The Straits of Galahesh

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  The akhoz fell and in a blink Soroush had raised the khanjar high and driven it down into its chest.

  Nikandr reloaded as the remaining three akhoz charged forward. He got off only one more shot, striking the akhoz closest to him in the neck, before the other two were on him.

  He swung the musket like a club against the first to reach him, a girl with stringy hair and a deep scar across the skin where her eyes should have been. The musket came down against her right arm, which she used to ward against the blow. He heard and felt the bone give way beneath. The girl mewled but grabbed for Nikandr’s neck with her free arm. Nikandr darted back, but it gave the other akhoz time to snatch the musket and rip it from his grasp.

  Soroush hobbled toward him and from behind drove the knife into the one with the broken arm. The thing arched its neck back and released a sickening call. She sounded as if she were calling for help, and perhaps she was. She fell to the ground, clutching at the wound to her back as her other arm lay useless at her side.

  Nikandr retreated as the last akhoz advanced. He tried to draw it away from Soroush. It worked, but Nikandr soon realized he’d made a grave mistake.

  The akhoz crawled along the ground toward Soroush, closing the distance quickly. Soroush squatted into a swordsman’s pose, preparing for the charge, but he was too close to one of the wounded akhoz.

  The girl with the broken arm stood and grabbed him from behind. Soroush stumbled backward, and the other fell upon him from the front. Nikandr ran, shouting, when pain exploded at the back of his skull. It sounded like windships breaking.

  Stars danced in his vision as he tipped toward the ground. His arms were suddenly leaden, unable to break his fall.

  He struck the ground…

  And woke some time later.

  He managed to pick his head up off the damp earth, and when he did he saw three akhoz surrounding Soroush.

  The sixth akhoz, Nikandr thought. He’d lost track of how many there were and the sixth had crept up from behind.

  Soroush stabbed the wounded akhoz in the chest and managed to wrest himself free and scrabble backward along the ground, but the other two jumped on him.

  “Neh!” Nikandr tried to get to his knees. He lifted himself off the ground, but that’s as far as he got. He became dizzy, nauseous, and seconds later the stars closed in around him.

  Soroush’s cries of pain were the last thing he remembered.

  Nikandr woke staring up through the boughs of the trees. Rain was falling, stealing warmth. The back of his head felt like it’d been mauled by a blacksmith’s hammer. The left side of his face ached. The skin there was abraded and tender, but it was only from his fall, which had been onto soft earth. The wound behind his ear, however, was different. It was matted with blood and hair, and it flared like a brand as he probed it gently. His hand came away bloody, but he was satisfied that it was no longer bleeding much, and if that were so, he judged that he’d been unconscious for fifteen minutes, perhaps twenty.

  Next to him lay a musket, useless now that rain had seeped into the pan and the barrel. For a moment he thought it was his own, but it looked nothing like his. It was Soroush’s, the one he had brought from the village before...

  Before the girl… Kaleh. They had chased her through the woods. The rest came rushing back as he pushed himself up to his hands and knees. He could go no further; the screaming inside his head and the waves of pain that washed over him saw to that. He grabbed the musket and used it to lever himself to his feet. It may be useless, but it felt good to be holding a length of steel.

  He stood there, bowed over, leaning against the musket, squinting against the pain not merely from the wounds but the light pummeling him as it filtered down through the trees.

  He found signs of Soroush’s struggle with the akhoz nearby. Matted plants, furrowed earth. Blood.

  There was a trail that led eastward. He followed this, staring ahead for signs of being watched, but as he climbed the short rise toward the thicket where he and Soroush had hidden themselves, the ground tipped and he fell. He barely managed to bring his arms up to fend off the worst of the fall. He thought surely he was being attacked again, but as the rain pattered against the forest floor, he realized the disorientation was a symptom of his wounds. When he tried to reach his feet again, a fit of nausea overcame him. What little he had in his stomach came rushing up, burning his throat as it went.

