The Straits of Galahesh loa-2

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “Come, my children,” he said to the crisp air. “Come, and we will go where we are needed.”

  They moved more quickly now, but with no lesser sense of awe and deference. There were dozens, all of them ready to do what Nasim asked of them. He was saddened-their lives had been cut short so long ago, and they’d been forced into an existence infinitely worse than beasts of burden-but at least their lives might have some meaning in the end.

  Rabiah tugged Nasim’s hand. She nodded toward the tower. “Time grows short.”

  He did not want to enter the tower, but he would trust her. He would trust her, he thought, as he had not trusted her in life.

  As they walked toward the iron fence, the smell of the air changed. The wind calmed. The clouds in the sky paused.

  “What’s happened?” Nasim asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The sky,” he said. “The wind.”

  “Nothing is different…”

  Nasim looked to her, wondering how she couldn’t have known, but her gaze was fixed on the tower ahead, as if that and that alone was what mattered.

  Nasim felt it, though, and it was growing worse, this feeling of pregnant intent. It felt like the time before a great storm, but this one, thought Nasim, was going to be worse than any other.

  They walked through the open gate, the akhoz following. Rabiah stopped at the door to the tower. Nasim didn’t understand at first, but it soon became clear she was waiting for him to open it. Why she refused to touch it he didn’t know, but it seemed important that he not ask of it, so he took the handle and opened it himself.

  Inside it was dark and foreboding, but beyond this he could not sense Sariya’s presence. He stepped within, and immediately the akhoz swept into the room behind him. They moved like a pack of animals. Nasim didn’t know what had changed, but they seemed hungry-hungry for blood. Some climbed the stairs as if their hunger drove them to hunt, to move, even knowing there was nothing to find in the upper levels of the tower, but most of them remained in the room, crouching, their eyeless faces trained on him and the door.

  It felt strangely comforting to have these forgotten souls join him, but the one he most dearly wished would join him-Rabiah-remained just outside.

  “Will you not come?” Nasim asked her.

  She did not respond.

  He nodded, not wanting to close the door, for he knew that when he did, she would be gone forever.

  Rabiah seemed to hear something, for she turned and looked deeper into the city. What had attracted her attention Nasim couldn’t guess. Rabiah glanced back once through the doorway, her eyes searching, confused. She didn’t seem to notice him.

  And then she turned and walked away.

  Nasim held the door open, hoping she would return, knowing she would not.

  Then, knowing he had to leave now if he was ever going to, he closed the door until the latch clicked shut.

  In that moment, he felt a boom. The earth shook and stones of the tower rumbled above him. He heard shouting and screams. Musket fire erupted, rising to a fierce intensity as men shouted and the clash of steel rang out. When Nasim opened the door again, he saw outside a completely different city filled with bloodied men waging war against one another.

  Beyond the tower stood dozens of men wearing dark woolen cherkesskas. They held berdische axes in one hand, muskets in the other, and when they prepared to fire, they dropped the butt of the axe to the ground and placed the barrel of the musket at the crook of the axe head before sighting along the length of the barrel and pulling the trigger.

  It all seemed as it should be, as if these men were merely a force of nature unleashing their vengeance upon another.

  Another boom shook the tower. Grape shot tore through the forward ranks of the streltsi. Dozens of them spun and twisted and arched backward, as if they were men made from cloth and sticks, not blood and bone.

  He thought at first that this was all happening in Alayazhar, but of course it was not. This city looked nothing like Alayazhar. Rabiah had transported him, or rather, the magic of Sariya’s tower had.

  But where had he come? Kiravashya? Had the war stretched so far?

  Neh, he thought as he took in the imposing form of the Mount. He was in Baressa, and the streltsi were warring against the men of the Kaymakam and the Kamarisi.

  There were hundreds of Anuskayan soldiers along this length of road. The akhoz had gathered behind him. They watched, mouths open, tongues lolling, as if they tasted the battle that raged only paces away. They strained at their leash. They hungered for battle. But Nasim would not allow it. Not yet. Not here.

