The Straits of Galahesh

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “To your left,” the rook said, “move along the second street you come to.”

  There was something about this rook that seemed different. He knew immediately another Matri had assumed it, though which one it might be he had no idea.

  “Where is Saphia?” Nasim asked.

  “She’s needed elsewhere,” the rook said. “Sariya has reached the Spar.”

  Indeed, even as the rook spoke, the sound of cannons rose until Nasim could feel it on the back of his neck. The tops of the towers at the center of the square were lit by the flashes. Even the clouds high above glowed momentarily bright.

  As the rook flapped away, Nasim could practically smell the scent of the Matri. They rode the aether, and he had become more and more sensitive to their passage. He knew few enough of these women, but surely the Matri of Vostroma and Nodhvyansk and Bolgravya were present. Yet he couldn’t shake another feeling of strong familiarity.

  “Are you well?” Ashan asked.

  Nasim wasn’t sure how to answer. It was foolish, these thoughts. One Matra or another, what did it matter?

  “I’m well,” he said.

  They headed northwest, going to the place the rook had indicated. As they did, Nasim called upon the akhoz. It was time… Time for them to taste blood.

  That was when a meaty thump sounded next to him. As the sharp report of the musket echoed from the far side of the square, Ashan crumpled to the ground, a dark stain welling through his robes.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  Nikandr stood over Grigory, his breath coming in great gasps. Grigory’s men, these soldiers and windsmen of Bolgravya, stared at him, some with enmity in their eyes, but many with neutral expressions and some with outright relief.

  “Take him below and tend to him,” Nikandr said to the nearest of the windsmen, and then he turned to Avayom. All eyes were on the two of them, and Nikandr was not at all sure that he had their loyalty. It felt as though they only hoped to be rid of Grigory, and now that they had, they would take their ship and be done with him.

  “Come with me,” Nikandr said. He strode to the kapitan’s cabin at the rear of the ship. Once the two of them were inside, Nikandr closed the door.

  “Why did you suggest bazh an bazh?” he asked.

  “Forgive me, My Lord Prince, but there seemed to be some question as to the authority we were to follow.”

  “Go on.”

  Avayom’s grizzled face, his steely eyes, did not waver. “The Lord Prince seemed to have misread the orders from his brother, our Lord Duke of Bolgravya.”

  He meant the scroll that had been sealed by Konstantin and delivered by Nikandr himself.

  “Did Grigory show you those orders?”

  Avayom stood straighter, as resolute as he had been on deck. “He did not, My Lord Prince.”

  “Then how do you know of them?”

  “My duty is to my Duke, first and foremost. His brother refused to show them to me, so I made it my business to find the scroll while it lay unattended during a drunken spell.”

  Nikandr took a deep breath, coming to the most important question. “Will you follow me, Sotnik Kirilov?”

  Avayom struck his heels and bowed his head. “We are yours to command, My Lord Prince.”

  “We go to fight,” Nikandr said slowly, “and we fight with the Maharraht.”

  This time it took longer for Avayom to respond, but he bowed his head once again. “If they fight our enemies, then we will fight with them.”

  Nikandr took him into an embrace and the two of them kissed each other’s cheeks. “The mountain is steep,” Nikandr said, giving him half of an old Anuskayan proverb.

  Avayom smiled sadly, but his eyes were fierce and grim. “Then we climb.”

  As the bitter winter wind cut through his coat to numb his skin, Nikandr sat in one of two skiffs just launched from the Yarost. They flew away from the hidden bay Soroush had led their ships to. They were tightly packed—nineteen fighting men of Anuskaya in his skiff, another twenty in the other. The men, their breath trailing behind them like white streamers, seemed tense, but not overly so. These were the kind of men that could channel such tension into precise, sometimes furious, action. One of them sitting near the bow of the other skiff, a veteran desyatnik with a scar running down the left side of his face, caught Nikandr’s eye and nodded. His men were ready. Nikandr nodded back, proud of them, these soldiers of his homeland.

