The Straits of Galahesh

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Muqallad looks into the depths of Atiana’s eyes. She can feel him probing in the aether, trying to determine for himself if all is well, but he is not gifted in the ways of the dark and cannot penetrate her defenses.

  Atiana feigns that Sariya’s spell still influences her, and Muqallad seems satisfied.

  He glances to the east, where the sun’s first rays are cresting the horizon. “Come,” he says. “It is time.”

  Nasim woke, jostling back and forth. The sky above him shook. It took him some time, but he realized he was in someone’s arms. He looked up and found Ashan grimacing as he carried Nasim away from the battle. Behind them, a dozen akhoz followed, galloping over the ground on all fours like a pack of mongrel dogs. There were no soldiers—no streltsi of Anuskaya, no janissaries of Yrstanla.

  Over the tops of the smaller buildings, Nasim saw a gout of fire strike the vanahezhan he’d summoned. The skin of the vanahezhan’s chest steamed and cracked like parched earth.

  Ashan was nearing the Spar’s wide, circular landing.

  “Put me down,” Nasim said.

  Ashan kept running.

  “Put me down!”

  Ashan stopped, and finally did put Nasim down. His glanced at his own shoulder, shaking, as if he were about to pass out. How he had managed to carry him so far, Nasim couldn’t guess.

  Ashan smiled as widely as he was able, revealing crooked teeth. “I’ll be well.”

  “Then come. We must hurry.”

  Together they took to the bridge, both of them moving slowly, Nasim from the wound to his left leg and Ashan from the shot to his shoulder. As they passed beyond the cliff and over the straits, the currents of the wind became chaotic. The wind gusted and howled, pressing against them as they made their way along it. It was so strong it threatened to knock them from their feet if they weren’t careful.

  They moved lower to the ground, and could see others approaching the center of the bridge from the far side. A cadre of men and women wearing robes of black and gray—the Hratha, led by several Nasim already recognized: Muqallad and Sariya and Atiana.

  And Nikandr, from whom he could still sense their shared bond. He was shocked. He thought it had been severed on Ghayavand, but here it still was, a tendril thin as spider’s silk.

  The wind intensified. It was so loud Nasim could barely think. Two of the akhoz fell and were whisked off of the bridge. They twisted and clawed at empty air, twisting and tumbling until they were lost from sight.

  Nasim drew upon a havahezhan to counter these winds—Ashan helped as well—but it was a constant tug o’ war, the two of them pulling this way and that in reaction to the chaotic ways of the winds.

  They made slow progress, but three more akhoz were lost. The remaining seven Nasim unleashed. They stayed low as they sprinted forward, their calls nearly lost among the thunder of the wind. The Hratha—only two or three dozen were left now—ran forward to meet them. They raised their muskets, but Ashan called down rain to foil their shots. Only two managed to fire, and one of the akhoz dropped. It was up again in a moment, limping after the others.

  The akhoz leapt upon the warriors. They belched fire as the Hratha’s curved shamshirs arced and spun. Their war calls dimly mixed with the braying of the akhoz.

  Nasim and Ashan were now within a hundred paces of the Spar’s midpoint, which was marked by two squat towers on either side of the roadway.

  From these towers, a score of men emerged—by the fates, they were the Maharraht.

  As they ran toward the Hratha and the akhoz, two final forms emerged from the left tower. The first was Soroush, and the second was Ushai, the qiram Nasim had seen those many weeks ago on his flight toward Ghayavand. Her left arm was bandaged heavily, but she otherwise seemed hearty and hale. How she had come to be here with Soroush, he couldn’t guess, but there was no time to wonder.

  They both appeared ready to chase after Soroush’s men, but when they spotted Nasim they stopped. Soroush glanced at the tower, then down at the roadway, and finally he beckoned to Ushai and began sprinting toward Nasim and Ashan.

  They hadn’t taken ten long strides when an explosion rocked the Spar. Stone flew into the air, and the center of the bridge became little more than a roiling cloud of black smoke and bright flames.

  Nasim was struck by something—he knew not what. It propelled him backward, throwing him down roughly against the roadway. A sound like worlds breaking came immediately after, and for long moments he could only blink his eyes and stare at the stones flying outward and the rubble raining down.

