The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [119]
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!