The Winds of Khalakovo (26 page)

CHAPTER 33

Nikandr returned to the cells deep beneath Radiskoye. He had taken a healthy amount of elixir before he’d come. He felt lightheaded because of it, as if he’d downed a mouthful of vodka.

He found Nasim staring at him as he entered. He had no doubt that it was due to the elixir, but he still felt watched and somehow vulnerable. He had never come to Nasim with ill intent. He’d only wanted to discover his nature—to find how, and to what degree, he’d been involved with the summoning of the suurahezhan. This time was different, and he found his heart beating at what he and Mother were about to do.

“Are you here, Nasim?”

Nasim stared at Nikandr as he moved into the room and took a chair at the table.

Nikandr pulled the necklace over his head and set it on the table, the heavy chain coming to rest with a sound like jingling coins.“Can you sense it?” He pushed the stone toward Nasim. “Do you remember what you did to me? Do you remember allowing the hezhan inside me?” Nikandr had thought on this much. The hezhan near the lake. His shared bond with Nasim must have allowed it. But perhaps it hadn’t merely been the bond. Perhaps Nasim had compelled it.

Nasim, as if in a daze, drew his eyes closed and opened them again. He swallowed and stared at the dead stone as if he were about to cry.

“Tell me about it, Nasim. Why did you do it?”

“The gap narrows.” Nasim’s voice was hoarse, and it came out so suddenly that it startled Nikandr.

“What gap, Nasim?”

“The gap within me. Within you.”

“I don’t understand.”

The look on Nasim’s face was one of profound misery, and when he turned and looked at Nikandr it was as if he were pleading with Nikandr to make it stop. “It hurts.”

Nikandr kneeled. “I know.” He pulled Nasim into an embrace. “I know, Nasim.” He rocked him, hoping to ease the life of a boy whose world was a living agony.

“It will soon close if we are not careful.”

“What will close? The gap?”

Nikandr felt Nasim nod. And then the boy stiffened, and a keening moan escaped him. Nasim always suffered in silence, so this took Nikandr by surprise. Nasim’s eyes were opened wide and he stared up with a look of wild fear. “They are coming.”

The hair on Nikandr’s arms stood on end. His breath sounded loud in his ears. “Who is coming?”

Nasim arched back and screamed. He tilted his head up toward the ceiling and threw his arms wide. His entire body shook, and Nikandr knew Mother had just assumed him.

He stood and grasped his blackened soulstone. “Mother,
nyet
! Please, let him go!”

Nasim fell to the floor, shaking, eyes clenched shut and neck muscles taut. The skin along his face and neck was blue.

Nikandr dashed from the room. Had he been able to reach the drowning chamber in time, he would have gone there, but he went instead to the only other place he thought could provide help.

The strelet at Ashan’s door opened it for Nikandr as he approached. Ashan was already near the door, a look of worry on his face.

“Bring him,” Nikandr said to the strelet.

The three of them raced down the hall. The moment they entered Nasim’s room, Nikandr lost his footing. He felt Ashan fall on top of him as piercing cracks rent the air like a series of musket shots going off in tight sequence. The floor shook. It felt as if the walls were about to buckle.

Nikandr stared in horror, wondering how this could be.

A great wedge of stone crashed into the corner bookcase, sending splintered wood and books about the room. The ground shook for a moment more, and then, blessedly, all was still except for a fine sifting of dust that was pattering to the floor near the corner.

Nikandr made it to his feet, surveying the damage. On the far side of the room, a gap wider than his fist ran from floor to ceiling. He and Ashan moved to Nasim, who was unconscious.

Nikandr heard footsteps coming from down the hall.

“Lord Khalakovo!” It was the strelet’s voice.

There was a pause, then a scuffle.

“Halt!”

Gunfire erupted. Two men cried out. There was silence for a moment, and then Nikandr heard a man draw in several wet, halting breaths. One final shot filled the air, and then the footsteps of many men approached.

“Who comes?” Nikandr said, getting to his feet. He hadn’t so much as a knife to defend himself, so he stood there, waiting, but all he heard were the sounds of men reloading their guns.

Then a man stepped into the open doorway, and for a moment Nikandr couldn’t believe his eyes.