  His ears rang.

  His fingers were numb.

  He pushed himself up so that he could sit and look upon the devastation. The wind had not yet cleared the air fully, but he could see through the dust and smoke the remains of the left tower. It was crumbling before his very eyes. The bulk of it collapsed and fell toward the cold embrace of the churning white waves, leaving only one low portion of wall, as if the destruction of the world had already begun.

  At last the wind drew the dust away, and the roadway was revealed. Nearly half of it had been devoured by the explosion, but the rest remained.

  It remained…

  By the fates, Soroush had failed.

  And that meant Muqallad could still complete his plans.

  Atiana feels the explosion in her chest. She falls, but the sensations are distant, like a memory from her childhood.

  She walks through the currents of the aether more than she does the world of Erahm, and the feeling is heady.

  Ahead, the akhoz are the first to recover, but the Maharraht are not far behind. Together they attack what remain of the Hratha, killing many of them before Muqallad reaches his feet. He raises one hand, the one holding the Atalayina, and a bolt of searing white lightning arcs from it to the nearest of the akhoz. It slips through three of them, and one of the Maharraht, felling them in an instant.

  Atiana feels the walls of the aether here. They are so close she can almost reach out and touch them. As she did on Oshtoyets years ago, she pushes them away in hopes that Muqallad’s summoning will become more difficult, but the pressure is too great. She forces Sariya to help her, and Ishkyna joins as well. The gap does indeed widen, but it does nothing to stop Muqallad from drawing upon a dhoshahezhan again and again until all of the Maharraht lay dead.

  Only three akhoz remain, and to these he raises his hand and calls above the wind, “Come… Come, my children.”

  The akhoz crouch and bare their teeth. They bark and snarl and stretch their necks as if they’re suddenly afflicted. One of them turns and looks back to the four souls who approach from the far side of the blackened tower. Nasim is there, as well as Ashan and Soroush and Ushai.

  Two of the akhoz mewl and crawl toward Muqallad, but the other sprints toward Nasim. He does not gallop on all fours like the akhoz often do. Instead, he runs, as a child might. In that moment he looks like nothing more than a small, naked boy.

  Before he can go more than ten paces another bolt flies from the Atalayina, but it strikes ground short of the akhoz. Another blinding strike is sent forth, but this too is foiled.

  Nasim has one hand raised, and he walks ahead of the others. There is something about him that seems different. No longer does Atiana see a boy who cowers from the world, who wonders how he might find his way through it. Instead she sees a young man, confident and strong. Transcendent.

  But Muqallad is not weak, and he holds the Atalayina.

  Atiana beckons her sisters. Come.

  Sariya, knowing the time approaches, grows desperate. She rises up, stronger than Atiana would have guessed she could be. She rails against Atiana and her sisters, and she surfaces at last. “Beware, Muqallad! The Matri have come!” With those simple words, she is overcome with pain, and she falls to her knees, clutching her side.

  With Ishkyna and Mileva at her side, Atiana advances. The three of them know one another so well that they are able to fend off Muqallad’s clumsy attacks. He is not weak, howev
er, and he stands against them.

  And then his presence is gone. Simply gone.

  Atiana searches desperately, until she realizes the Atalayina is the power behind this. Muqallad has somehow drawn his presence from the aether so that he exists only in the material world.

  Muqallad turns, holding the Atalayina high. It is bright and blue. Power emanates from it like the light of the sun.

  And then the world slows. The wind stills. A shimmering builds at the edges of her vision, and her mind feels leaden.

  With a raised hand, Muqallad calls out to Nikandr. “Come,” he says. It is soft, for the wind can no longer be heard beyond a low susurrus at the edge of hearing. The clouds above have not stopped swirling, but they move so slowly that Atiana wonders if they are real. If this is real. Perhaps it is all a dream…

  And yet she knows it is not. She knows this is the power of the Atalayina.

  Nikandr goes to him.

  Sariya, however, does not. She has fallen to the ground. She still holds her side, but she is weak and near to death.

