The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [207]
Grigory’s face hardened.
He motioned for the men to fan out to his left, to converge on the sounds of the musket fire that lay between them and Nikandr. They stalked forward, but one of the Maharraht called out a warning. Many of them turned and fired, as Grigory’s men laid into them.
It was then, with several Maharraht dropping their muskets and charging with wickedly curved shamshirs drawn, that Atiana realized why Duzol felt so near. Why it felt ripe.
The rift here on Uyadensk was not the place where Nasim could be used. It never had been. Ashan had been wrong in the beginning, and she had been wrong in the end. Like a jeweler calculating the perfect angle with which to strike the uncut stone, the Maharraht had understood that the key was not the rift on Uyadensk, but the one on Duzol—not because it was the largest, but because by ripping it wider it would cause a chain of events that would lead to the destruction they hoped to wreak.
“Grigory, stop!” Alesya yelled through Atiana’s voice. “Stop!”
Grigory didn’t listen. He couldn’t. He was locked in swordplay, parrying the fierce slashes from a tall Maharraht warrior.
That was when it struck.
A musket ball.
Without warning.
Straight through Atiana’s chest.
The enemy on the knoll had inexplicably pulled away, leaving Nikandr’s men free to face the Maharraht to the rear. The two forces crashed together. Men shouted as steel fell upon steel. In moments, their line was complete chaos. Blood fell upon the snow as soldiers dropped on both sides.
Nikandr parried the attacks of a warrior with a long black mustache. He retreated, keeping his parries slow, baiting the other man. When he finally overextended his advantage, Nikandr sidestepped quickly and drove his shashka through the man’s gut. He withdrew quickly and slashed the man across the throat before he could attempt a dying stroke.
His men were in disarray. There were less than a dozen left against twenty Maharraht. It would be over in moments.
But then a cry rose from beyond the knoll. Nearly two dozen streltsi came running over the hill.
“Hold, men! Hold!”
They did, and soon after the other group of streltsi fell upon the Maharraht. None of the enemy withdrew, however. None turned to run. They fought to the death, the last cutting four streltsi down before he took a musket shot at point-blank range through his chest, and even then he grabbed the end of the unfortunate soldier’s musket and swung his shamshir high over his head and swept it across the other man’s neck. The strelet’s head fell against the beaten and bloody snow, emitting a sound like a fallen gourd.
The Maharraht tried to fight on, but he fell to his knees while stumbling against the uneven, blood-matted snow. He blinked several times before the streltsi nearby fell upon him, unleashing their fury, their swords rising and falling and cutting him into barely recognizable pieces.
And then Nikandr saw the commander of the streltsi.
It was Grigory.
And he was pointing a musket directly at Nikandr’s chest. “Lay down arms, Khalakovo.”
Nikandr stood there, blood trickling across his elbow and along his forearm. He shook his head and allowed his shashka to fall to the trampled snow at his feet. They were in no position to disobey, and he would not sacrifice his men for one last, meaningless gasp. “Lower your arms.”
“My Lord Prince,” a Bolgravy and esyatnik called from the top of the knoll. “It’s Lady Vostroma. She says we are not in the right place.”
“I can spare no time for her now.”
“She is calling for you. She’s been shot.”
Nikandr’s breath fell away.
Grigory’s face went white. He turned and with two of his men and a havaqiram ran toward the top of the rise.
Nikandr tried to follow but was stopped by Grigory’s men. He railed against them. “Let me pass!” he shouted. But they would not.
Grigory turned, pausing to stare at Nikandr with a look on his face like he was considering allowing him to come. He looked—in that one brief moment—like a boy who was having trouble with the mantle that had fallen into his lap. It looked like he desperately