  Soroush and his Maharraht trailed in seven more skiffs. He brought seventy-five in all, bringing their total to a little over a hundred—one sotni of men to stand against all the Hratha and the soldiers of Yrstanla. They had enough munitions for one sustained battle, no more, but hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. Hopefully they could surprise Muqallad before it was too late.

  And yet, as they flew over the lip of the valley and began heading southeast toward Baressa, Nikandr felt small. They were not enough. They wouldn’t make a difference. As the sun began to set in the west, Nikandr could still see the Sea of Khurkhan, dark and deadly in the distance. Ahead, over the tops of the green forest of spruce and pine and white-barked birch, were leagues of flying before they would reach the straits.

  “What will we do when we come to a city of two hundred thousand?” Styophan asked Nikandr as the sky was growing dark.

  “We do what can be done.”

  No sooner had Nikandr said these words than he felt a shift among the winds. The weather had been calm, but now it quieted to the point that all was still. The trees below did not sway. The clouds above did not drift. The whole world seemed caught in amber.

  Nikandr felt nervous, not only because of the odd quality of the weather, but because he could feel the changes through his hezhan. The spirit felt near—perhaps because of their proximity to the straits—but it also felt drawn, and drawn away, as if something momentous were calling it from afar. The havaqiram—including Anahid, who had some skill with the wind—reported something similar. They were forced to draw upon the winds more deeply than they had before.

  Despite all this, they made steady progress. Nikandr was watching the horizon for any signs of ships when he felt something different. It was far in the distance, a sense of discomfort in his chest not unlike what he’d felt when Nasim had darkened his soulstone.

  Except this…

  This felt…

  A column of flame shot up into the sky. Off the landward bow, it climbed hungrily and tore into the layer of clouds that hung high above the land. It burned brighter than the dying sun. It eclipsed the stars, a thread of roiling light cutting the sky in two.

  No one said a word. Everyone here save the men of Bolgravya knew what this was, and those that didn’t were too shocked to say anything.

  Nikandr could see wonder in the faces of his men and the Maharraht, both. There was worry as well, and a growing sense of desperation that did not bode well for the coming night.

  The third piece of the Atalayina had reached Muqallad, and he had now fused it to the other two. The stone was whole, giving him the power he so desperately sought.

  But there was more. Atiana had held one of the pieces. She’d been given it by Nasim. If it now lay in the hands of Muqallad…

  He held his soulstone and reached out to her. Hear me, he said, staring out beyond the forest, beyond the column of light toward Baressa. Hear me, Atiana.

  But his pleas went unanswered.

  “Be safe,” he whispered softly.

  Styophan glanced over, but made no mention of his words.

  Nearly an hour after the burning column appeared, it burned out. They were closer to the straits now, and Nikandr could tell that the base of the column had been positioned somewhere to the east of Vihrosh, Baressa’s sister city.

  Soroush’s skiff approached theirs, and he called across the gap. “We must go straight for the storehouse.”

  Nikandr already knew it would be so. They had planned on landing and stealing wagons to bring the barrels of gunpowder to the Spar, but now they had no cho
ice but to transport the gunpowder by skiff. It would seem the quickest way to go about it, but it was dangerous to fly over the straits, especially in the channel where the winds were the most unpredictable.

  The winds were low, but something told Nikandr it wouldn’t last.

  As they neared Vihrosh, the boom of cannons could be heard in the distance. It must be Baressa, Nikandr thought, though who was fighting he couldn’t guess.

  The building was situated on a rise above the city. With the moon providing only a sliver of light, they landed their skiffs in a snow-swept field near a squat stone building. Beyond the building, limned in silver by the moonlight, was the bulk of Vihrosh, a sizable assortment of old stone buildings and half-timber houses, and beyond Vihrosh was the wide gap of the straits. The cliffs lay dark, making it look like a chasm that would swallow the city whole if given the chance.