  Muqallad looks down at her with something akin to sadness or regret, but then he turns, beckoning Nikandr to follow. Together the two of them leave Sariya lying on the ground like a forgotten she-bitch and walk toward the blackened center of the Spar.

  Stop! Atiana calls to Nikandr.

  But he doesn’t look back. Not once.

  Please, Nischka! Stop!

  She calls to him over and over, but she knows that his mind has been taken. She doesn’t understand how at first, but then she sees it, the tendril that connects him to Nasim. The connection that was formed between them years ago. It thinned when Nasim woke in Oshtoyets, but it had never been severed, and here it is now, being used against him.

  Nikandr, please wake!

  But he does not heed her calls.

  Nikandr tried to deny Muqallad, but the command had come not just from him; it had been amplified by the Atalayina. Nikandr could feel it, glowing like a brand against his will, and he could do nothing but shrink from it.

  He followed Muqallad to the center of the Spar, where one tower stood proud. The other was ruined, with only crumbling remains.

  “I nearly lost him,” Muqallad said to Nikandr as he beckoned him to kneel.

  Nikandr complied, staring up into Muqallad’s dark eyes.

  “Had he been taken years ago, all of my plans would have been lost. But you,” Muqallad said. “You saved him. You sheltered him.”

  And then Nikandr understood. He didn’t mean Nikandr had saved Nasim in any physical sense. He meant that Nikandr had saved his soul and mind through their bond.

  Muqallad held out one hand.

  Nikandr stared at it—his right hand. In his left Muqallad held the Atalayina. The stone glowed so brightly it was blinding, even compared to the light of the sun hanging over the horizon. He knew that if he took Muqallad’s hand, it would give him what he needed to reach Nasim.

  He couldn’t do that—not to Nasim.

  But neither could he resist.

  He put all of himself into defying Muqallad’s will, and still his arm lifted. He could hear Atiana’s voice, but it was so distant that he heard only disjointed portions of her desperate pleas.

  Smiling, Muqallad took Nikandr’s hand, and the moment he did, Nikandr felt the connection between him and Nasim grow stronger, more vibrant, like the thread of a web caught with morning dew.

  He felt Nasim approach. He was being drawn by this thread, drawn by the will of Muqallad and the power of the Atalayina.

  He wanted to call to Nasim, to warn him away. He wanted to wake him from this spell.

  But he could not. He was trapped by these events as surely as Nasim.

  On the horizon, the sun stood upon the edge of the world. The skies over the Spar were swirling, as if this place were the very center of all that ever was and ever would be.

  But then something caught Nikandr’s attention. Over Muqallad’s shoulder, beneath the swirling clouds, was a ship.

  And it was hurtling toward the Spar.

  It took him a moment to realize it was the Bhadyar.

  But Soroush was here, Nikandr thought. The Maharraht had abandoned their ships at the hidden bay…

  With a sudden and shocking clarity, he realized who had come.

  Grigory…

  Grigory had come with the men who’d been left behind, men too wounded to fight.

  Nikandr marveled at the very thought of it.

  Nasim watched as Nikandr kneeled on the blackened roadway. He was caught as everyone else was.

  Nasim understood now. The Al-Aqim needed to die for this ritual to be complete. Sariya had already fallen, succumbing to the wound inflicted by Ushai. Muqallad had hoped that the ritual on the beach of Alayazhar would free Khamal’s link to the Atalayina. Nasim had been saved by Rabiah, but now Muqallad would finish what he’d started, and the only way Nasim could prevent it was by coming to himself once and for all.

  To do this, his tie to Nikandr must be severed. Their shared link was why Nikandr had been able to commune with the havahezhan. It was why Nasim had been so limited, as well, and even though he was now able to touch Adhiya, it was not as complete as it might be. His bonds to Nikandr and Muqallad saw to that.

  Severing his tie was not so easily done, however. He would gladly give of himself, even if it meant he would pass from this world, never to return, but he refused to do so if it delivered the world to Muqallad.

  He remembered how it had felt in Oshtoyets, that small keep on the rocky coast of Duzol those many years ago. He had been at the heart of all things. It had felt as though he could reshape the world.

  And so it was now

  He only needed to embrace it.