  Among the cries of the wounded and the crack of musket fire and the sound of a charge in the distance, he heard the cawing of a rook. He saw the bird fly over a tall stone building and come winging down straight toward him. It landed and pecked at the ground. A young man of Anuskaya lay dying nearby. His fur-lined kolpak had fallen away, revealing dirty blond hair. He blinked several times with a look on his face that made it clear he thought the bird had come to save him. He tried to speak, but words failed him, and then he fell slack.

  The rook beat its wings against the air and cawed over and over again, but then it regained itself and hopped toward the open doorway as the battle continued to rage.

  “I have looked long and hard for you, Nasim,” it said in Anuskayan.

  “Matra Saphia,” Nasim said, bowing his head though he knew not why. “I’ve just returned.”

  “Returned to her tower.”

  It was a question, one he could not in any way answer fully. “They took me,” he said simply, staring down at his robes, which were still bright red with blood.

  The rook clucked three times. “So they did.”

  The tower shook as another shot thundered into it. Stone and sand rained down. He could feel the entire structure begin to shift with several piercing cracks breaking through the sounds of war.

  Behind the rook, riding on ponies from the same direction in which Saphia had come, were four streltsi wearing red kolpak hats.

  “Quickly,” she said. “We must get you to safety.”

  More screams of the dying came. As he stepped out of the tower, musket fire tore through the line to his right. A roar was taken up, and dozens of janissaries wearing tall turbans came rushing forward. Their strangely bent kilij swords were drawn, and they broke into the double line of streltsi. The shouting intensified as men were shifted from other parts of the line, but as soon as those orders were passed, another roar was heard. More men of Yrstanla counterattacking along the right flank.

  All four ponies galloped forward. One was felled a dozen yards from Nasim. Another broke away to meet the charge of three Yrstanla soldiers. The pony rammed one, and the soldier took out another, but the third swung his kilij high over his head and down against the strelet’s thigh. The pony reared and clubbed the soldier, but the strelet was lost, blood poring from his nearly severed thigh before he struck the blood-slick stones of the street.

  Before Nasim could stop them, the akhoz streamed out of the tower. Three ran like hounds toward the soldiers of Yrstanla. The soldiers’ eyes went wide. They warded the akhoz with their swords just before two gouts of flame were released from widened maws, catching them across their chests and heads. The third akhoz leaped upon one of the flaming men, taking him down and tearing into his neck with its teeth.

  This one was shot point-blank by two other soldiers. It reared back, baring its teeth and blackened gums and leaping at another soldier despite the black blood seeping down from its chest and shoulder. It was caught by another musket shot in the temple, and a vicious slice from a sword across its neck, and it fell twitching to the ground.

  Its brothers and sisters bayed in sickening tones, bringing the battle to momentary silence. Soldiers of both sides turned, weapons lowered, as they looked on with fear plain on their faces.

  “Come!” Nasim called to them as the streltsi on the ponies rode near. One of the remaining two
streltsi reached down. He and Nasim locked forearms, and then Nasim swung up into the saddle behind him. “Hear me! Come!” he called again.

  And now they obeyed. Slowly, reluctantly, they turned away from the battle and followed the pony that bore Nasim southward.

  The rook flew silently up and over the same buildings, guiding them. The streltsi followed, the hooves of their two ponies ringing, gaining in volume over the sounds of the battle as they wound their way through the empty streets.

  As the sounds of battle faded, the relative peace allowed Nasim to notice what he hadn’t before. The sky. The wind. The taste of the air. It had that same feeling that it had had in Alayazhar.

  And it felt worse.

  The time was growing short.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  W ood thundered as the barque crashed into the bow of their brigantine. The deck bucked and slid beneath Nikandr’s boots. Three of his men fell, scrambling for handholds.

  Nikandr’s attention was caught by a dark shape in the sky above him. It was a ship, gliding not thirty paces above them. There was another higher up, and another. Four in all.

  Before he could identify them, the barque slammed into the cliff again. Gaping cracks formed in the hull, running jaggedly from top to bottom, and the ship was beginning to lose its loft. As the ship dropped, its seaward masts got caught up in their brigantine’s starward rigging.

