As Alif cries out to the noontime sun, Khamal plunges the knife through the center of his chest.
The cries reach a violent pitch as Alif convulses.
And then he falls still.
And the sounds of the surf return.
Khamal carefully wipes the blade of the dagger against his robes. Black blood, foul smelling, comes away from the blade, indelibly staining the persimmon-colored cloth. He places the tip of the khanjar into its sheath and slides the blade home. Only then does he reach down and pick Alif up into his arms.
He stands, tears streaming down his face, and tosses Alif into the waves. The current here will take him away. Sariya will not see. Not unless she is looking down upon him now.
And if that is as the fates will it, then so be it.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Nikandr heard the boom of the fort’s cannons shortly after the white puff of smoke.
A black, twirling chain shot ate the distance between the fort and the Lihvyen. It missed, flying low beneath the ship. The next two shots, however, spun through the air with a whirring sound and crashed through the seaward rigging. Nikandr felt it in his boots as the sound thundered through the ship.
The ship was rising, but too slowly.
“Faster, Anahid!”
Nikandr could see men at the turrets of the fort now, and more along the walls, and within the courtyard.
As Anahid and Jahalan worked to bring the ship higher, Nikandr stood at the bow of the ship and called upon his havahezhan to give it extra lift. He spread his arms wide and closed his eyes. The bottom dropped out from his stomach, and his awareness expanded. He felt the currents around the ship, felt the wind that Jahalan’s hezhan was summoning. His own hezhan now added to it, but the spirit felt distant somehow.
Still, it helped. The wind buoyed the ship, lifted it higher than Anahid and Jahalan could do on their own. The Lihvyen took one more cannon shot, but no more. The men in the fort saw the Lihvyen moving out of range and began targeting the cutter behind them, which had so far been slow in adding air.
Nikandr called upon the wind to help the trailing ship, but the fort had now measured their shots. The next two took out a section of her seaward mizzenmast. The ship tilted forward as another shot took her in the fore.
The entire forward section of the ship, from the foremasts to the bowsprit, exploded in a cloud of fire and smoke and flying wood.
The rear of the cutter was thrown backward from the blast. Bits of it struck the Lihvyen with the clatter of wood and the patter of debris. And then, having lost its heft the instant the magazine had been struck, tipped it over like a bottle tipping off the edge of a table. It flipped backward, end over end, picking up speed. Men and rigging and planks of wood flew free, all of them spinning with their own particular rhythm before crashing into the churning green sea a quarter-league below.
“Signal the Opha to send a skiff for survivors!” Nikandr shouted to Styophan, and then he quickly turned his attention back to the fort. There were few men in the open, but to take a fort like this there must be dozens at the very least. The front gates had been shattered, most likely with cannon shot from the enemy ships.
He looked ahead to the cove. The ships were in a very vulnerable position. He couldn’t allow the forces of Yrstanla to return to them.
“Ready the pots, men! We make a line for the ships!”
A cry came up from the crew. They were seasoned, and now they were thirsty for blood.
As the ship made its way eastward toward the cove, a deep iron brazier was filled with wood and lit with a healthy splash of whale oil. Several dozen clay pots filled with cotton were filled with more oil until they were nearly full.
As they flew above the hill hiding the ships and the cove came into view, the three ships—all twelve-masted schooners—were on the move. They’d spotted the Lihvyen and had certainly heard the cannon shots, but they’d begun to flee too late. They could not prevent the ships of Khalakovo from passing over them at least once.
Nikandr took one of the clay pots, as did Styophan and a dozen more of the crew. They positioned themselves around the deck in places where the path downward was clear of rigging and sails. The enemy ships tilted their cannons to fire straight up. Everyone hunkered low as the Lihvyen caught two more shots along the forward hull.
“Now, men! Let’s send them to the sea!”