  He spit to clear his mouth and found, strangely, that he felt better. He moved with a slow steady pace and found the nausea beginning to ebb and his breath coming easier. He could see straight again, and although the light was still bothersome, it was becoming less of a problem as nightfall neared.

  The trail led him up the rise and down a long hill. Ahead, the trees of Siafyan towered high above the surrounding forest.

  When he came to the edge of the village, the earth was more packed, more well worn, and the trail he was following vanished. It was with a growing sense of dread that he entered the village proper. It had felt empty before, but now it felt ancient and forgotten.

  He had felt something like this before, though he could not place the memory. Perhaps while walking the tunnels of Iramanshah, or while strolling through the streets of the Mount in Baressa.

  He realized he was walking toward the northern end of the village, toward the burning site. Without quite knowing why, he began to hurry. Then he began to lope—at least as well as he was able. Soon the sense of dread was so strong upon him that he began to run, heedless of the intense pain in his head.

  He passed beyond the village and ran through the trees, worried that he was losing his way, that he would forget where the clearing had stood.

  After rounding a rocky promontory where a massive tree created an archway of sorts, he came to it. The rain beat down against the blackened circle, striking the burned remains of the dozens who had given themselves that their brothers and sisters—their sons and daughters—might yet live.

  Nikandr walked to the edge of it, stopping when he came within several paces. He could not find it in himself to come closer. It felt like sacrilege, as though treading upon this hallowed ground would cause irreparable harm—though whom it would harm, and in what ways, he did not know.

  And then he saw it. A glint of metal among the ashes, buried beneath the bones, nearly hidden.

  He swung back and forth, trying to determine what it was, but he couldn’t—not from this distance.

  Swallowing heavily, he dropped the musket and took one step forward. Then another. Soon he stood at the edge of the ashes.

  “Forgive me,” he said softly, and stepped onto the remains. He moved as carefully as he could, but he could feel the brittle crunch of bone, the slurp of the wet ashes as he went.

  At last he came to the source of the glinting. He reached down and picked it up.

  It was Soroush’s dagger. The khanjar, the one he’d drawn against Nikandr when they’d fought over Rehada. There were patterns in the ashes that spread from the place the knife had rested. Four large furrows radiated outward, and he though immediately to the hillock that had opened for Kaleh. He wondered if Soroush were dead, buried beneath this very place where he now stood.

  But that made no sense. They wouldn’t have dragged him this far simply to kill him. Soroush was alive. Of this he was sure. He just had no idea where they might have taken him, nor why his knife had been left behind. Perhaps it was a sign from Soroush himself. Or perhaps it had been left as a warning for Nikandr to stay away.

  Staring at the blade, feeling its heft, Nikandr recalled the source of the half-hidden memory he’d had at the edge of the village. He’d felt the same way five years ago on Ghayavand while walking the streets of Alayazhar. It had been the strongest as he’d stepped toward the tower. Sariya’s tower. It had happened when he’d realized the depth of the illusions that ran through the entire city.

  The same thing was happening here—not an illusion, but the influence of one of the Al-Aqim. Muqallad’s power wa
s spreading. Why, and why here, he didn’t know. He only knew that Soroush was now an integral part of it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  With a guard on either side of him, Nikandr walked along a wide hallway in the upper reaches of Ashdi en Ghat. They led him to an empty room—more of a cavern. It had taken him hours to return to the village. Light filtered in through several natural breaks in the roof high above them, where Nikandr could hear the rain still falling. Along the floor were deep etchings in the stone. The gaps above carefully guided the water to the floor and into the etched channels. The water made hardly any sound at all. Barely a trickle.

  The water rippled as it moved through the channels, creating a hypnotic effect. It felt as if the floor was moving, or that he was moving over the floor. The movements seemed purposeful but unfathomable until Nikandr realized that the course of movement mimicked the shimmering northern lights. Even here among the Maharraht there was beauty and art. As Nikandr watched, the floor shimmered like a veil, with certain spots glinting like stars in the northern sky. How long had it taken the vanaqiram to craft such a thing? How long must she have studied the sky in order to recreate it with such accuracy?