It was Borund.

And he was aiming a pistol at Nikandr’s chest.

CHAPTER 34

Borund wore a thick cherkesska, the type one would wear on a long journey, and his cheeks were flushed as if he’d been in the elements.

Nikandr stared at the pistol, realizing he had come for Nasim. “Never did I think to see this day.”

“Then you’re as blind as your father.” He pointed to Nasim with his pistol. “You should have given him to us the day you found him.”

“You would have done the same in our place.”

Borund paused. “You are right. We all have our pride. But I think, all things being equal, we would not have placed the life of two Motherless so high that it would cloud our vision.”

“There is more to him than meets the eye,” Nikandr said.

“We will be the judge of that—not you, not your father, and certainly not that Motherless qiram. Now come.” Borund waved his pistol, indicating that Nikandr should step into the hall. “I would rather this trigger go unpulled.”

Nikandr complied. A dozen Vostroman streltsi stood at the ready in heavy winter coats. In the other direction were two dead guardsmen.

Three of Borund’s men moved into the room—one of them hoisting Nasim over his shoulders, the other two pointing their pistols at Ashan.

Ashan looked completely helpless. He held his hands before him in a gesture of peace. “Please don’t hurt him.”

Their only response was to shove him into the hall. They all left en masse, seven soldiers to the fore, then Nikandr, Ashan and Nasim, and finally Borund and the remaining men. The gaoler had also been shot. He lay behind his desk, a sea of blood pooled beneath him.

As they took to the stairwell leading up, it was clear Borund’s mission had not gone unnoticed. A smattering of gunfire could be heard above, and by the time they reached the ground floor, the clash of swords rang through the halls of Radiskoye.

Nearly two dozen Vostroman streltsi had set up a host of tables and statues as barricades, but the Khalakovan soldiers had broken through, and there was now a violent skirmish being waged not twenty paces down the hall. The polkovnik of the royal guard was among them, and when he saw Nikandr he shouted for his men to push, and the fighting intensified.

Borund pressed his pistol into Nikandr’s back. “Come, quickly, and you’ll live to see another day.”

Nikandr allowed himself to be taken. They moved southward, toward the eyrie, and Nikandr wondered how much damage had been done in order to capture one small boy. How many men had been killed?

They moved through a set of tall glass doors and into the garden. The eyrie lay just beyond, and a great fire was raging through the rigging of the
Tura
. As he watched, flames washed over the deck of the
Gorovna
, which was moored to the perch.

Nikandr swallowed, his hands balling into fists at his side as the flames began climbing the starward mainmast. Gravlos had worked day and night to repair the ship, completing it well before his estimates in hopes of appeasing Zhabyn Vostroma. But now it was another victim in this cowardly attack.

Nikandr turned, but Borund had guessed his intentions and had his pistol raised and aimed at Nikandr’s chest.

“Don’t be foolish, Nischka. It’s only a ship.”

Gunfire cracked over the eyrie, coming from the walls. One of the streltsi on the
Gorovna
screamed and fell. Two of his countrymen carried him. A dozen more returned fire and retreated toward Vostroma’s ship.

I am lost
, Nikandr realized.

He would be taken as a hostage, a bargaining chip to force Khalakovo to do as the southern alliance commanded.

He could not allow it, but he could see no way out of it other than simply leaping from the eyrie or getting shot in the back.

Shortly after Radiskoye came into view, Atiana’s pony collapsed. She was thrown to the ground, dirt and stone biting the palms of her hands as she rolled away. She whispered a prayer of thanks to the ancients for giving the animal such strength as she jogged up the hill.

Her will was strong and her need was great, but the pitch of the road soon slowed her. A smatter of gunfire came from the palotza, echoing moments later against the cliffs of Verodnaya. By the light of the flames she could see Khalakovan men firing into the palotza grounds—aiming, no doubt, at her countrymen. Atiana bent over, grasping her knees as her lungs burned. After only a moment, she spit to clear her mouth and pushed on, worried now not just over Nikandr, but her family as well.

When she came within a hundred paces of the wall, where the ground finally leveled off, a cannon blast lit the night. She felt it in her chest, and she saw outlined in the white flash the streltsi manning the weapon.

