“As I am torn.” Soroush said it so flatly that it took Nikandr aback. Muqallad had no doubt tried to convince Soroush that his cause was not merely worthwhile, but righteous. And Soroush had listened. Even now, there was doubt in his eyes.
A distant boom drew Nikandr’s attention. It drew Soroush’s as well. It had come three points off the windward bow. Another boom sounded moments later, and more as they continued on their southeastward heading.
“Come about,” Soroush ordered.
They did, followed by the three trailing ships.
But the sounds of battle continued to approach. They could hear the calls of men now, orders shouted in haste and fear. Given the cannons’ rate of fire it was clear that a ship was being chased by at least two others.
Soroush used hand signals to pass orders to his men—an upheld fist for absolute silence, an upturned palm to the pilot to bring the ship higher, three tight circles with the index finger to bring guns to the ready. The signals were similar to those used by the windsmen of Anuskaya, used when silence was absolutely necessary.
It was a near thing, but they were rising fast enough that they would most likely avoid being seen, but then Nikandr heard a voice in the fog, a call made in desperation to his men.
It was the voice of Grigory.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Nikandr stood at the bow of the Bhadyar, his eyes fixed down toward the sea where the sounds of battle still raged.
He considered leaving Grigory to his fate—it was important they reach land without being discovered by the Hratha or the Kamarisi’s men, and Grigory’s betrayal still stung, more than he’d realized until now—but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t abandon his countrymen.
“Soroush, we must turn back.”
“Neh, it cannot be risked.”
The report of a cannon shook the air.
“They are my blood.”
“I’m sorry, son of Iaros.”
“We must rescue them! They can help us!”
“What will help is to land and to worry about Muqallad. Blood or not, the Atalayina cannot be risked.”
Nikandr’s desperation turned to anger. He was ready to fight if need be, but as he stood there staring into Soroush’s stony eyes, he realized that his touch to Adhiya had returned. He could feel his havahezhan once more. Where it had gone he didn’t know, but for the time being he didn’t care. He drew upon it, more sharply than he had for some time.
The winds responded, snapping the sails and pulling the Bhadyar off the course the Maharraht qiram had set for them.
Soroush, realizing what was happening, pulled the khanjar, a dark length of steel, from his belt and stalked forward. “Stop, son of Iaros.”
Styophan shouted, “Kozyol!” and rushed forward to meet Soroush, but before he could take three steps, two Maharraht rushed in and grabbed his arms.
The winds increased. The ships slowed.
Soroush drew his arm back. The earrings along his ruined ear glinted, even in the dim light. He could easily swing it and cut Nikandr’s head from his shoulders. “Stop!”
“I will not!”
Soroush breathed heavily. His shoulders heaved; his eyes were aflame. At the boom of a cannon, much closer now, he glanced over to the gunwales. The battle was raging just below them. It would be easy now to slip behind the enemy, especially in the fog that had continued to thicken, but any moment now someone on those ships would hear the rhythmic pounding of the Bhadyar’s canvas.
Soroush, eyes still aflame, lowered the sword and stepped so close to Nikandr that they were practically nose-to-nose. “This is a foolish choice, son of Iaros.”
“I cannot leave them.”
He nodded and spoke so that only Nikandr could hear. “I know.”
And then he spun around and sheathed his sword and began sending hand signals to the rest of the crew.
Nikandr immediately released the call of his havahezhan. Though the spirit obeyed, it did so only reluctantly. Instead of drawing on the world, it drew instead upon Nikandr, made him cough, reminding him of nothing more than the wasting disease he’d had years ago.
Orders were relayed to the other ships via hooded lanterns as the Maharraht crewmen prepared the ship. They were a crack crew, these men, nearly a match for the best crews Nikandr had sailed with.
The ships swooped down like eagles. They found one ship in pursuit, and then another, both of them crewed by men wearing the black robes of the Hratha.
As the battle was joined, Nikandr struck the bell in a sequence that he hoped Grigory would hear. It was a call to allied ships that help was needed. If Grigory or any of his men heard it, they would hopefully understand that help had arrived.