  “To the masts!” Nikandr cried. “Cut the barque free!”

  The men responded, slipping down the deck to the foremast and climbing it quickly and expertly even in the wind and the shaking of the ship.

  Nikandr looked up to the ships. His first thought was that the forces of Yrstanla had arrived, but these ships did not look new like the Kamarisi’s. These ships were old and weatherworn, and the sails were heavily patched and dyed gray as the Maharraht would do.

  The barque pulled away, tugging on their lines, stretching them taut until the only thing that was holding them in place were the twelve mooring spikes that had been driven into the rocks of the cliff.

  One of them snapped free as Nikandr watched. And another.

  The bow of the ship swung wide, snapping another line, and soon all twelve had been pulled free and their ship was sliding out to sea.

  As Nikandr moved to join the men, Mahrik’s rope was caught. He was climbing quickly, but before he could reach the top, the rope was pulled taut, snapping him like an arrow on a string. He flew out beyond the deck, flailing his arms uselessly as he plummeted through open air down toward the sea.

  Three of the newly arrived ships continued their eastward course, but the nearest altered its course to hover above them. The men aboard were Maharraht: small turbans dully colored, tails hanging down their chest, their double robes ragged, their beards long and whipping in the wind.

  It was the Bhadyar, Nikandr realized, and Soroush was standing at the gunwale. His men were lowering ropes, but there’d be no chance to climb if the barque continued to pull them down. Nikandr reached the shrouds and climbed up as quickly as he could. He came to the nearest halyard that had been caught beneath the lowest of the foremast’s yards. He cut the rope as quickly as he could manage, but there were many more, and as they managed to cut some, the two ships would shift, pulling more of the barque’s rigging against their own.

  He could feel the havaqiram aboard the ship above them trying to slow the descent of their ships, but these winds were beyond anything a lone havaqiram could hope to outmatch.

  Nikandr tried to feel for his own hezhan once more, but again felt nothing, so he climbed further, to the uppermost reaches of the foremast where he and Vlanek sawed furiously at the ropes.

  Suddenly the mast was pulled sharply windward. One of the galleon’s yards had slipped beneath the foremast’s shrouds.

  “Cut the shroud!” he yelled.

  Only Styophan remained on deck. He pulled his shashka and sliced it across the heavy ropes of the shroud. With four quick swings the shroud snapped up and away, and at last they were free.

  Their brigantine floated out to sea, twisting in the wind like the seed of a sycamore. Nikandr leaned forward and kissed the mast, silently thanking the ship for its kindness.

  By the time he’d climbed down to the deck, the Bhadyar had moved directly above them. The havaqiram above was skilled-Nikandr knew this much-for he was able to match both the pace and the slow spin of their ship. Nikandr and the others grabbed and steadied the rope ladders the Maharraht lowered, and in short order they were up and onto the deck of the Bhadyar.

  Nikandr sat in Soroush’s cabin at the rear of the ship, sipping bitter araq from a sandalwood cup.

  Soroush had asked him here once Nikandr’s men were all safe. He’d given him the araq to warm him up, but then had gone to see to the safety of the other ships. Nikandr had never been inside a cabin such as this. He’d been involved with the capture of four Maharraht ships; three of them had previously been Grand Duchy ships and one had been a ship built by the Maharraht themselves, but he’d never been inside one of the kapitans’ cabins. Colorful glass baubles hung from the ceiling, their colors mirrored by the carpets layering the floor. In one corner, a shisha was held in place by twine, and next to it was a shallow box with a hinged lid that no doubt held a variety of tabbaq.

  Soroush returned some time after Nikandr’s second cupful, and by then Nikandr was finally beginning to feel the effects of the strong, fragrant liquor. “Your man from the cliff is safe,” he said, “but we could not find the one who fell.”

  Nikandr nodded grimly. He wished they could have gone to the base of the cliffs to search for Mahrik, but it would have been foolish to do so with the storm as strong as it was. Most likely he’d fallen against the rocks below, or if he’d somehow made it to the sea he would quickly have been overwhelmed by the crashing waves.