  A light flashed somewhere in the streets of Baressa far beyond the straits. Moments later a boom came. More flashes followed like lightning in the distance, the thunder beating out a staccato rhythm that made it clear just how desperate the battle was becoming.

  As they slipped over the sides of their skiffs and moved silently toward the squat munitions building, Nikandr heard a wailing. It sent shivers down his spine. He’d heard that sound before, on Ghayavand and then again on Rafsuhan. It was the sound of the akhoz.

  The sound had come from the northeast, in the rough direction the column of fire had been in.

  Soroush stood nearby. He was unmoving, stiff, as if the mere sound of the akhoz terrified him.

  Another call came—more like the bleating of a goat than the cry of a child. It was higher pitched than the first, and the cry was longer, more desperate. Nikandr could only think that it had been released from the throat of a misshapen creature that had once been someone’s daughter.

  “Quickly,” Nikandr whispered.

  They moved. The building was not guarded, a bit of good fortune no doubt granted them by the battle that raged in the streets of Baressa.

  They broke in the doors and found the powder room at the back. The place was silent, eerily so, as if Vihrosh had been abandoned centuries ago and they were the first to return.

  Two men at a time rolled the barrels out of the building and toward the skiffs. As Nikandr was returning from loading the first barrel with Styophan, he heard the call of another akhoz, much louder now. It was followed by one that was closer yet, a long keening that sent shivers down Nikandr’s spine. He could see their dark forms against the white snow at the base of the hill. One of them reared back and cried out to the nighttime sky. The other did the same.

  It sounded like a warning. A call that the enemy had been found.

  Styophan slung his musket off his shoulder and sighted along the barrel. As the pan flashed, Nikandr looked away so he wouldn’t be blinded. When he looked back, slinging his own musket into position, he saw that the nearest of the two had been felled, but it was already up again, and now it was charging toward him, calling in a high-pitched squeal as it came.

  Nikandr had been in many battles, but something about the darkness and the sound of the creature staggering toward him made him shake, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

  “To me!” Nikandr called.

  With the two akhoz coming closer and closer, the men of the Grand Duchy rushed forward.

  Nikandr sighted carefully down the length of his musket and pulled the trigger. The musket bucked, and he saw the akhoz go down again.

  It rose one last time before three more musket shots felled it.

  Some of the Maharraht came forward, including Soroush, but Nikandr waved them away. “Keep loading! We need more powder!”

  As more musket shots tore into the other akhoz, calls were taken up by their brothers and sisters, some from afar, but many nearer.

  “Go!” Nikandr said.

  Soroush did, and the Maharraht moved as quickly as they could with their heavy loads.

  More akhoz reached the base of the hill, a dozen at the least.

  “Another five minutes,” Nikandr shouted. “That’s all we need! Hold fire! Be ready, and give them two shots each!”

  No sooner had he said this than musket shot zipped over his head.

  “Down!” Nikandr called as he dropped to the snow-covered ground.

  The first shot was followed by another, and another. The strelet next to him took a meaty shot in the center of his chest before he could lie down. He grunted, long and hard, and fell to the ground.

  The rest dropped as more musket shots punched into the earth around them.

  The akhoz were nearing their line now.

  One of the Maharraht behind Nikandr cried out. He dropped the barrel he was carrying and fell heavily to the ground.

  “Fire!”

  Their muskets rang out, not in quick succession, but staggered so that they could see if an akhoz was down or not. Soon, though, the akhoz were coming too close, and the shots were released in a frenzy.

  Nikandr fired. The akhoz he’d sighted fell, but there were two more behind it. He came to a kneel and reloaded—powder, shot, and ramrod—and fired one more time before the first of the akhoz reached the far right of their line.

  It crouched and belched flame from its mouth even as it was struck by four musket shots that had been fired in desperation. The akhoz collapsed, but more took its place, breathing gouts of flame. One of his streltsi was caught in the blasts, and then another, both of them screaming as the flames licked their woolen cherkesskas and black kolpak hats.