  On the far side of the room, from some passage hidden behind a curve in the cavern’s wall, came Bersuq. He wore a brown turban. The cloth was crisp and richly colored, but Bersuq looked old and used and near to breaking. He bore with him a ledger. He was poring over it closely, flipping back and forth between two pages, but then he seemed to remember the business at hand, and he closed it with a snap. After setting it down on a shelf built into the stone, he walked across the room, taking care not to step in the channels of water.

  The soldier on Nikandr’s right bowed his head and held out Soroush’s musket and his khanjar. Bersuq accepted them with stoicism, and yet, as Nikandr watched, he could see emotions playing subtly in his eyes and the set of his jaw.

  “Leave us,” Bersuq said.

  The soldiers did, their footsteps fading as Bersuq returned to the shelf and set the musket upon it.

  “Where is he?” Bersuq asked without turning around.

  “Taken. Taken by Muqallad, who has come to your island.”

  Nikandr expected surprise at these words, but Bersuq merely stood where he was, his back to Nikandr as he cleaned Soroush’s knife with a kerchief he’d retrieved from his robes. “Soroush knew what he was doing when he left this village.”

  “He knew Muqallad was here?

  “Yeh.”

  “Are you saying he wanted to be taken?”

  Bersuq turned and regarded Nikandr with weary eyes, his voice hoarse, his posture hunched, as if the mantle of leadership weighed too heavily upon his shoulders. “He only suspected, but I think he wanted it to be so.”

  Nikandr stepped further into the room, careful not to step upon the cracks where the rainwater flowed. “For the love of those who came before us, why?”

  “Because he wished to see him. He wished to know Muqallad for himself before he decided.”

  “Decided what?”

  “Whether the children would be given to him. Whether those who still follow and believe in Soroush would be given as well.”

  Nikandr stood there and stared, trying to piece together all that Bersuq was saying, all that he was implying. Clearly there was friction among the Maharraht. He had thought that the men from the south had been the cause—a power struggle for the mind and soul of their movement—but now he realized it was much deeper than this. Muqallad had come, and he was making demands, and few, it seemed, could agree on the right course of action. Bersuq and Soroush had already fought over it. The majority of the men from Behnda al Tib had left their island, most likely for the same reason. Even the men and women at the shore of the lake deep below where Nikandr now stood, the ones who hoped to heal the children, clearly could not quite bring themselves to side with the decision to hand these children over to Muqallad.

  “His son lies below,” Nikandr said.

  “What is one boy, even a son, against all that we have lost?”

  “And yet you’ve given me leave to heal them.”

  Bersuq stared down at the khanjar he held in his hands. He scraped his thumb against the tip absently. “I say ‘what is one boy,’ but he is bright. A shining star. Perhaps he will be the one to lead us to greatness. Perhaps he will be the one to lead us back to the path of learning. It’s a difficult thing to give up—not just Wahad, but all of the children.”

  Nikandr lowered his voice. “But the men from Behnda al Tib.”

  Bersuq’s eyes shot up. The fierceness Nikandr remembered had returned. “Do not speak of it outside of this room, son of Iaros, or I will have no choice but to give Rahid his wish.”

  “They’ve aligned themselves with Muqallad.”

  Bersuq shook his head. “The men who are here, yeh. Those that Thabash left behind in Behnda al Tib, who can know?”

  “Why don’t you fight them?”

  “Because there are too many who would join them. Muqallad is persuasive. He has told us that the time of enlightenment is near. How can we ignore those words from a man such as him, especially when it’s exactly what so many of us want to hear?”

  “And yet you harbor doubts.”

  The blade in Bersuq’s hands glinted from the incoming light. He stared at it, twisting it slowly back and forth. “I don’t know what to believe. He came those many months ago, just as some were taking sick.” He looked up, then, meeting Nikandr’s gaze with piercing eyes. “You’ve met him?”