As the crew raised up a cry, releasing their fury, Nikandr dropped his pot. The flames were bright against the wood and rigging of the ship below. It struck the deck at the aftcastle, the oil splashing over the side of the ship, engulfing it in flame. A few other pots were dropped too quickly and missed, but a good dozen struck home. Flame blossomed about the ship, some of it splashing against the crewmen of Yrstanla. They tried desperately to smother the flames, but it was already too late.
The Opha had steered toward the windward ship. Their pots struck the second enemy ship, engulfing it in flames as well.
The remaining schooner had gained enough altitude that it could challenge them if they weren’t careful.
“Fire!” Nikandr called.
The forward cannons of the Lihvyen and Opha let loose. The chained shot cut through the upper rigging of the enemy galleon. Both shots caught the starward mainmast at two different points. The mast snapped halfway. As the upper sails crashed down to hang loose against the mizzen rigging, the Lihvyen gained more altitude.
It didn’t take long from there. They dropped more pots against the last of the ships, and soon all three of them were aflame. As the Lihvyen and the Opha wheeled windward and cut back toward the wide plateau below the fort, the first of the ships they’d struck was little more than a burning torch twisting down toward the sea.
Nikandr ordered skiffs readied. Fifteen men from each ship loaded into two skiffs. They broke away and made their way to the ground, nervous that the enemy would be difficult to reach now that they’d taken the fort. They landed on the grassy plain below the fort and ran forward, each man bearing a musket, watching the fort for any sign of the enemy. There were none, however. They weren’t along the walls. They weren’t manning the towers.
But there was smoke on the wind. It rose up from the courtyard and drifted, a thin streamer floating up and away.
As they approached the keep, all muskets trained on the shattered remains of the doors or the top of the wall, Nikandr heard a hissing sound.
The hiss of gunpowder.
“To the courtyard! They’ve set gunpowder to blow!”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than a bright flash lit the interior of the fort. A bare moment later, something struck Nikandr in the face and chest and limbs.
He flew backward. A roar unlike anything he’d ever heard assaulted his senses.
He struck the ground, losing his musket. He stared up at the sky, his ears ringing.
And then he heard the crumbling. A sound like a landslide. A sound like the earth itself was opening up beneath him, beneath his men, ready to swallow them whole.
He rolled over and managed to make it to his knees.
The rumbling grew louder.
He looked up and saw the spire—seventy-five feet of obsidian standing tall and black against the blue of the sky—begin to tip. It tilted toward the courtyard’s interior. Toward Nikandr and his men.
“Away!” he shouted, though it was weak and caused him to begin coughing. “Away!” he shouted again through his coughs.
He helped the nearest of his men to his feet. It was Styophan, he realized. And then the two of them helped another. Soon all of them, including one they were forced to drag, were moving away from the walls of the fort as quickly as they could.
The rumble increased yet again. Nikandr glanced back and saw the top of the spire plummet. The tower crashed down, fell against the nearest wall of the fort, crushing it as if it were made of ash. Like leaves in autumn, the stones of the wall blew outward, pounding into the men on his right. In an instant seven of them were dead.<
br />
Some hidden force pushed at their backs, though it was not so strong as the explosion. Dust billowed outward and enveloped the entire area. In moments all of them were coughing and hacking and wheezing, and it was nearly impossible to see.
At last they made it out and away to clear ground and clear air.
They stopped and turned, looking at the cloud of dust that was still settling.
That was when Nikandr felt the wind. He felt it in his chest first—his chest and his soulstone, both.
He pulled the stone out and held it in his hand. He closed his eyes and opened himself to Adhiya. He could feel the havahezhan, the one that had been with him since Soroush’s men had summoned it forth on Uyadensk. But now it grew distant. It slipped further and further away. And then it was gone, ripped away, leaving an empty feeling that made him double over with a nausea he hadn’t felt since the worst of the wasting was upon him.
At last, all had grown quiet—all save the settling of stone within the broken walls of the fort. The area around him—the narrow plain, the sparse trees, even the tall brown grass dusted with snow—felt expectant, as though it knew what was coming.