  One dropped to the snow, trying to douse the flames, but the other threw aside his musket and took up his berdische axe. He swung it high over his head, his death cries rising high into the nighttime sky as he brought the axe down on the nearest of the akhoz even as the creature blasted him with another column of bright, searing fire. The akhoz was split from neck to navel. The strelet, amazingly still aware and able to fight, tried to pull the axe free, but then another akhoz leapt on him from the side and bit deeply into his neck.

  “Close!” Nikandr called. “Close!”

  And then the akhoz were among them.

  Nikandr drew his sword and cut one from behind that had just begun to gout flame. It cried out and arched backward. Fire licked Nikandr’s sleeve, but he stepped away and batted it out.

  The Maharraht were still pulling barrels toward the skiffs, but a dozen had now joined the fray. Several were dropped before they could reach the fight, however—victims of musket fire coming in from the base of the hill.

  “Pull back!” Nikandr shouted in Anuskayan. “Pull back!” he shouted again in Mahndi.

  They retreated, though many fell before they’d made it halfway to the skiffs.

  A shout drew Nikandr’s attention. He looked beyond the chaos before him and by the light of the akhoz’s flames saw a low form—naked and childlike—gallop like a mongrel dog into the building.

  “Run!” Nikandr bellowed. “Run!”

  He turned and sprinted for the skiffs. Sensing the danger, his men followed, as did most of the Maharraht. They’d gone only ten strides before an explosion ripped through the night. It tossed him like a rag doll onto the snow.

  Groaning with the pain running through his chest, he turned and saw stones flying outward from the rear of the building as a fireball, black and roiling, curled up into the air.

  He scrabbled backward as stone blocks and burning wreckage plowed into the ground around him. Some sizzled against the snow. A piece of stone the size of a mastiff fell on top of Jonis, the young boatswain, killing him instantly.

  More musket shots rained in as the few soldiers who’d made it to their feet descended on the remaining akhoz. Their mewling cries rose above the sounds of the fire. The acrid smell of their breath mixed with the bitter smell of burnt gunpowder.

  “Hurry, My Lord!”

  Nikandr turned. It was Styophan, and he was pointing toward the skiffs.

  “You’re coming with me.”
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  “Nyet, My Lord. You’re needed on the skiffs”—he pointed to the Hratha coming slowly up the hill—“and I’m needed here.”

  Nikandr looked to the Hratha. They were many, and if they weren’t slowed, they would overrun the skiffs before they had a chance to leave.

  “Retreat when you can,” Nikandr said. “Lose yourself in the forest, and then meet us at the Spar.”

  “Da,” Styophan said as he reloaded his musket, “now go!”

  He turned and ran forward, pausing once to fire toward the line of dark-robed men that were now halfway up the hill.

  Nikandr moved to the skiffs where Anahid waited. She began calling upon her dhoshahezhan immediately.

  Two more skiffs were loaded, each holding fewer men than before. Part of this was out of necessity—each barrel weighed nearly a stone—but part was the sheer number of men that had died in the furious battle.

  Nikandr helped Soroush up and into his skiff, and they were off. Musket shots tore into the hull, and Nikandr was worried that one would ignite the gunpowder. He heard two shots puncture the hull and the barrels, and then a third, but the ancients were watching over him, and nothing happened.

  Soon they were high enough and far enough that the Hratha gave up firing upon them.

  By the moon’s pale light, he could see the battle raging, but his men, along with the Maharraht, were already beginning to retreat.

  Nikandr put his fingers to his mouth and whistled loudly three times, and soon after, the men turned and ran toward the tree line. He tried to find Styophan but could not. They were too far away, the night too dark.

  But then Nikandr recognized something, or someone, through his soulstone. He pulled it from his shirt and held it tightly in his hand.