  He pulled a knife from Soroush’s belt and strode forward, wishing there were another way.

  To sacrifice himself would be easy.

  But this…

  He didn’t know, even now, if he could do it.

  He drew the world around himself like a cloak, like a burial shroud. The other times he’d done this, it had been beneath his consciousness, but now he was fully aware of what he was doing.

  Time slowed. Muqallad’s movements became a crawl.

  Nasim stepped forward and kneeled before Nikandr until they were face-to-face. He looked into Nikandr’s handsome face, saw the small scar above his left eyebrow. He knew in that instant that it had been caused by an errant swipe of a fire brand, swung by his brother, Ranos. His eyes were a deep brown with the smallest traces of green, like hidden forest vales in the growth of spring. He’d looked at Nikandr before, but never in such an intimate way. It made Nasim supremely uncomfortable, but he owed Nikandr this for what he was about to do. Nikandr was not his father—he was nothing like Ashan—nor was he his brother. And still, he owed Nikandr much. Certainly he owed him this, an honest look into his soul before he took his life.

  Nikandr blinked. There was fear and uncertainty in his eyes, but there was also a resolve that made Nasim proud.

  Nikandr swallowed, his gaze dropping to the khanjar before meeting Nasim’s eyes once more. And then he nodded.

  With one hand Nasim held Nikandr’s shoulder, and with the other drove the knife into Nikandr’s chest. He drove it until it could go no further.

  Nikandr stared, eyes wide and tearing. He looked down. His lips were parted, releasing his final breath. His head quivered, and spittle fell onto the blackened stone.

  He met Nasim’s eyes one last time.

  The look on his face was one of understanding. He tried to smile, but failed to do so. He coughed once, and then leaned to one side, holding himself, barely, against the roadway of this massive work of man.

  Nasim lowered him down until he laid face up, staring at the sky, the knife quivering from his chest. His eyes opened and closed. He swallowed once, twice, and then lay perfectly still.

  The wind once more began to howl. The clouds once more began to swirl.

  And Muqallad stared down, hi
s eyes aflame.

  He was coming to the realization that he had lost what he had sought, but in his mind there might still be time.

  He held the Atalayina high and reached for Nasim.

  Nasim rolled away and reached his feet as a bolt of lightning coursed forth from Muqallad’s outstretched palm.

  Nasim caught it in his own hand and delivered it to the world beyond. It was easy now, and Muqallad knew the tables had turned.

  Muqallad stepped forward and grabbed Nasim’s robes. He blocked the weak strike of Nasim’s fist, twisting his arm until he was forced down to roadway stones. As Muqallad held the Atalayina high, perhaps readying to smash it against Nasim’s skull, Nasim saw something large and dark and swift rushing toward the bridge.

  Muqallad had no more time than to turn and look before the windship crashed into the Spar.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  Nikandr stared at the handle of the knife. It rested over his chest, moving in time to his heartbeat. He should grasp it, he thought. He should try to remove it. He managed to bring one hand to it, but the simple act of touching it brought searing white pain the likes of which he’d never known.

  He had time only to look up at a rush of movement at the edge of his vision before the world around him erupted.

  Something massive crashed into the Spar at the exact place where the explosion had weakened it.

  A ship. It was a ship.

  The hull buckled, collapsing like a house of cards as the ship drove down onto the keystones. The masts cracked. The sails were thrown downward. In a mere instant the front half of the ship transformed from a structured and ordered thing into a massive, tangled collection of splintered beams and rope and sail. The bodies of men flew and were dashed against the white stone.

  The landward foremast snapped at the hull, throwing the bulk of the mast and her sails sharply forward. Muqallad turned to meet this threat just as the mast’s topgallant swung down against the bridge, narrowly missing him. But the topgallant yard caught Muqallad squarely across the head, crushing him and throwing him down against the Spar’s roadway in a mass of red.

  The rear half of the ship groaned, hanging in the air momentarily before the keystones gave way. The structure beneath the roadway weakened as if it were little more than a pile of stones succumbing to the sea, and then it gave way entirely. It created a gap where the keystones had been, and it widened quickly, moving closer and closer to the section upon which Nikandr lay.