The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [172]
The two wounded akhoz had just begun lifting themselves from the ground when a great boom rent the air. The skin of three of the akhoz lifted in random places about their bodies as grape shot tore into them.
Nikandr looked up and saw a ship—the Kavda—floating not a hundred paces above them in the sky, and standing at the gunwale, his face unreadable, was Grigory Stasayev Bolgravya.
The fore cannon bucked as it coughed its own shot, and another of the akhoz was taken. The gun crew worked feverishly to reload as a rope ladder snaked downward.
Nikandr guided Nasim as Ashan limped toward the ladder. The akhoz screamed and gave chase, but they seemed hesitant. They released their fiery breath up toward the ship, but it didn’t travel high enough to do damage.
One of the akhoz shook its head and sprinted forward, but its left arm was taken off by another blast from the rear cannon. It fell to the ground, moaning and reaching for the dismembered arm that now lay far out of reach.
The ship descended far enough that Nikandr could lift Nasim up to the ladder. Ashan followed and Nikandr brought up the rear as the ship lifted. Nikandr’s legs and feet were burned by one last blast from two more akhoz, but he would count himself lucky if he had only blisters.
When he reached the deck, he found Grigory waiting. Five streltsi stood behind him—two held Ashan and Nasim; the other three held pistols at the ready.
Grigory jutted his chin toward the ladder. “If I hadn’t been given orders to bring you back, Iaroslov, I would have left you to them.”
Nikandr held his eye. “Spoken like a hound well trained.”
Grigory waved one hand, at which point two of the streltsi came forward and bound Nikandr’s hands behind his back. “We’ll see if your tongue is so loose when you return to a Khalakovo that finds itself in Bolgravyan hands.”
“Never.”
Grigory smiled. “By now Vostroma will have ordered the attack. ”Grigory shook his head sadly. “The eyrie will be taken first. Radiskoye will be saved for last, and it will be torn apart unless your father agrees to cede his islands to us.”
“He would die first.”
The smile on Grigory’s face was one of pure pleasure. “We can only hope, Nischka. And do not worry for your former bride. She has been promised to me, to reforge the southern alliance that has been, shall we say, lacking these last twenty years. I care little for that, but I will admit that I won’t mind sharing a bed with Atiana Radieva.”
Grigory paused, waiting for Nikandr to speak, and then his face lit into a smile and he released a full-chested laugh. “Your bride has just been stolen, Nischka. Can it be the vaunted Son of the North has no words?”
“She was never my bride,” Nikandr said, feeling his face burn. “She was a woman chosen by my mother, a woman as replaceable as your own mother.”
It was Grigory’s turn to burn red. His mother, Alesya, had been spurned by the Duke of Mirkotsk when he discovered just how homely she was. It had led to a small skirmish between the two duchies and had nearly led to civil war. Stasa had taken her as his bride, cementing his relationship with Dhalingrad, and he had refused to allow anyone to speak of the matter after they had been married.
Grigory stepped forward and struck Nikandr across the face. It stung, but Nikandr refused to bend.
“I’ll be sure to write to tell you how she tastes.” Nikandr could smell vodka on Grigory’s breath.
They were brought belowdecks—Ashan without his bracelets and circlet— and thrown into a small, windowless room near the center of the ship.
Nasim was taken elsewhere, no doubt so Grigory could turn his attentions on the boy before they reached the blockade. Nikandr started to think better of raising Grigory’s ire. He sincerely hoped the man didn’t do something eminently foolish with Nasim.
Like make him angry.
CHAPTER 53
Borund sat within the kapitan’s cabin, eying Atiana like a prisoner of war—like some Motherless wretch he was ready to drag before