The Straits of Galahesh loa-2

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  The hair on his head and the back of his neck stood on end. A crackle sizzled through the air above them, signaling the crossing of a dhoshahezhan.

  But then the long call of the akhoz abruptly ended.

  Instead of using the trail, it charged down the slope, heedless of the scrapes along its legs and torso it received from the dry growth.

  Nasim could feel the hezhan’s hunger. It was angry, yearning more than ever to enter the material world. Rabiah eased her hold on it, but didn’t release it completely. She kept it near in case they needed it once more.

  Nasim took her by the arm and dragged her along the trail. They were nearly at the bottom, but the akhoz was gaining. With Rabiah as weakened as she was, Nasim thought of drawing on another hezhan. Whatever might happen to Rabiah, he could use one to protect them from the akhoz, but in the end he decided it was simply too dangerous. The veil was impossibly thin here; any serious bonding with the hezhan would draw them across, and that was something they could not afford.

  Nasim realized the akhoz would be on them if they remained on the path.

  “Hold on!” Nasim said.

  He took Rabiah by the arm and forced her down the slope as well. They slid, scraping against the uneven ground, the coarse vegetation and dry grasses cutting at their shins and knees and arms as they did their best to control their descent.

  They came to the bottom at last, both of them stumbling, flailing their arms in a vain attempt to keep their feet. To no avail. They fell heavily to the ground, but they were back up a moment later, sprinting toward the water as the akhoz reached the valley floor behind them.

  They crashed through the water. It was only shin-deep, but it slowed them, and the akhoz quickly caught up. In the short time Nasim spared to glance back he saw it rearing back, its dark skin pulling tight over gaunt ribs as it drew breath.

  “Get down!” Nasim cried, pulling her beneath the water.

  The cold water swept over them as a wash of flames lit the surface of the river. They swam downstream as far as they could, keeping to the swift, deep center.

  When they surfaced, they saw the akhoz trailing them. It could cross, but the water would drain it of strength-perhaps too dearly.

  It crouched, staring downriver, where a cluster of rocks stood, forming a navigable bridge, and then, like a hound on the hunt, it bounded toward the stones.

  Nasim pulled Rabiah from the water. His muscles ached. Their drenched clothes were heavy.

  The red face of the cliff lay achingly close. Water trickled down from it in places, and here there were flowering plants clinging to the rock, making it look like a massive, hanging garden.

  Nasim ran toward it, the breath in his lungs burning, and for a moment he didn’t realize that Rabiah was no longer running next to him.

  He turned and found that she’d stopped. And her arms were spread wide.

  “Rabiah, don’t!”

  She didn’t listen. She closed her eyes, and ahead, where the akhoz was leaping from stone to stone, the gravel near the edge of the water shifted. It rumbled. Then it lifted wholesale and sprayed against the water and the akhoz.

  Though Nasim was not bonded with the vanahezhan, he could feel its closeness.

  The akhoz was momentarily lost in the white, frothing water, but then it gained the bank. It shook its head like a rabid dog. After a moment it refocused on them and galloped, low to the ground, mouth wide, black tongue lolling.

  Nasim and Rabiah raced along the base of the cliff. It was uneven terrain-rocky and treacherous.

  He couldn’t see the mouth of the cave.

  But it was here. Somewhere. He was sure of it.

  The akhoz reached the inlet.

  Nasim and Rabiah came to a cleft in the stone. It was deep and dark, which was a vast relief to Nasim. They’d found the entrance at last. But the akhoz was too close. They couldn’t simply retreat and hope the akhoz would lose their scent.

  Before they’d even passed through the entrance, Nasim drew upon Rabiah and the nearest of the vanahezhan. He could sense its deep hunger for Erahm, and this time he was counting on it.

  They continued, but when they were fully in the darkness of the cavern at last, Nasim spun and drew on the full strength of the hezhan. He felt the weight of the stone around him, felt it flow up through his legs, through his chest and into his arms. He felt solid and deep and immovable.