The gates were closed, and Atiana saw no one manning them. Most likely they were on the far side of the barbican, training their muskets toward the courtyard. She approached and was just about to call out when another cannon lit the wall. The blast had also lit the low clouds, giving off enough light to reveal the forms of men—a dozen or more of them—crawling up the wall.

She stood stock still, afraid to move, afraid to give her position away. As the flash from the cannon fire faded and her night vision returned, the glow from the fire gave her enough light to detect the dark forms of the men climbing upward. They were already halfway to the top.

It was the Maharraht, she realized. In moments they would gain the battlements.

“On the wall!” she screamed, hoping she wasn’t making a huge mistake. “On the wall, attackers!”

She didn’t know if they could hear her, but the Maharraht certainly did. Several of them looked her way, and she could see the dull glow of the jasper gems upon their brows. Two slid down the wall, reaching the ground in less than a breath. They sprinted toward Atiana as she continued to yell. “To the wall! To the wall!”

Atiana made for the barbican as quickly as her leaden legs would allow.

One of the Maharraht was just below the crenelations along the curtain wall. As he reached up, the report of a flintlock broke the crisp night air. He struck the earth with a hollow thump. Another Maharraht flung his arm. A spray of rock flew from his hand toward the strelet who had fired. Like the spray of grapeshot it cracked along the top of the wall. The strelet screamed, grabbing his face with both hands, losing his musket. Three more streltsi arrived and were treated to a similar attack.

Atiana reached the huge doors and began pounding them with her fists. “Open! It is Atiana Vostroma! Open the gates!” She heard footsteps approaching from behind. “Please, hear me!” Her fists felt like mangled pieces of meat.

She turned around just before the men reached her, but her face was stung by dirt and stones as the wind picked up and swirled around her. It howled, and the only thing she could do was ward her face with her forearms and press backward into the door.

Suddenly she lost her balance, falling backward as the door opened behind her. She was grabbed by the elbow and pulled inward. The sound of the wind dropped. There was light, but her eyes stung so horribly from dust and dirt she couldn’t see.

The door slammed shut and several men secured it with three massive wooden beams. Atiana blinked, her eyes watering, but she could see by the lantern light a tall Aramahn man walking down the stairs. She recognized him as Jahalan, one of Khalakovo’s wind masters. Behind him came Ranos, who was bleeding from several cuts along his forehead. He looked fierce as his eyes met hers.

Atiana cringed as another cannon blast shook the room and trails of dust filtered down from the stone ceiling.

“The Maharraht,” Atiana began, unsure of what to say amidst all this madness.

“We know.” Ranos came to her side and took her arm in a painfully tight grip. “Come,” he said while leading her toward the inner gate, “the Duke would speak with you.”

Nikandr ducked as a canon blast struck the Vostroman yacht
Olganya
. For the first time, Nikandr noticed Zhabyn standing on the foredeck, watching the scene play out before him. His eyes met Nikandr’s momentarily as the streltsi led Nikandr toward the ship. His eyes were smug, but there was a tautness to his frame. He had not expected things to go so badly.

Several of the streltsi boarded the ship, but as Ashan was being led toward the gangplank, a horrendous rumble filled the eyrie. One moment the stone of the westernmost turret was bulging outward and the next its entire face, including the cannon emplacement, was tumbling to the ground. Nikandr felt it in his feet, in his chest and shoulders. Several streltsi were caught in the fall. Their bodies were dashed like pebbles upon the surf. A cloudo f dust exploded into the air, turning ochre and orange from the nearby fire.

Nikandr was shoved onto the ship by the streltsi. Ashan and Nasim were right behind him.

“Prepare to cast off!” Zhabyn yelled.

Before the last of the stones had settled into place, a massive form lumbered out of the cloud. The backs of its arms and legs were smooth, mottled stone. The front of it was dark as night and glittering. Its eyes twinkled, and to Nikandr it seemed to have singular purpose as it stalked forward.

Retreating from the palotza, the remaining Vostroman soldiers moved in formation, firing at the hezhan as they went. Many fell as they were shot by Khalakovan muskets, forcing them into an all-out retreat for the
Olganya
.

