The Flames of Shadam Khoreh (The Lays of Anuskaya) (56 page)

Something dark flew above the wall to Nikandr’s left. Another came, but the moment Nikandr turned his head to see what it was, the Kiliç ahead of him pressed. He had seemed to be flagging mere seconds ago, but now it was all Nikandr could do to fend him off. His blows rang down hard, beating against Nikandr’s sword arm.

Nikandr leaned back from a blow instead of blocking, did so again when the Kiliç advanced, and then caught him with his sword too wide. Nikandr swept his sword up, catching his enemy across the wrist. The Kiliç retreated immediately. Blood spilled from the wound. After beating away one last desperate attack, Nikandr stepped in and drove his sword through the Kiliç’s exposed gut.

Chaos raged around him.

Styophan and his cousin, Rodion, were fighting with Soroush. Yasha had stepped to Nikandr’s right to intercept one of the enemy, who was trying to flank Rodion.

Rustam, a young strelet with black hair and a wickedly fast sword arm, fell to the ground to Nikandr’s left, blood pouring from a deep wound in his neck. The Kiliç he’d been fighting, who had just taken a deep wound to his thigh, retreated.

Rustam, however, had taken a deep stab through his chest. He looked up to Nikandr, his eyelids tightened in pain. As blood flowed freely over his janissary’s uniform, he flipped his shashka around and held it for Nikandr to take. “Use a proper sword, My Lord Prince.” No sooner had Nikandr taken it than Rustam’s head fell back, his green eyes staring sightless toward the sky.

Another shape flew over the wall, landing at the top before dropping down and into the field of battle. More of the Kiliç. They were launching themselves over the wall to engage. There were a dozen of them now, fighting Nikandr’s fifteen. Even as he crossed swords with one of them, more of his streltsi fell.

This was a battle they could not win, not if more of the Kiliç came while his own continued to fall.

“Together, men! Pull together!”

The men withdrew while sliding in toward one another, and soon they had something resembling a line. But they were only ten now, against the dozen Kiliç.

Nikandr glanced back. They were only halfway across the lawn. The relative safety of the building might as well have been leagues distant.

Another strelet fell as a sword cut fiercely down across his shoulder and into his rib cage.

Nikandr slipped on the slick ground. He fell and scrabbled away.

The Kiliç he was engaged with advanced quickly, bringing his sword up high.

Nikandr managed to beat away two strokes and roll away from a third. But the fourth caught him at an odd angle, and he lost grip of his shashka.

His left hand was already reaching for his kindjal, but he knew it would be too late.

The roar of a single, desperate soldier made the Kiliç turn.

Yasha, brave Yasha, swept in and rained blows down on the Kiliç. The enemy was fast, but Yasha was a blur. He forced the Kiliç back, shouting all the while. Then Yasha caught the Kiliç with a deep cut to his arm. He followed it immediately with an advance and a thrust of his sword through the Kiliç’s chest. Yasha’s shashka bit deep, cutting through the hardened leather armor.

Nikandr had no sooner made it to his feet than another Kiliç came in from behind.

“Yasha!” Nikandr shouted.

He tried to intercept the Kiliç, but he was too late. The Kiliç caught Yasha across the back of his calves.

Yasha fell, grimacing against the pain with clenched teeth. He tried to keep his sword high, to block the next blow, but could not. He dropped his guard and lowered himself to his hands.

The Kiliç Şaik raised his sword high—

“
Nyet!
” Nikandr cried.

—and brought it down across his neck.
 

Yasha’s head rolled away as his body collapsed.

Nikandr released a guttural cry and fell against the Kiliç. He brought his sword down again and again, a rain of blows that the Kiliç could not fend off. At the last the Kiliç’s sword came up too late and Nikandr caught him against the top of his brow, the sword cleaving his skull. The Kiliç’s body spasmed and fell to the ground, twitching.

Nikandr surveyed the field, his breath coming in heaving gasps. By the ancients, there were only seven of them left including Soroush, and the Kiliç Şaik had ten. And even as he watched three more passed through the iron gate.

They had to run. They couldn’t stand against so many.

Just as he was about to call for retreat, the report of a pistol rang across the bloody lawn.