  The earth rumbled. It shook. Dust sifted down from the roof of the cave. Chunks of it broke away. A stream of stone and dust fell between them and the akhoz. The sound of it was echoing, deafening within the confines of the cavern.

  Then something changed. Nasim felt the hezhan drawing upon him. He coughed as his heart skipped a beat and he fell to his knees.

  The akhoz was going to gain the entrance to the cave despite the falling stone. It was scrabbling forward along the ground, skirting the wall of the entrance. Stones were striking it, cutting into its pale skin and drawing dark blood, but it was avoiding the bulk of falling stone.

  The feeling in Nasim’s chest intensified. It felt as though the mountain itself were pressing down on him. He couldn’t breathe. He could only exhale, until at last the edges of his vision began to glint.

  He saw, by the bare light filtering in from the outside, Rabiah standing next to him. He felt the touch of her hand on his shoulder.

  And in that one moment he felt a grand release.

  No longer did he have any sort of connection to the earth. No longer could he feel the vanahezhan.

  The akhoz had nearly gained the entrance to the cavern, but it stopped, perhaps sensing something. It stared to one side and crawled backward, staring at the opposite wall of the tunnel. It drew in a deep breath and released a gout of flame as a mound of earth with four arms and two legs the size of tree trunks pulled away from the wall. The flame blasted the emerging hezhan where the head was, baking the earth. It must have felt pain or discomfort, for it ducked and grabbed at the akhoz’s ankle and pulled it away from the wall.

  There was no way for the akhoz to survive this battle, not if it remained within the heart of the earth. It clawed furiously at the earthen hand that had grabbed hold of its leg, breaking free, then it darted for the light, heedless of the few remaining stones now falling.

  The flow of earth, which had abated somewhat, resumed as the vanahezhan threw one arm forward, spraying the back of the akhoz with a gout of sharp rock and stone.

  And then a great rumble shook the cavern.

  Nasim and Rabiah backed away. It continued for long moments, the earth around them resounding from the force of it.

  Until at last the rumbling died away, leaving only dying echoes in the distance.

  And then all was silence.

  All was darkness.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  N ikandr stood at the gunwales of the Chaika, staring at the horizon. It could barely be seen, but it was there-the island of Rafsuhan. Closer, less than a league from the Chaika’s position, was a small island-little more than an inhospitable piece of rock that refused to yield to the sea’s incessant waves.

  These waters had been difficult to reach. As distant as the nearest spires on Rhavanki were, the ley lines were weak, and they succumbed all too often to random currents of aether, sending the ship twisting in the wind, or worse, dropping dangerously toward the sea. Still, it was better than open sea. There were still shallows that led eastward from Mirkotsk and the Northern Sea to the islands controlled by the Maharraht.

  To the southwest, a silhouette against the bright yellow sunset, was the Strovya. Nikandr had ordered them to run as a decoy, hopefully pulling any ships away that might be watching. But so far the Strovya had not been approached. In fact, they’d not found any resistance at all, and so, as had been agreed, the Strovya would continue west to Mirkotsk and finally head south, toward Khalakovo, toward home.

  “It isn’t too late to reconsider.”

  Nikandr turned and found Jahalan approaching. His right leg ended
in a wooden peg. The bottom of it was wrapped in triple-thick goat hide, and Jahalan had become quite accustomed to it, but even the small thump it made as Jahalan made his way across the deck reminded him of Ghayavand, where Jahalan’s leg had been wounded by the serpents and they’d been forced to amputate in order to save his life.

  Nikandr forced himself to focus on the winds. Jahalan had long become used to the wound. Why couldn’t he?

  “I cannot turn back,” Nikandr said when Jahalan finally reached his side. The winds were in their favor, so there was no need for Jahalan to guide them.

  “You can. You just won’t admit it to yourself. Soroush will never turn, and neither will anyone else on the island.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “About the Maharraht?”

  “About Soroush. He is a hard man, but above all he is loyal to his people.”

  “ Nyet. He would sacrifice every last one of them if he could rid the islands of the Grand Duchy.”