  “My thanks to you for saving us,” Nikandr said in Mahndi.

  Soroush sat in the kapitan’s chair and poured himself a cup of araq. His turban and his beard twinkled with the gleam of melting snow. “A pity Mahrik could not be saved.”

  Nikandr looked at him closely, surprised he remembered Mahrik’s name. He wondered just how heartfelt those words were, but he could sense no deception, and it made him wonder just how much the experience on Mirashadal and Rafsuhan had changed Soroush. This was a man that had led the Maharraht for years. He had always seemed ruthless, steadfast in his belief that for the Aramahn to be free the Landed must die. And now here he was, lamenting-genuinely-a Landed windsman he hardly knew.

  “How did you find us?” Nikandr asked.

  Soroush, staring beyond his cup of araq, took long moments to formulate his response. “We were skirting the edge of the Empire’s lands when we came upon a bird. A gallows crow.”

  “A black bird with a white hood.”

  “ Yeh.” Soroush’s eyes were distant, as if he were reliving the moment. “It landed on a shroud and stared directly at me. One of the crew tried to scare it away, but it remained. Only when a musket was trained on it did it take flight, but it returned shortly thereafter and landed near the helm. Again the men wanted to kill it-fearful it was a bird sent by the Matri-but I forbade them.” Soroush’s voice became softer, almost reverent. “I came to the helm, and the bird pecked at the levers. I realized it was always pecking at the leftmost. Slowly, I pushed it inward, and the crow cawed furiously, but as I pulled it out, and the ship turned windward, it remained silent. Until we were heading on the bearing that took us directly over your position.” Soroush paused, shaking his head. “It must have been one of the Matri, but it never spoke. Why would this be?”

  Nikandr shrugged. “I saw it as well, less than an hour before you came upon us. I thought I felt one of the Matri as well, but it was faint. Very faint. And then the bird left.”

  “Whoever she was, you owe her your life. We would not have come upon you in the direction we were headed.”

  “But why? Why are you here?”

  “We’ve been skirti
ng the Sea of Khurkhan for over a week, and the days before that we were watching the islands to the east.”

  While giving Soroush a questioning look, Nikandr took a swig of his araq, swirling it around in his mouth before swallowing.

  “We had hoped to find the Hratha,” Soroush said. “After leaving you on Uyadensk we returned to Rafsuhan, but found almost no one. They had murdered any they could find before leaving the island.”

  “What of Muqallad and the children?”

  Soroush grit his jaw. There were tears welling in his eyes, but he blinked them away. “They were no longer children. They were akhoz, and of them we could find no sign. Those few that survived by hiding in the woods said that Muqallad left the island the day after the ritual.”

  “With the Hratha?”

  Soroush shook his head. “Thabash returned to Siafyan and there gathered more ships and men. And then he headed northwest, across the Sea of Khurkhan.”

  Nikandr thought back to the glint he’d seen on the sea days before. It must have been Thabash and his men. “They’re headed for Galahesh,” Nikandr said, knowing it was true.

  Soroush nodded and finished his araq, his lips pulling back from the bite of it. “I believe they go to meet Muqallad.”

  “And to find the final piece of the Atalayina.”

  “Perhaps,” Soroush said, “but they will not find it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  While drawing in a deep breath, Soroush glanced toward the door, then down at his desk. He seemed to come to some decision, for he leaned down, opened the drawer, and retrieved from it a satchel of the softest goat leather. After setting this on the desk and closing the drawer, he opened the satchel’s drawstring and pulled out a stone that was unmistakable. He set it on the desk near Nikandr. The knock it made against the wood sounded as though it were made of lead, not stone.

  Nikandr picked it up. It was indeed heavy, more like pure gold than stone. The copper lines that ran through the blue stone lent it a raw beauty and an undeniable feeling of age, as if the stories about the fates having created it along with the worlds were true. He remembered Bersuq as he’d held the other two pieces-sisters to this one-above his head. He remembered Bersuq’s will as he’d kept himself from crying out, until eventually it had become too much and he’d released his pain to the uncaring sky.