him to return the hero, to set up Bolgravya as the savior in this conflict.
As the ship flew through the snow toward Volgorod, the sounds of cannon fire broke. A massive clipper came abaft of the Kavda. The boatswain issued a recognition signal, receiving the correct answer in reply. The clipper, a battle-tested ship flying the colors of Nodhvyansk, settled into line with the Kavda. As it did, Atiana could feel the presence of a soulstone.
Nikandr’s soulstone.
Atiana was confused. This was a phenomenon spoken of in the annals of the Grand Duchy, but not in recent years. To feel someone, anyone, outside the bounds of the aether was extremely rare, and Atiana assumed it was related to her proximity to the rift—or perhaps the weather, which, after hours on deck, had left her numb, much as she would be while taking the dark. Whatever the reason, she knew with certainty that Nikandr was aboard a ship off the windward bow. She desperately tried to hide this from Alesya, but it was not something she had learned how to do. To think about hiding something was to think about the thing itself, and that was all it took for Alesya to sense what she had learned.
Alesya forced Atiana to turn from the gunwale and address Grigory, who stood near the helm. “Nikandr is nearby.” She pointed. “Just there.”
“How can you be sure?”
Alesya raised Atiana’s arm and touched her breast, where her soulstone lay. “There is more of a bond between Atiana and Nikandr than I would have guessed.”
Grigory frowned, but then he threw his arm toward the pilot and pointed in the same direction that Atiana had. “Change course.”
“Da, Kapitan.”
And so they followed.
Cannon fire broke out, and a wounded Vostroman ship took shape from within the thick of the white snow and sped past them. Not long after, three ships could be seen, heading in the same direction as the Kavda.
Three more ships appeared, and soon after they were spotted all three broke off in different directions.
“Which?” Grigory asked Atiana.
Again she tried to hide the information by focusing on other things: the cold, the snow, her anger at being held prisoner within her own skin, but it was useless.
“The center,” Alesya said, pointing.
They followed the brigantine as the clipper behind them angled starward to pursue one of the other ships. Cannon fire tore into the hull. Surprisingly, Alesya’s fear stood out strongly. She ducked down, putting her hands over her head as the concussion traveled along the deck.
For a moment, Atiana could move again. She crawled forward of her own free will, but the next moment found herself trapped once more. Alesya forced her to stand. She composed herself, anger and embarrassment emanating from her.
In the confusion, Nikandr’s ship was lost in the drifting snow. Grigory called out for the Kavda to drop in pursuit. One moment everyone was grabbing onto ropes or railings or rigging, and the next moment Atiana’s stomach was in her throat. She held onto the rope of a nearby deadeye and held on for dear life, sure the ship would crash to the ground.
“She’s ahead, Kapitan,” a crewman shouted, pointing off the windward bow.
The ship leveled off, and Alesya was able to restore control once more.
She could see through the snow the barest hint of the ship’s form, but she could also feel Nikandr somewhere below. The feeling was beginning to fade, though she didn’t understand why.
Alesya forced her to the gunwale. Far below, there were two skiffs, barely visible. They were lost among the currents of snow a moment later.
“Nikandr is on one of the skiffs, along with a score of streltsi.”
“Prepare the skiffs!” Grigory shouted. “Quickly.”<
br />
“Nyet. Let them go.” Alesya stared downward, into the swirling snow. “Allow Nikandr to think that he hasn’t been seen.” She turned back to Grigory. “Then we’ll fill our skiffs and send them hunting.”
Nikandr watched as the streltsi spread out in rows of four and began marching forward, muskets at the ready. The snow was falling so heavily he could see little more than white. The snow was already a foot deep and getting deeper by the moment, making the going slow and arduous.
The site of the suurahezhan’s crossing was less than a mile ahead. So far there had been no sign of the Maharraht, but the sounds of the battle for the eyrie and Radiskoye had shown no signs of letting up.
Then he heard it. Chanting, from a single voice. He signaled to the sotnik to slow the men, and to spread them out. They obeyed silently, all except the sotnik and his two desyatni.