One of the Kiliç that had just run through the gate grabbed for his back and fell heavily to the ground.

Another pistol fired, and another Kiliç dropped.

At the gate stood two streltsi. They ran forward fanning wide as more streltsi came behind them. These men bore wheellocks as well. Once they’d cleared the wall, they stopped and aimed. The wheellocks spun, sending sparks into the air, and the pistols fired. The last of the newly arrived Kiliç fell to the earth, and then over a dozen men of Anuskaya came charging, pulling swords with one hand, holding pistols in the other, shouting at the top of their lungs. Nikandr took up the call as well, as did the men around him. Even Soroush joined in as he beat away the attacks from two of the Kamarisi’s swordsmen.

Soon the battlefield became little more than wrathful cries and the ring of steel and spinning wheellocks and the sharp smell of gunpowder.

None of the enemy retreated. Perhaps they hoped that more of their own would come, or perhaps they hoped to take down as many of the enemy as they could in order to protect their kasir. Whatever the case, they fought to the very last man.

When the last of the Kiliç had finally fallen to a sharp thrust from Styophan, the men of Anuskaya stood at the ready, waiting, as if they all expected the enemy to stand up, or for more to leap over the wall, but none did, and they moved quickly to help those of their fallen who were still alive.

It was only then that Nikandr realized Ashan was among those who’d come at the last. Ashan had his circlet and bracelets back. He had his stones as well. He must have found them in the tower before coming here.

While the men cared for the wounded, Nikandr waved Ashan and Soroush and Styophan over. “Three are missing,” Nikandr said to Ashan. “Where are Nasim and Sukharam and Tohrab?”

Ashan looked back toward the grey tower, the top of which was barely visible over the wall. “I’ve not seen them since we arrived and I was placed in one of the uppermost cells. They were not in the tower when we searched. We looked in every cell.”

Over Styophan’s shoulder, the bulk of the men were helping the wounded. He did a quick count. There were perhaps twenty still able to fight. Twenty. How in the name of the mothers and fathers was he going to save the Kamarisi with only twenty men? And how was he going to save Nasim and Sukharam at the same time?

He told Ashan quickly of what Styophan had told him, that the Kamarisi had become an unexpected ally, that the Haelish were even now ready to attack and kill him. “The Haelish,” Nikandr said to Styophan. “Will they listen to you?”

“If we can find King Brechan, he will hear our plea, but I can’t say what his answer will be.”

That was their only hope, then—to find Brechan—for they would never be able to fend off the forces the Kamarisi would have amassed there.

Nikandr turned to Ashan. “Can you find Nasim and Sukharam?”

Only moments ago, Ashan’s alabaster stone, the one set into the circlet upon his brow, had been dull and lifeless. Now it was glowing—not brightly, but enough to make it clear that Ashan was now bonded with a havahezhan. “I will find them, son of Iaros, if they can be found at all.”

Nikandr stepped in and hugged him. “Five of my men will go with you. The rest will wait for you in the stables.”

Ashan tried to smile, but his eyes took in the carnage around him. “Go, Nikandr. Save the Kamarisi if he can be saved.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Nikandr rode atop a tall black stallion with Styophan beside him on a roan mare. The rest of his men—eighteen in all—rode behind, the thunder of their hooves ringing through the city as the citizens of Alekeşir, those few who remained in the streets, noted their passing with widened eyes. Their destination, the massive dome at the center of the city, was easy enough to see, but the streets of Alekeşir were confusing and difficult to navigate. And strangely enough, there was a cloud of birds high above the city, circling slowly, directly above the dome. Perhaps here in the capital the birds had learned that crowds might leave scraps of food.

Nikandr might have chosen to go straight east along the main thoroughfare—it would have brought them to the dome faster—but their purpose was not to blunder onto the grounds of the dome, but to remain hidden for as long as they could, and most importantly, to find Brechan before he attacked. They would have no chance of doing this at all had Styophan not known their basic plan. Brechan was coming in from the north with his most trusted men, and they were the ones who would wait for the Kamarisi to be flushed toward them by the others, who would sweep in toward the dome from the south.

