The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [203]
“Get the gunners to the rear, boatswain,” Nikandr said, “and have them fire at will.”
The boatswain clapped his heels and shouted for the men to move aft. They hauled their equipment with them, and several crewmen came behind, hefting sacks of powder and the wooden trays that held the burlap bags of shot.
A rook flapped in and landed on the deck near Nikandr’s feet. It wore the device of Mirkotsk around its ankle.
“Swiftly, Iaroslov,” the rook said.
“What’s happened?”
“The Maharraht have secured an area near Radiskoye. Vostroma’s men have either not noticed or are choosing to ignore them.”
“Ranos?”
“Has begun the attack on the eyrie.”
“Then we’ll be alone?”
The rook tilted its head backward and cawed as grape shot whizzed through the air above them. “It appears so, Khalakovo, but it may not hold.” It flapped its wings and took to the air. “It may not hold,” it repeated as it flew over the edge of the ship and dropped from view.
Ashan, who hadn’t moved during the fighting, woke himself and climbed the stairs to reach the aftcastle. “We have reached land,” he said to Nikandr.
“After the next cannon shot, drift down as we agreed,” Nikandr called, “and prepare the skiffs.”
At the calls from the ship’s master, two dozen streltsi stormed up from belowdecks and moved themselves into the two skiffs waiting on either side of the deck.
The aft cannon fired, but its aim was too low and it tore a meaningless hole into the hull of the Kavda. As soon as the shot had been fired, every-one—the crew and Rehada and Ashan—grabbed onto whatever they could. The next moment, the dhoshaqiram allowed much of the buoyancy to leave the windwood, and the Adnon plummeted.
As soon as the Kavda was lost from view, the waiting streltsi filed into the skiffs. Ashan, Rehada, and Nikandr moved to the one on the landward side. Once they were seated, the crewmen above began cranking the windlass like madmen, letting out the stout ropes that held the skiff secure. The other skiff followed suit, and soon they were floating free of the ship’s seaward sails.
The wind was strong. It threatened to swing them into the sails, but these men were seasoned. They raised the skiff ’s sails quickly and released the catches on the two steel clamps securing the ropes.
Ashan, working alone, used the two ropes attached to the lower corners of the sail to guide the ship. He was their lone havaqiram, but he was exceptional, and he guided the ship forward and downward smoothly and quickly. The other skiff, steered by a younger havaqiram, was having trouble with the wind, but he was a man Father had sworn by, and he seemed to be holding his own.
The Adnon, now far above and ahead of them, was nearly lost from sight, but the Kavda had lowered further—perhaps overcompensating for the sudden drop of the Adnon. Nikandr was sure that they would launch skiffs of their own, but they continued doggedly. Nikandr was watching the deck closely when a silhouette stepped to the gunwales and looked downward through the swirling snow.
He could not be sure—he could see no clear details—but something inside him knew that it was Atiana. He nearly called out to her, but it was a foolish notion, quickly discarded. She would not hear him, and if she could, so could the others on the ship. Above all, it was pointless. He could do nothing to help her—assuming help was needed at all.
Their ship was drawn downward into a thickening curtain of white. They landed without incident, though as soon as they did they heard a long, ragged line of musket fire come to them through the swirling snow. The shouting of men—a battle cry—and cannon fire sounded in reply. From a further distance—muted by the weather—were more cannon shots. The nearer conflict must be the battle