The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [201]
Grigory began to speak, but Borund raised his hand, giving Nikandr a clear indication that Zhabyn Vostroma was still very much in command. “Too late, Nischka. It was too late the moment you refused to hand over that boy, and to claim now that he is an enemy of Khalakovo reeks of desperation.”
Two streltsi picked Ashan up and led him out of the donjon as the gaoler unlocked Nikandr’s door.
Nikandr did not try to argue. Anything he said now would only cement Borund’s opinion. The only hope he had now was to speak with Zhabyn, to convince him that a trade with his father was in his best interests. Perhaps he would agree to give Nikandr over if Father agreed to give up Radiskoye. The decision could not be allowed to stand, but it would give Nikandr the time he needed to locate the Maharraht and stop them.
Waiting in the crisp evening air of the fort’s courtyard were a dozen mounts and a flatbed wagon. Borund and Grigory mounted ponies as the streltsi guided Ashan and Nikandr up to the rear of the wagon and chained them to heavy iron loops bolted through the bed.
They left, tack jingling, hooves clomping, with Borund and Grigory at the fore, followed by four mounted streltsi, the wagon, and four soldiers at the rear. Flying as a captive to Grigory on the Kavda had felt strange, but it had been a relatively private affair. Here, being dragged in the open on the bed of a wagon like a criminal being taken to the gallows was much more personal, much more public. Grigory turned in his seat several times to look at him though the sun had long since set and there was only a faint amount of light in the western sky.
The trail leading down toward the manor house was not in disrepair, but neither was it often used, and so the ride was rough.
They were only minutes away from the fort when, in the brush to the right of the trail, a light flashed, followed immediately by the crack of a musket.
A split-second later, the strelet riding furthest ahead dropped from his saddle and thumped to the ground.
CHAPTER 62
Nikandr watched as the first of the ships far ahead were lost from view in the snowstorm that had progressed steadily from a dusting to an outright blizzard. He had been too brash earlier. He had declared the storm an ill omen without considering its ability to hide them as their ships descended on Volgorod.
Behind the swiftest ships—which had been placed at the vanguard of the attack—were nearly five dozen more. It represented the entirety of their resources. Some were warships, more than ready for battle. Some had been hastily fitted with cannons in order to play a role in the battle—Nikandr could locate these easily by the way they listed to one side, the cannons not having been aligned properly with the masts. Other ships were decoys that had been fitted with cannons that were no more than mast poles painted black and affixed to cannon mounts. They would fool no one if they came close, but that was not their goal. They were there to provide cover so that Nikandr and Ashan and Rehada would have enough time to do what was needed.
Nikandr stood at the helm of the Adnon, a twelve-masted brigantine. Rehada was nearby, peering into the gray clouds as snow fell upon her dark robes and hair. She looked grim, as opposed to Ashan, who stood in the center of the deck near the mainmast, as calm as ever.
The first of the cannon shots came before they had closed to within several leagues of the shores of Uyadensk. It was not long after midday, but the sky was a leaden gray, the snow splashing across it in vast, eddying swaths. A return volley sounded. It was impossible to tell who was the attacker and who the defender. The return shot had been fired quickly, which pointed to a prepared crew—a state that would probably not describe the enemy. Then again, they might have been more prepared than