Nikandr felt winds blowing against the ship—the havaqiram calling upon their spirits to delay them. Nikandr worked against them, keeping the winds as steady as he could. They tried to fly above the enemy to drop fire pots upon their ships, but the Hratha—like Soroush’s men—were too cunning. These men had been fighting Bolgravya and Nodhvyansk for decades; they were battle tested, and it showed.
For nearly an hour they tried unsuccessfully to catch them at a disadvantage. Even with four ships, they couldn’t manage to pin them down, and suddenly the Bhadyar was caught too far from their allies.
As the Hratha ships approached—one to the landward side and one to windward—Nikandr realized he could see only a few crewmen among the rigging.
“Get down!” Nikandr called.
Just as he ducked behind the starward foremast, the Hratha rose from behind the bulwarks, muskets at the ready.
The crack of musket fire rang across the deck on both sides. Cries of pain rose above it, some cut short by added fire.
The Maharraht crew manning the two small cannons was decimated. One returned fire, but it was hasty, the cannon ill-aimed.
“Boarders!”
Nikandr looked over the edge of the ship. Along the enemy ship’s seaward yards were four Hratha. As Nikandr watched, they swung down and across the open space between their ship and the Bhadyar. One of them had a stone of opal that glowed, making it clear he was bonded to a dhoshahezhan. All four landed in the Bhadyar’s seaward rigging and were lost from sight.
It was a risky maneuver, but smart if it worked, for the seaward sails were the least manned. They might try to set fire to the ship from there, or cut what rigging they could before men could arrive to stop them.
“Come,” Nikandr said to Styophan.
The two of them slipped over the side and dropped to the landward shrouds. They moved quickly along the rigging, seeing one of the Hratha sawing at the ropes of the seaward mainmast. Nikandr hooked his arm around a rope and slid along it to the crow’s nest.
They were just below the Hratha.
Seeing them approach, the lone Hratha stopped sawing at the ropes long enough to pull a pistol from his cloth belt and fire it.
Nikandr felt it tug his cherkesska just beneath his rump.
Another pistol shot came from Styophan at Nikandr’s side. Blood welled up along the Hratha’s ribs, below his heart. He dropped his pistol and fell groaning from the rigging and plummeted into the fog.
Nikandr scanned the underside of the ship for the other Hratha. Three more Maharraht had joined him and Styophan, but of the enemy he could see no sign.
And then he looked straight up.
The mainmast had a ladder that led from the crow’s nest, along the mast, and through the hull and into the lowest deck. It would normally be secured.
But the dhoshaqiram…
He could use his spirit to work at the wood, to warp it and allow him entrance.
But why? Why would they steal into this ship of all ships when so many men stood against them?
And then it was crystal clear.
“Come!” he shouted to Styophan.
And he took to the ladder, climbing as quickly as he could.
“Tell Soroush!” Nikandr shouted to the Maharraht, waving them back up to the deck. �
��They’ve come for the Atalayina!”
They nodded and climbed up toward the deck as Nikandr reached the dim interior of the ship.
He could see little, but he pulled his own pistol—
—and managed to raise it just in time to block the sword thrust of the Hratha that stood over him on the ship’s lower deck.
He heard something click on the pistol as the blade struck. Nikandr aimed and pulled the trigger, but nothing happened.
The Hratha, expecting the pistol to fire, was momentarily stunned. But he recovered quickly. He pulled his sword back and swung down fiercely. He was cramped by the low ceiling, however, and the motion was unnaturally compact.
Nikandr slipped as far as he could to his left. The sword bit into the wood just to his right.
The Hratha was close now, allowing Nikandr to reach forward and grab his leggings. He pulled with all his might and the Hratha tumbled forward. Nikandr pulled his kindjal from his belt and stabbed it into the man’s throat. Blood spurted and immediately the Hratha’s hands went to his neck, trying to stop the flow of blood.
Nikandr pushed him away, allowing himself and Styophan to gain the deck.
They moved quickly to the stairs, but just as they reached the top, where the men slept, they heard the sounds of ringing steel above. A musket was fired as they climbed the stairs toward the main deck. Then another, as men shouted in Mahndi, “Stop them! Stop them!”