Nikandr was well aware that noon had passed. He was also aware that the conflict at the kasir might have caused the Kamarisi to have been alerted. But even if men from the kasir had gone to the dome, they most likely would alert only Bahett, not the Kamarisi, and knowing Bahett, he would consider the threat to the Kamarisi minimal. Plus, in the end, Bahett wouldn’t much care if Selim was killed. He would remain regent one way or the other.

They came to a square where the top of the white dome was in clear view of a row of two- and three-story buildings.

“Here,” Styophan said as they came to a halt. “We should fan south from here.”

The square was deserted. This close to the dome, anyone refusing to attend the address would be punished severely, which had left the streets blessedly empty. This was part of the old city, and as such the streets were narrow and serpentine. Six of them led from this old square with a well at the center. It was as likely a place as any for the men of Hael to have come. From here they could easily spread out to cover the entire area directly north of the dome.

“Good,” Nikandr said. “Styophan and Soroush, with me. The rest, spread out in threes.” He pointed to the two northward streets. “Even there in the event they were late in coming.”

The men did so while Nikandr, Styophan, and Soroush headed directly south toward the dome. As they rode, Nikandr heard a young man’s voice calling over the eery silence of the city. By the ancients, it was Selim. He was still giving his address. They’d come in time, then.

“Why wouldn’t they have attacked by now?” Nikandr asked.

Styophan spoke softly. “Perhaps they wanted the Kamarisi’s speech to be delivered in full before they took his life.”

Nikandr nodded, granting him that. The Haelish might indeed wish to embarrass the Empire by waiting for this speech of power and permanence to be complete before they drew blood from the very one who’d spoken the words.

At an intersection, Nikandr looked down a narrow alley and saw three of his streltsi riding along another street. He saw no fear in their eyes. They were ready, these men, ready for whatever would come. Nikandr waved and they waved back, and then they all continued on. Selim’s voice was coming clearer now, though he couldn’t yet make out the words. Surely the address was coming to a close. It was well past the noon hour.

Nikandr watched among the stone buildings, down the alleyways and arches. The darkened doorways and the occasional plum or lemon tree in the small yards that could contain them. They were nearing the point where the sound of the horse’s hooves might be heard by the people in the circle by the dome. Nikandr was ready to call for a halt when Styophan pointed ahead to a doorway that was partially open.

The sun was bright enough that he couldn’t see into the shadows, but Styophan was already snapping the reins of his horse and moving ahead of the group. He didn’t call, but he waved his hands above his head, waiting for the person within to recognize him. The door opened a moment later and a tall man with broad shoulders stood in the doorway. The man remained as Styophan and the others approached, but Nikandr could see now that he was jittery, as if he had smoked too much of the foul black tar the drug dens of Alekeşir were famous for, but his eyes were too sharp—angry even—for that to be the reason.

Styophan slipped down from his horse and approached the doorway. “We must speak with Brechan.”

“The time for that was last night, Styophan of Anuskaya.”

“The time is now.” Styophan turned and motioned to Nikandr. “We’ve found our prince, but there is reason to keep the Kamarisi alive.”

The Haelish warrior regarded Nikandr impassively and shook his head. “No reason Brechan will hear.”

“Let
him
be the judge, Datha. This could be the ruin of us all. The withering. The rifts. The deaths of so many in Hael. It will not stop unless we can reach the islands, and Selim has promised help.”

“Lies,” Datha said. “Lies for the benefit of the Empire.”

“I have no love for Yrstanla. You know this. So believe me when I say I would do nothing to help them. It is
they
that will help
us
. There is little time left, Datha. I only wish to speak with him.”

Datha stared down at Styophan with uncaring eyes.

Styophan, however, stepped toward the towering Haelish man. Nikandr had no idea what he was doing until his hand had shot out and punched Datha in the throat.

Datha doubled over, holding his throat and reaching for Styophan at the same time, but Styophan had stepped back, forcing Datha to stagger forward in order to reach him. The moment Datha did, Styophan ducked and slithered behind him, catching Datha’s leg in a twisting move that brought the big man crashing down to the dirt road. In a blink Styophan had Datha’s arm behind his back and his pistol to the back of Datha’s head.

With his black eye patch and grim expression Styophan looked like death itself. “You may not care if you die this day, but when the gun goes off it will alert the Kamarisi and his guard. Now tell me where he is.”