  “This is my point. He is no closer to that than he was when he joined them, and if he loses more of his people, his goals are even further away, perhaps even unattainable. As much as he hates me, as much as he loathes the notion of helping one of the Landed, he will join us.”

  The ship was beginning to lower. Nikandr studied the smaller island they approached. It was still several leagues out from Rafsuhan, and it was an excellent place to hide the Chaika for the time they’d be on the island. It was craggy, with several small inlets where they could moor the ship.

  “Even if you’re right,” Nikandr continued, “we cannot ignore the chance to learn more about the rift.”

  “Small chance of doing that if you’re dead.”

  “You don’t long for a chance to speak with them?”

  “To what end? I don’t approve of the Maharraht or their methods, and given the chance, I will admit that I yearn to learn more of them, but I’m a realist. It may be that none of them will learn in this life, or even the next. A dozen cycles may pass before they’ve undone the damage they’re doing in this life.”

  “So you’ve said, but is it ever too late to start?”

  “I see,” Jahalan said. “You wish to be considered noble before you die.”

  “I merely wish to do what I can.” Nikandr turned, trying to read his old friend’s mood. “If you’re so convinced this is the wrong path to take, why did you agree to come?”

  Jahalan merely stared out toward Rafsuhan, a coal black rock against the indigo horizon.

  “Jahalan?”

  He turned then and looked Nikandr in the eye. “When one knows someone as well as I know you, and they see how the winds of fate swirl around them, they wish to watch, and perhaps learn.”

  “The winds of fate care not about me.”

  Jahalan smiled. “There you are wrong, son of Iaros.” He turned and walked back to ward the starward mainmast, his leg thumping against the deck. “Come, we have work to do.”

  The small island was much closer now. “Pull in the topsails,” Nikandr said to the boatswain, “and prepare to moor.”

  “ Da, Kapitan!”

  The following morning, under a gray and cheerless sky, Nikandr sat near the bow of the skiff as it bucked in the bitterly cold wind. They flew low to the water-so low that they were often struck by the salty spray. Nikandr refused to order them higher, though. He would not give the Maharraht warning if he could avoid it. Of the Maharraht, though, there had been no sign.

  Jahalan and Anahid, one of Jahalan’s distant cousins, guided the skiff. Neither seemed on edge, but the streltsi that had come were watching the island with something akin to horror in their eyes. He didn’t much blame them. These were seasoned men, handpicked by Nikandr himself, and they had all seen battle, but it was one thing to fight the Maharraht in the shallows of home or another friendly duchy; it was quite another to search the Maharraht out on their own island, where they would defend it with a brutality and fierceness rarely seen, even among such ruthless folk.

  Soroush sat aft, his hands tied to the thwart he was sitting upon. He wore a turban-something Nikandr saw no need to deny him-in the style of the Maharraht, the cloth ragged, the tail hanging down along his chest. His long black beard was more ragged than it had been after Mirashadal, and Nikandr wondered if he had been growing it in self-imposed penance. Perhaps he thought Nikandr’s arrival, and his subsequent release, had been the fates shining upon him once more. That was fine with Nikandr so long as it didn’t embolden him overly much. Nikandr watched him for some time, but not once did he look up. Instead, he kept his gaze locked on the island with an intensity that made Nikandr nervous.

  They reached the rocky shores of Rafsuhan an hour after launching from the Chaika. They moored the skiff in a vale with a stream running down from the stark highlands. It was as good a place as any to begin their trek eastward toward Siafyan. It was one of two outposts on the island. Ashdi en Ghat was the larger of the two, but it was also the more militant. It was said that the leadership of the Maharraht were housed there. Those in Siafyan were still dedicated to the Maharraht cause, but they had come to realize that it may take years, generations, for them to reach their goal, and in that light they had forged from this cold, rocky island a village where they could raise their young, grow crops, and learn while they waited for their leaders to push the Landed from the islands once and for all.