Nikandr made it back to deck just in time to see the two Hratha running along the windward mainmast. They moved with sure steps, as if their feet were glued to the wood—an effect, no doubt, of the qiram’s bonded hezhan.
A half-dozen Maharraht, including Soroush, were lined up along the windward gunwales, each of them bearing muskets. One fired, catching the Hratha that was closest to the ship, but immediately after the boom of a cannon came and grape shot tore into them and the wood of the gunwale. The shot was not well aimed, but it caught four of them. Blood and bits of wood flew outward from the men gathered there.
As cries of pain fell across the deck, Nikandr rushed to the gunwales. Another Hratha ship was passing just below them along the windward side.
Nikandr dropped as he noticed, from the corner of his eye, the forward cannon pointed up toward him.
A boom shook the ship, and more grape shot bit into the bulwarks, spraying his side with splinters of wood.
He made it to his knees in time to see the dhoshaqiram, a knife in one hand, leap from the end of the windward mainmast. He flew downward and used the knife to punch into the other ship’s mizzen mainsail. Downward he slipped, slowing himself with the cut of his knife against the canvas. The sail flapped free as he reached the foot of the sail and crashed against the deck.
He held his ankle tightly, grimacing in pain, but when he looked back up at the Bhadyar, there was a clear note of satisfaction in his eyes.
They fired more muskets. They fired their cannons as well, but the Hratha had caught them completely off guard.
Soroush, whose left arm was bloody, stormed over to Nikandr. “What have you done?”
Nikandr could only stare.
“He’s given them the Atalayina.”
Nikandr looked over and found Ushai, standing near the helm. Her expression was one of anger and cold hatred.
And he couldn’t blame her. All he could do was stare, and nod.
“You’re right,” he said softly. “I’ve given them the final piece.”
They looked for the Hratha ships, but they had had superior angle and speed. It was soon clear the enemy would not be caught. With the fog as thick as it was, they could not give chase, so they turned back. Soroush was still loath to return for Grigory, but the chance to add more fighting men to theirs was too important to pass up.
It took a little more than an hour of ringing their brass bell to hear Grigory’s reply. As they approached, Nikandr saw how badly the Yarost had been damaged. There were many men on deck. More than there would usually be. Most likely—however they’d managed it—Grigory had ferried as many men as he could to his ship before fleeing.
As his skiff drifted in and Nikandr threw the mooring ropes over, the crewmen eyed him with a mixture of wonder and awe. He had expected perhaps distrust or anger, but not a single windsman looked at him this way. Except for Grigory.
Grigory stalked forward across the deck and met Nikandr as he stepped down onto deck. Grigory looked tired, he looked angry, but the thing that made Nikandr worried was the fact that he looked embarrassed.
“How did you find us?” Grigory asked.
Nikandr stared over Grigory’s shoulder to Avayom Kirilov, a man who—despite flying in battle against Khalakovo five years ago—had been a true soldier and a stout kapitan for both Stasa Bolgravya and his son, Konstantin, after Stasa’s death. Avayom looked to Nikandr with an expression of apology, but Grigory was his commander. He could do nothing but pull his hands behind his cherkesska and wait for Grigory to play this out.
“Would you rather I hadn’t found you at all?”
Grigory’s face reddened. “You were flying with Maharraht ships. We saw you descend.”
“They have allied with us. They would not have Muqallad destroy Galahesh and the islands with it.”
Spit flew as Grigory shouted, “And I would?”
“Grigory,” Nikandr said softly. “Let us retire to your cabin. There are things we should discuss.”
“What we must discuss are your traitorous actions. First, you stole this ship from Kiravashya’s eyrie.”
Nikandr looked to the helm. Behind it, at a post made for the purpose, was a rook. He had seen it as he approached the ship, but he thought it merely a rook ready to be used, separated by a distance too great for the Matri to assume it and communicate with Grigory. But now he realized the storm must have died enough for the Matri—most likely Radia Vostroma or Iyana Dhalingrad—to tell him what had happened on Kiravashya.