The nausea began to ease, and Nikandr stared up at the sky. There had been only a few clouds high up before the fall of the spire, but now they began to form before his very eyes. Like cream poured into water, the clouds billowed and grew in odd, lurching increments. A rumbling came from above. Lightning lit the clouds, which were already beginning to darken. Soon the entire sky was covered in a thick layer, and it was settling over the island, lowering like a great woolen blanket thrown over the world by the fates themselves.
When the wind began to pick up, Nikandr realized that the sky was no place for his ships to be.
He turned east and scanned for them. They were told to hold position further inland, well away from the range of the fort’s cannons, but they were now approaching with speed.
And yet it felt as though they were leagues away.
Nikandr began to run. “We must warn them,” he said, waving his men to follow. “They must moor the ships in the cove!”
As he ran he waved his arms over his head. Styophan and Jonis and a half-dozen others followed, doing the same.
But already the wind was high and swirling. There were times when it robbed him of breath. The moment he was able to clear it, he shouted, higher and higher, as high as his raw and aching throat would allow him.
The ships twisted in the wind. They were blown north and then east. Nikandr could see crewmen standing on the deck, could see them in the rigging. Some of them saw him as well, for they waved back and seemed to then call toward the master to come to the gunwales.
Nikandr never found out if the master had heard, for just then, the Lihvyen, the closer of the two, twisted, nose down, until it was nearly standing on end. They had pulled in a good half of the sails, but the spars were beginning to snap. The rigging was ripped away from its belaying pins. White canvas flapped like burial pennants in the wind.
And then the Lihvyen shot down with such speed that Nikandr knew it was going to crash.
A pattering sound could be heard, coming from behind them. Nikandr glanced back and saw sheets of hail falling from the sky. It rushed toward them and fell upon them like wolves. It stung their face and hands and shoulders. It caused them to slip and fall, so thick was it in moments.
They continued on as they could.
The Lihvyen rushed toward the ground. Through the haze of hail, Nikandr could see men falling—or perhaps leaping—from the ship. Most flew wide, but several were caught in the whipping sails and rigging.
But then Nikandr saw a form flying free from the ship, not downward, but to one side. It was Jahalan. His robes whipped fiercely about his frame as the wind held him aloft. The alabaster gem glowed brightly upon his brow, much brighter than Nikandr had ever seen one become. He was like a bright star, his arms wide—taken, perhaps, by the havahezhan he’d bonded with.
“Nyet, Jahalan.” It was too much, Nikandr knew. He was giving too much.
The wind changed. It became less chaotic, more focused on the Lihvyen. By the ancients who protect, the ship was slowing down.
But there was only so much Jahalan could do.
Nikandr wanted to add his own effort to Jahalan’s, but he still couldn’t feel his havahezhan.
In the sky, as the ship plummeted past Jahalan, he arched back as if he were offering all of himself to the hezhan if only it would save the ship.
The alabaster gem upon his brow burst in a spray of scintillating light as the Lihvyen crashed. The speed was not as great as it might have been, but still the forecastle crumbled beneath the weight of the ship’s impact, perhaps lessening the blow to those who remained. Snow and earth erupted as the bow gouged deeply. The stern tilted high and then tumbled over, snapping masts and rigging as it went.
Jahalan’s body plummeted and was lost among the rubble of the Lihvyen.
In the distance, dropping much faster than the Lihvyen had, the Opha struck the crest of the angled plain they stood upon. Nikandr knew immediately that everyone onboard had died.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
While Nikandr and his men searched through the wreckage of the Lihvyen, the hail continued to fall mercilessly. The sound of it was deafening, and for a time it grew so bad that all they could do was huddle beneath the wreckage of the ship as fist-sized hailstones broke and sprayed against the earth.
For nearly an hour it continued, sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker, but then at last the hail—if not the wind—subsided and they were able to search once more.
They found six men alive, though all had sustained terrible wounds, and most likely two of them would not last until morning.