Behind the vanahezhan were several men dressed in the loose clothing and ragged turbans of the Maharraht. They reached the edge of the garden that bordered the eyrie. One of them was shouting and pointing toward the
Olganya
, and Nikandr knew he was pointing at Nasim. Ashan placed his body between the boy and the violence.

Several of the men on the
Olganya
—and even among the Khalakovan streltsi—began firing at the Maharraht instead of the hezhan. They had found a common enemy.

The hands of the Maharraht were gripped into tight fists as they walked, and the expressions on their faces were ones of concentration and even pain. Tufts of fabric lifted and tore free of their frames, but otherwise they seemed unaffected. Then a shot struck the closest—an aging man with a long white beard—and a bit of his cheek split from his face as if he were made of stone. Of all the Maharraht, he was the only one who had a glowing gem of jasper fitted within his turban. He was the closest to the vanahezhan, and it soon became clear that he was the one controlling the beast.

“Cast off!” Zhabyn shouted while Borund ordered their men to return to the ship.

The streltsi tried, but the hezhan lowered itself and placed fists the size of beer casks on the ground. The stone at its feet flaked like dried mud in the rare heat of summer. The effect spread, faster than the men could run, and soon it had swept beneath them. The loose stone shifted beneath the soldiers’ feet, and many of them slipped and fell. One slid with the sound of scraping gravel as he approached the gangplank. He slid off the edge of the perch and plummeted soundlessly downward.

Shots continued to fly.

“The one with the white beard!” Nikandr shouted.

Few heard at first, but then more and more concentrated their fire on him. The old warrior cringed, no longer able to move forward. Seeing their success, the remaining streltsi lined up near the palotza’s walls shouted “
Kozyol
!” and fired at the wounded man. The Maharraht pulled his arms tight around himself in a vain attempt at protection as several musket shots bit deep. He fell to the ground, twitching as many more shots struck home, and then his gem went dim.

The vanahezhan reared back, shaking its head to and fro. It dropped to its knees and struck its head twice against the stone. Huge, echoing booms shook the courtyard. And then it stood and stalked toward the ship.

The blast of a cannon shook the deck of the ship. The shot tore into the creature’s chest. The center was pulverized, and the remains of its torso cracked into several large pieces. It crumbled into a heap, and the men, both Khalakovan and Vostroman, raised their fists in a rousing and unified cheer.

The respite had given the remaining Maharraht time to rush forward as the
Olganya
pulled away from the perch. Zhabyn’s dhoshaqiram sat at her post near the center of the ship, palms laid against the deck, giving lift to the windwood from which the ship had been made. The havaqiram stood just behind her, calling the winds to pull the ship back. He spared one hand to raise a wind near the perch, sending dust and stone to flying around the Maharraht.

Soroush, the one with the golden earrings running through the scarred remains of his ear, ran toward the ship, which had nearly cleared the perch.

“Halt!”

Nikandr turned in time to see Ashan shoving Nasim toward the windward gunwale, away from the Maharraht. Ashan then lunged forward and grabbed the circlet from the brow of the havaqiram.

The wind swirled. The sails snapped. The rigging swung wildly as Ashan took two loping steps toward the gunwale.

Soroush shouted a command in Mahndi. The Maharraht stalked forward, pushing aside the streltsi who stood in their way. Ashan picked Nasim up and then tipped backward over the gunwale. He was gone, lost from view, taken by the howling wind.

A moment later the wind pulled sharply at the skiff lashed to the edge of the
Olganya
’s deck. It rocked against its restraints, slamming the deck louder and louder, until finally the moorings were ripped free. Then it was gone, just like Ashan and Nasim.

The streltsi had been in complete disarray with the Maharraht among them, but they had regrouped. A dozen stood near the stairs leading belowdecks. The front six kneeled, the back six stood. The sotnik shouted, “Fire!” and the guns cracked in unison. Four of the Maharraht were struck as they tried to leap free of the ship. The other two reached the perch and ran along its length. Soroush hopped onto the back of the other, who crawled down along the perch’s stone supports like an insect. He moved quickly downward toward the surf before Zhabyn’s streltsi could reload. Several fired once they had, but with the winds and the distance to their targets, their shots would be ineffective.