  Nikandr levered himself over the gunwales and down to the uneven terrain, watching himself carefully lest he twist an ankle on the sharp rocks. The beach, and much of the land leading uphill toward the peaks of Rafsuhan, was bleak and gray. It looked as if a host of drakhen had clawed their way up, the stone yielding and fracturing until all that remained was a sharp and deadly slope.

  Soroush stared dispassionately as Nikandr approached the rear of the skiff. “Release him,” Nikandr said to Styophan, his most trusted man and the sotnik of the streltsi.

  Styophan, a tall, well-muscled man, reached inside and began untying the ropes around Soroush’s wrists. With the cold wind gusting against the gray fur of his kolpak hat, Styophan worked at the knots. He did it casually while staring at Soroush, as if he wanted him to attack. Styophan’s father and brother had both been murdered in the same week, in two separate and largely unrelated attacks, one in the shipping lanes north of Khalakovo, the other in the shallow fishing grounds east of Ishal. Styophan had eagerly accepted the post when Nikandr had offered it to him, and Nikandr had nearly withdrawn it-he needed clear-thinking men on this mission, not those whose only goal was to taste the blood of the Maharraht-but in the end he’d decided to keep him. Styophan was too good of a soldier to leave behind.

  While Styophan was somehow eager and calm, the five other streltsi were tense. They held pistols at the ready, alternating glances between Soroush and the boulders that loomed on the hillside above, as if at any moment the whole of the Maharraht would storm down to retrieve their leader.

  “Easy,” Nikandr said to them.

  The expressions on their faces softened, and their shoulders lost some of their pent-up tension, but it was clear they were still wound tightly.

  Soroush waited to be untied, and then he looked to Nikandr.

  “Please,” Nikandr said, “come.”

  He swung himself over the gunwales and down to the stones, steadying himself before facing Nikandr. It was strange to see him with no stone in his turban. It made him seem impotent, somehow, unmanned, yet when Nikandr looked him in the eyes, there was a completely different story to behold. Gone was the man who had seemed out of balance during their conversation on the Strovya. In his place was a man who seemed sure of himself, as if he had been the one who had summoned Nikandr to these shores.

  “I have not changed my mind,” Soroush said.

  “I know,” Nikandr replied.

  Soroush blew several times into his cupped hands, warming them. “Then why? Why bring me here where I’m so close to those who would kill you at but a word from me?”

  “Bec
ause I must.” Nikandr turned and made his way toward the others, but when he heard no sounds of movement behind him, he turned. “Are you coming?”

  Soroush stared, glancing toward the other skiff and then toward the harsh peaks above them. “I will not help.”

  “As you’ve said.” Nikandr wanted Soroush to come, he was desperate for it, but in the end he could not force him. Soroush would come or he would not. Either way, there were many things to do while here, and he would prefer to be about it, one way or the other.

  A moment later, he heard the sound of the rocks shifting behind him over the rush of the surf. He did not smile-the day was too grim for such things-but he was glad.

  Nikandr ordered three streltsi and Anahid to remain with the skiff. After preparing shoulder packs with several days’ worth of food, they were off. Styophan led the way. Two streltsi brought up the rear with Soroush, leaving Jahalan and Nikandr at the middle of the line.

  They wound their way up through the treacherous rocks. There was no trail. Styophan had a good eye for climbing, yet there were still many places where it took them long minutes of careful navigation. Nikandr was apt to look after Jahalan, but he found that despite any reservations he might have of the man’s climbing abilities, he was more than capable, wooden leg or no.

  Soon the sounds of the surf were replaced with the sigh of the wind and the occasional call of the whistle thrush. Past midday, it began to snow. It was light, but after a while it made the going even more treacherous. One of the streltsi twisted his ankle, though thankfully it wasn’t bad. Too much more of this, Nikandr thought, and they would be forced to stop until the snow abated.

  But soon the snow had reduced to only flurries, and an hour later they reached a shallow stretch of land that would take them to the foot of the nearest peaks. If his information was correct, Siafyan lay in a valley between the nearest of them.