The snowfall had eased. They could see dozens of yards ahead of them. The ground was white except for the blackened face of a small outcropping of rock and the handful of scrub brush that dotted the terrain.
Nikandr turned to Ashan, whose forehead was pinched in concentration. He looked to Nikandr and shook his head. There was nothing, apparently, he could do to help.
If Ashan were powerless, Nikandr wondered if it had more to do with the rift than the Maharraht.
He waved for the men to lower themselves to the ground. They did so, crawling through the deep snow until they saw a depression in the terrain. A man sat in the middle of it. His eyes were closed, and he was chanting softly. He wore a black turban dusted with snow. Upon his brow was a brown gem of jasper, sparkling brightly despite the relatively dim light.
The sotnik turned to Nikandr and pointed his finger at the Maharraht, cocking his thumb like a musket.
Nikandr shook his head. He didn’t want to do anything rash. They had no idea where Nasim might be, and he refused to jeopardize him needlessly. He turned to Rehada, who was studying the man with a piercing stare. She was conflicted—sadness and doubt clearly warring within her.
Nikandr moved to her side and whispered to her, “Who is he?”
He never heard her response.
A series of sharp cracks resonated beneath him. He could feel it running along his hands and knees.
“Back up!” he shouted.
Before any of them could react, the ground erupted.
Nikandr felt himself lifted and thrown through the air like dust on the wind. He fell softly onto his back in the deep snow, his knee burning from the awkward angle at which he’d landed. Several yards away, standing tall as two men, was a mound of snow-covered earth not unlike the vanahezhan he had seen on Ghayavand. It stalked toward Ashan as the sotnik fired his musket. The flash from the pan was dimmed by the burlap sack protecting it against the snow. The musket ball struck the beast’s head as two more shots tore into it. Nearly all of the streltsi discharged their firearms into the hezhan.
Mere moments later, a cry rose up behind them.
Nikandr turned, recognizing the trap well too late.
It was the Maharraht—at least a score of them—advancing through the drifts. They trained their muskets as they advanced. A split second later, they stopped and released a clatter of musket fire.
Nikandr’s men cried out in pain as musket shots tore into them. Four dropped to the snow. Ashan spread his arms wide, and gazed to the sky. A musket shot pierced his pale yellow robes just below one arm, tugging at the fabric like a child trying to gain his attention.
“Ashan, beware!” Nikandr shouted as he backed away, but Ashan didn’t listen.
The vanahezhan pounded through the snow, but before it could come within striking distance its feet were caught as if it had stepped into deep, sucking mud. Its momentum carried it forward. Loud snaps broke above the din of battle. The beast’s body tumbled to the ground, and though its arms caught it, they were held by the same effect. The thing struggled like a collared wolf against the restraints holding it.
As one, the streltsi began retreating toward the depression where the vanaqiram had been only moments ago.
The Maharraht pressed their advantage, but then several of their muskets discharged before they were ready. Rehada’s doing.
“Something is wrong,” Rehada told Nikandr as she knelt down beside him.
“You noticed?”
Rehada shook her head. “I mean this doesn’t feel right. Soroush should be here, and so should Nasim.”
“Behind!” the sotnik yelled.
Nikandr glanced back while reloading his own musket. Several dozen yards up, firing from the top of a small knoll, were more Maharraht. Another strelet and the burly desyatnik were felled as the sotnik ordered half of them to return fire.
After one volley, as his men were reloading their weapons, the Maharraht charged.
Nikandr stared at them, knowing they were severely outnumbered, knowing they would most likely die whatever they did.
That may be true, Nikandr thought, but he would not go easily.
He drew his shashka and held it high over his head. “Charge!” he yelled as he sprinted forward.
Atiana watched in horror as Bolgravya’s streltsi unloaded from the skiffs. They marched forward, muskets at the ready. She could feel Alesya’s growing desire to have this done with and to rid herself of Atiana—she was growing increasingly disgusted by her nearness to Atiana’s emotions and thoughts.
