The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [122]
The Olganya had slipped toward the Tura, which was almost completely engulfed by fire. The bowsprit of the Olganya was momentarily caught in the rigging of the starward mizzenmast.
With most of the streltsi reloading, Nikandr ran for the bow.
Borund shouted behind him, “Nikandr, stop!”
He didn’t. He couldn’t.
A pistol fired.
Nikandr felt his shoulder flare in pain as he leapt for the rigging.
Ranos held Atiana’s arm in a tight grip as they made their way through the halls of Radiskoye. When they reached the long hallway that led to the eyrie, they found the Duke of Khalakovo standing behind a dozen streltsi, speaking with a man dressed in the uniform of a sotnik. The soldiers were filing outside, taking aim and firing on her father’s ship, the Olganya.
Before Ranos and Atiana could reach him, a rumbling shook the foundations of the palotza. It increased in intensity, and Atiana saw from the corner of her eye the crumbling of one of the palotza’s turrets. It happened at an impossibly slow pace, as if everything were caught in honey.
Then the leaded glass within the row of tall windows crashed inward. Atiana raised her arms, turning away as the sound intensified. A deafening roar filled the air, and she screamed as bits of glass tore into her arms and shoulders.
The roar subsided, followed by the sound of impossibly heavy stones clacking hollowly against one another. Other sounds entered her consciousness: the coughing and moaning of wounded men, a shrill cry for help, the sporadic crack of musket fire.
Ranos dragged Atiana to her feet. Bits of glass tore into the palm of her hand as she steadied herself, but she did not cry out. She refused to let Ranos hear such a thing.
“Up!” shouted the sotnik. “From the wall! Defend yourselves!”
A vanahezhan—the same one that Atiana had seen on the rocky shore-line—had stalked out of the great cloud of dust surrounding the fallen turret and was bearing down on the Olganya. A half-dozen Maharraht followed. Fear welled up within her as she recognized the two from the seashore. Their attention appeared fixated on the eyrie’s perches, however.
The rate of musket fire increased, both from the Olganya as well as from the Khalakovan soldiers, but the hezhan kept stalking forward, its huge arms held up before it as if it could feel the bite of the shots tearing into it.
Ranos pulled a pistol from a holster at his belt. Watching the garden closely, he pulled her before Iaros, who was wiping vainly at the dust on his fine golden coat. He looked up and stared at Ranos for a time before turning his head slowly toward Atiana. His face was smeared with dirt and bits of broken glass littered his graying hair and long white beard. He blinked, and Atiana thought surely he had struck his head, for there was a fresh wound on his forehead. Blood dribbled down his cheek and into his beard—a river of red against a snow-swept field.
Whatever disorientation he felt seemed to vanish the longer he stared at Atiana. “What, child, are you doing here?”
Atiana held her tongue. This was not a question to be answered lightly, not with the Duke measuring her so.
How it was that emotions had boiled over in a single day she couldn’t say, but she was not entirely surprised. Grigory had been beating the drums of war ever since Stasa’s death. Leonid had been of a similar mind, and although Father had nominally stepped within their circle, Atiana thought he would have been able to control them. None of this, however, gave her any clue as to why she had been abandoned.
“I came from Iramanshah, to warn you.”
“The Matra was attacked”—he glanced outside, toward the eyrie—“by the boy your father has stolen from these walls. Did you lead them here?”
Atiana was stunned. He meant the Maharraht. “Nyet, I came to warn you.”
Iaros looked to his son.
Ranos shrugged. “We heard her just before they gained the wall.”
Atiana could see the muscles in Iaros’s jaw working.
“Please, I came—”
“Da, to warn me. But”—Iaros turned, pointing