As the others searched the surrounding land for bodies that had flown free of the ship, Nikandr climbed the Lihvyen’s deck, which was tilted at a sharp angle. As he came amidships, he heard moaning coming from the lower square sail of the starward mainmast. He slid down to it and hiked up to the Spar until he reached the source. After pulling the sails away, he found Anahid, unconscious. He called to her, but she would not wake, but thank the ancients she seemed to have sustained little damage. She must have been thrown into the sail as the ship crashed. Or it may have been Jahalan’s final act, protecting his cousin before he was consumed by the spirit of the wind.
Nikandr called men over to help him get her down. It was easy enough. They simply pulled the remains of the sail taut and allowed her to slip slowly down to the ground.
As Nikandr slid along the canvas himself, he saw something lying near the wreckage. He recognized Jahalan’s peg leg immediately, but the rest of him was lost beneath a section of the ship’s bulwark and hull that had broken away. As he pulled the wreckage away, his jaw tightened to the point of pain.
Jahalan lay there in the snow and the hail, broken and twisted. Just like the Lihvyen. Everyone would have died, Nikandr thought, had Jahalan not slowed its descent. Because of him, seven souls had been given a new chance at life.
“Goodbye, dear friend,” Nikandr whispered.
“My Lord Prince?”
Nikandr looked up. Styophan stood several paces away, staring down at Jahalan with a sadness that Nikandr wouldn’t have expected from him. He had never spoken with Jahalan with anything akin to friendship, but the ties of the crew—Landed and Landless alike—grew deep over time.
“What is it?” Nikandr asked.
“There are men coming.” He pointed eastward. “Men of Anuskaya.”
Nikandr stared eastward. The hail was beginning to abate, allowing him to see further down the gentle slope leading toward the sea. Two dozen men wearing not the uniforms of the streltsi, but the heavy, oiled coats of farmers and shepherds, were marching toward them. Many bore muskets, but some had only swords and axes to hand. Their muskets were held at the half-ready, and they were scanning the landscape as they came, as if they expected the forces of Yrstanla to leap from the boulders that dotted the lan
dscape.
“Tell them what’s happened,” Nikandr said. “Have them help if they would, but otherwise let them stand aside while we finish.”
Styophan nodded, glancing down once at Jahalan before turning away and heading for the men.
Nikandr kneeled by Jahalan’s side, wondering if he’d already crossed over. He combed Jahalan’s wet hair from his forehead, brushed the dirt and grime and ice from Jahalan’s gaunt face, until at last he looked like the man Nikandr remembered.
Many things could have gone through Nikandr’s head—they should be going through his head, he thought—but he could think of nothing more than the time Jahalan had nearly died on the shores of Ghayavand. He’d been saved by the Gorovna’s windsmen that day, and whether it was borrowed time he’d been living on since or whether Nikandr should be furious that he hadn’t lived longer, he wasn’t sure. He only knew that his dear friend was gone, and that he would miss him.
After leaning down and kissing his forehead, Nikandr said, “Go well,” hoping dearly Jahalan could hear him.
The windows rattled as Nikandr entered the office of Dyanko Kantinov Vostroma. Sleet struck the diamond-paned glass so harshly that Nikandr wondered whether they were going to shatter from the force of it. As Nikandr took a seat before Dyanko’s desk, the wind died down, but it seemed only to be taking an inhalation in preparation for another onslaught. The wind had not let up since they’d left the wreckage of the ships and returned here to Skayil, Elykstava’s only sizable village.
Nikandr looked to the rook on the iron stand in the corner of the room. Telling was the fact that the rook had a golden band around its leg. A man like Dyanko—even though he was the Boyar of Elykstava and the Posadnik of Skayil—would not normally be afforded such an honor. The golden band marked it as one of Galostina’s, which meant that it had probably been sent when the hostilities with Yrstanla erupted, or perhaps when the first of the spires had been felled.
The Straits of Galahesh Page 47