Meanwhile, Atiana’s awareness of the rift had been growing like the coming light of dawn. There was a distinct feeling of familiarity to it that she could only attribute to her discovery of it within the aether. It lay wide open, a gaping maw in the fabric of the world, and through it she could feel the touch of Adhiya. She could feel warmth and earth and water, even air.
And running through it all was the scent of life.
But there was something else, the feeling that this place—the rift—was like one of any number of threads that ran through the fabric of Erahm—as if the filaments of Adhiya were spread throughout the world like thistledown. The nearest was the one on Duzol, all the more familiar since she had just come from there, and it felt—as it had within the aether—ripe.
Alesya paid little attention to these thoughts because the sounds of battle had broken out. And it was close.
Very close.
The shouts of Duchy men could be heard, as well as the high calls of the Maharraht. The crack of musket fire pattered like the first heavy raindrops of a terrible summer storm. Flashes of white were seen through the curtain of snow.
Grigory raised his fist, a signal that was quickly passed down the line. The men halted.
“Can you feel the boy?” Grigory asked.
Alesya forced Atiana to shake her head. “Nyet. There is nothing.”
“Where is he?”
“She does not know.”
And then Nikandr’s voice filtered through the cries.
Grigory’s face hardened.
He motioned for the men to fan out to his left, to converge on the sounds of the musket fire that lay between them and Nikandr. They stalked forward, but one of the Maharraht called out a warning. Many of them turned and fired, as Grigory’s men laid into them.
It was then, with several Maharraht dropping their muskets and charging with wickedly curved shamshirs drawn, that Atiana realized why Duzol felt so near. Why it felt ripe.
The rift here on Uyadensk was not the place where Nasim could be used. It never had been. Ashan had been wrong in the beginning, and she had been wrong in the end. Like a jeweler calculating the perfect angle with which to strike the uncut stone, the Maharraht had understood that the key was not the rift on Uyadensk, but the one on Duzol—not because it was the largest, but because by ripping it wider it would cause a chain of events that would lead to the destruction they hoped to wreak.
“Grigory, stop!” Alesya yelled through Atiana’s voice. “Stop!”
Grigory didn’t listen. He couldn’t. He was locked in swordplay, parrying the fierce slashes from a
tall Maharraht warrior.
That was when it struck.
A musket ball.
Without warning.
Straight through Atiana’s chest.
The enemy on the knoll had inexplicably pulled away, leaving Nikandr’s men free to face the Maharraht to the rear. The two forces crashed together. Men shouted as steel fell upon steel. In moments, their line was complete chaos. Blood fell upon the snow as soldiers dropped on both sides.
Nikandr parried the attacks of a warrior with a long black mustache. He retreated, keeping his parries slow, baiting the other man. When he finally overextended his advantage, Nikandr sidestepped quickly and drove his shashka through the man’s gut. He withdrew quickly and slashed the man across the throat before he could attempt a dying stroke.
His men were in disarray. There were less than a dozen left against twenty Maharraht. It would be over in moments.
But then a cry rose from beyond the knoll. Nearly two dozen streltsi came running over the hill.
“Hold, men! Hold!”
They did, and soon after the other group of streltsi fell upon the Maharraht. None of the enemy withdrew, however. None turned to run. They fought to the death, the last cutting four streltsi down before he took a musket shot at point-blank range through his chest, and even then he grabbed the end of the unfortunate soldier’s musket and swung his shamshir high over his head and swept it across the other man’s neck. The strelet’s head fell against the beaten and bloody snow, emitting a sound like a fallen gourd.
The Maharraht tried to fight on, but he fell to his knees while stumbling against the uneven, blood-matted snow. He blinked several times before the streltsi nearby fell upon him, unleashing their fury, their swords rising and falling and cutting him into barely recognizable pieces.
And then Nikandr saw the commander of the streltsi.
It was Grigory.
And he was pointing a musket directly at Nikandr’s chest. “Lay down arms, Khalakovo.”
Nikandr stood there, blood trickling across his elbow and along his forearm. He shook his head and allowed his shashka to fall to the trampled snow at his feet. They were in no position to disobey, and he would not sacrifice his men for one last, meaningless gasp. “Lower your arms.”
The Winds of Khalakovo Page 50