“Your brother gave me that ship.”
“A right he no longer had, Khalakovo. It was a ship needed in the defense of the realm, a ship he had already given to the Grand Duke in our time of need.”
“With his own, a duke can do what he will. Is it not so?”
Grigory raised his voice until he was practically shouting. “And though I ordered you to guard our ships, you’ve come, and you’ve done so arm-in-arm with the Maharraht.”
“There are strange things afoot, Grigory.”
“Strange things, indeed, but I tell you this, Nikandr Iaroslov, I will suffer no traitors on this ship.”
Nikandr stepped forward until the two of them were close enough to strike blows. “I am no traitor, Bolgravya.”
Before Nikandr knew it Grigory had pulled the kindjal from its sheath at his belt. The knife shook in his hands, and his eyes were wild as he stalked forward.
Nikandr backed away, ready to grab for Grigory’s arm should he lunge. Styophan was ready to jump in and grab Grigory, but Nikandr waved him away. If he did that, there would be no turning back.
“My Lord Prince!” This was from Avayom. “There is another way to solve this.”
Grigory’s eyes lost none of their craze, but he stopped. He waited for Avayom to continue.
“Bazh na bazh,” Avayom said. “Settle it once and for all and be done with it.”
Grigory looked to Avayom, and then back to Nikandr.
Bazh na bazh was a duel—pistols, usually, followed by swords if neither had been felled. Nikandr was confused why Avayom would offer this solution—Grigory could, after all, merely order Nikandr belowdecks as he had before, with no consequences—but then Nikandr realized that perhaps Avayom wanted Nikandr to win. Grigory was known to be a decent shot, but in his state he would probably miss. And if it came to swords, there was little doubt as to the outcome. It made Nikandr wonder just what had gone on since Grigory had abandoned them on the cliffs.
Grigory, after glancing to the faces of the men around the ship, nodded sharply. There was really no choice in t
he matter—not any longer. Once Avayom had stated that the challenge could be made, it was implied that Grigory would accept. If he didn’t, he would lose face, and that, for whatever reason, was not something Grigory would allow himself to do.
Nikandr nodded as well.
In the minutes that followed, the two of them were each allowed to prepare their pistols. Grigory loaded his carefully. Nikandr had to replace the flint that had been lost on the Bhadyar. It was still loaded, so he merely lifted the frizzen and added powder to the pan before closing it once more.
The crew cleared the windward side of the ship. Nikandr and Grigory paced to opposite ends. They turned and faced one another, each holding their weapon toward the sky.
Nikandr refused to lower his pistol. Grigory held his steady as well, waiting for Nikandr to fire first. Nikandr would not, however. If Grigory felt the need for this duel to continue, he would need to take the opening shot.
Realizing Nikandr’s intent, Grigory lowered his pistol and aimed.
Nikandr’s heart pounded in his chest.
Grigory fired.
The report of the pistol resounded over the ship.
The shot struck the bulwarks behind Nikandr.
Nikandr released his breath, realizing how mad this was.
He lowered his own pistol and aimed wide of Grigory. When he pulled the trigger, the pan flashed and the shot flew harmlessly over Grigory’s right shoulder.
In a moment Grigory had pulled his shashka and was stalking forward.
Nikandr pulled his own and the two of them met amidships. Nikandr beat off a flurry of hasty sword strokes. He retreated as Grigory expended a furious amount of energy. Their blades rang, and for a moment he wondered what Soroush must be thinking, hearing these sounds coming to them through the fog.
Nikandr baited Grigory over and over again, and eventually Grigory accepted. He lunged too deeply, and Nikandr sidestepped the thrust and brought the pommel of his sword across Grigory’s forehead.
Grigory was dazed, but he managed to nick Nikandr’s leg while falling backward.
Nikandr grit his teeth and stomped his boot onto Grigory’s sword. He dropped to one knee, keeping the blade firmly pressed against the deck and allowed Grigory to grab his sword hand. With both of Grigory’s hands occupied, Nikandr brought his fist down and across Grigory’s cheek. Grigory’s eyes fluttered for a moment.
The Straits of Galahesh Page 61