  “I have,” Nikandr said.

  “Then you know the weight that surrounds him. The gravitas. He need but speak, and the world around him answers. He told us that we had been chosen, that our struggles all these years had not been in vain. He told us there were trials yet ahead, and that if we saw them through, we would be rewarded. We would all be rewarded.

  “And then the sick became sicker, and the young—dozens of them—fell to the plague you saw at the lake. We came to Muqallad begging for his help, but he merely said that it was the first of many steps. He said those children had been chosen by the fates themselves, that they were now only one step from Adhiya, one step from vashaqiram. All we needed to do was give them to the fire, as they clearly wished.”

  Nikandr shook his head. “The fire in Siafyan. It wasn’t meant to rid you of the wasting, was it?”

  Bersuq was having trouble meeting Nikandr’s gaze. “It was done in preparation for a greater ritual, one that involves the children. Muqallad was pleased when it was done, but I”—he glanced toward the open doorway and lowered his voice—“I was sickened. How we could have...” He looked up to Nikandr, his eyes regaining some of their fierceness. “It is why you must hurry, son of Iaros. If you can heal them, then it will be clear to all that Muqallad was lying. They will believe me then, or enough will that the others won’t matter, and Muqallad will be cast aside.”

  Above, from somewhere outside, came the soft fluttering of wings. Nikandr knew who it was immediately; he could feel her through the soulstone that lay against his chest.

  “Muqallad will not take kindly to being cast aside.”

  “If the fates will his vengeance against us, then it will be so, but I will not grant him children if his words are proven lies.” He held Soroush’s knife out, hilt first, until Nikandr took it. Then he raised his eyebrows as the sound of beating wings came again. “Speak with your Matra. Have her help if she would. You have one more day.”

  After retrieving his ledger, Bersuq strode toward the tunnel.

  “I need more time,” Nikandr said.

  Bersuq stopped at the entrance to the room and spoke without turning. “I don’t have it to give. In one more day, perhaps two, Thabash will return.”

  “You lead the Maharraht.”

  “Neh, son of Iaros, I do not. That mantle belongs to Muqallad now. But with your help, that may all change.”

  And with that he left.

  As his footsteps receded, a rook hopp
ed down to a natural stone ledge above him. It surveyed the room and then winged down to land on the floor near Nikandr’s feet. It cawed and pecked, and Nikandr worried over the sound, but when the rook shivered and flapped its wings, he realized that Atiana would have already searched the upper reaches of the village for prying ears.

  “Privyet, Atiana,” Nikandr said.

  “Privyet.”

  The rook cawed and was silent for a time, and Nikandr wondered whether she was giving him time to speak.

  “Atiana, I pray you, forgive my words on—”

  “I haven’t come to discuss our past, Nikandr. I’ve come bearing news of Galahesh. News you should know.”

  “But Atiana—”

  The rook spread its wings, cawing fiercely, over and over again. The feathers shivered, as if from barely contained rage.

  Nikandr sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Go on.”

  “Arvaneh is not who we thought. She is none other than Sariya.”

  Nikandr could only stare as a deep pit opened up inside him. Muqallad here, and Sariya on Galahesh.

  “She’s pulling many strings, Nikandr. It was she that built the Spar, and now I’ve found a spire to the north of the straits.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “I don’t yet know. It’s all happening so quickly. But know this… We need you. You must leave Rafsuhan. Take to the winds and come home. Khalakovo must be prepared.”

  “Would that I could, Atiana, but I can’t. I’m needed here.”

  “You’re needed by the Grand Duchy.”

  “Which is the exact reason I’m staying. This is too important to set aside.”

  “They are Maharraht.” Even through the voice of the rook Nikandr could hear her disgust. He tried to explain. He told her of the children. He told her of Rahid and the Hratha and Muqallad’s manipulation. He told her of Soroush and Bersuq and their confessions to him. But nothing would sway her. “All of that means little if Hakan is preparing to sweep down on Vostroma when morning breaks.”