The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [210]
Something familiar draws her attention. A soulstone. She pulls her attention away from the ritual and turns northward. A skiff comes, and within it sits Nikandr, but his mind is free of his body. He floats as the Matri do, and he is drawn toward the boy, Nasim.
There is something holding him back, however. The Maharraht within the courtyard—Soroush and Bersuq and the others—they are chanting; they are drawing about them energy that will keep Nikandr from reaching Nasim, and she knows that this cannot be allowed. She must break their hold on the keep. After that, it will be up to Nikandr and the ancients.
Then the suurahezhan shifts. It lifts its head and turns toward the skiff, its attention focused on Rehada in particular.
And there is nothing Atiana can do to stop it.
When Nikandr and his companions returned to their own skiffs, they found that one of its sails had been slashed, just as Grigory’s had. The other skiff, however, was still intact, and they discovered why a moment later.
The loud crack of a pistol rose above the distant sounds of the windship battle still raging to the south. The ball zipped past Nikandr and with a meaty thud bit deep into the chest of the strelet marching double-time behind him. A strelet in a gray cherkesska leapt into the boat, shashka in hand. He attempted to slash its sail, but Nikandr fired his pistol and the man crumpled, his sword slipping from his hand.
They took to the skiff, loading sixteen men. It was unwise, Nikandr knew, but he felt the risk was necessary. He needed to reach Duzol before Soroush could complete his plans, and he would need the men to help stop him once they arrived.
Ashan took the sail and raced them southwest. The storm was beginning to abate, but there was snow falling still. They came closer to the eyrie than Nikandr was comfortable with, but the risk of being spotted and fired upon was one they would have to live with.
As they passed the eyrie, two large ships passed above them. They were firing upon one another, but Nikandr could not tell which ships were aligned with which sides. They were a goodly distance away and the snow was thick enough to obscure details.
Soon they were over open water and rushing toward Duzol. Long minutes passed, without either island in sight, but then from the canvas of white ahead came the darkening mass of Duzol, and soon they could make out the cliffs, upon which sat Oshtoyets, the small keep where Rehada had said the Maharraht and Nasim would be found.
“Straight in, men!” Nikandr ordered, knowing this was no time for subtlety and hoping that at the very least surprise would be with them.
The keep came into view, its gray walls dappled in white. The spire in the courtyard, however, was quite different. Not a flake of white marred its smooth black surface. Wisps of steam rose along its sides.
“Turn away,” Rehada said.
“Nyet, stay on course.”
“Turn away!” Rehada yelled.
Ashan, manning the skiff ’s sails, responded, drawing the wind from the north and shifting his stance to accommodate the way it pulled at the sails. But it was too late. From within the courtyard, Nikandr could see what Rehada had been worried about. The bright and burning form of a suurahezhan resolved there, and it was larger than the one that had killed Stasa Bolgravya. Its head was as high as the wall itself. Its form was ephemeral—shifting and sliding hypnotically—but it was still quite clear when it turned and focused its attention on their skiff.
On the walls stood many men—the remains of the Maharraht. They had muskets held at the ready, but they did not raise them to their shoulders. In fact they made no move to fire.
Within the courtyard stood Soroush.
And Nasim.
Nikandr could feel him. He was scared and lonely and in pain, but most of all he was worried; he was being used—he knew this—and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.
Soroush leaned over and placed something in Nasim’s mouth. Nasim accepted it.