The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya (90 page)

Soroush must have known this as well, for he was watching Nikandr closely, as if he expected Nikandr to say something of it, as if
he too
knew they were still enemies and that if they lived beyond the days ahead their hostilities would resume.

It reminded Nikandr of their time on Rafsuhan, when the two of them were still feeling one another out. It reminded him, too, of Soroush’s abduction.

“Why did Muqallad take you?”

“What?”

“On Rafsuhan. He took you and left me. Why?”

He shrugged. “Who knows the mind of Muqallad?”

“What did he want with you?”

“Can you not guess?”

“My guesses are worth nothing.”

Soroush’s jaw set, and his eyes flickered with anger. “Why he took me is of no consequence.”

Nikandr’s first instinct was to bark back a reply, but the two of them, if not allies, had at least come to understand one another, and it was through this lens that Nikandr began to understand. “He wanted the hearts of the Maharraht.”

Soroush’s expression turned dark.

“He wanted the hearts of the Maharraht,” Nikandr repeated, “and Bersuq wasn’t delivering them.”

“My brother was loyal to his people.”

Nikandr bowed his head. “He was loyal, but also torn.”

“As I am torn.” Soroush said it so flatly that it took Nikandr aback. Muqallad had no doubt tried to convince Soroush that his cause was not merely worthwhile, but righteous. And Soroush had listened. Even now, there was doubt in his eyes.

A distant boom drew Nikandr’s attention. It drew Soroush’s as well. It had come three points off the windward bow. Another boom sounded moments later, and more as they continued on their southeastward heading.

“Come about,” Soroush ordered.

They did, followed by the three trailing ships.

But the sounds of battle continued to approach. They could hear the calls of men now, orders shouted in haste and fear. Given the cannons’ rate of fire it was clear that a ship was being chased by at least two others.

Soroush used hand signals to pass orders to his men—an upheld fist for absolute silence, an upturned palm to the pilot to bring the ship higher, three tight circles with the index finger to bring guns to the ready. The signals were similar to those used by the windsmen of Anuskaya, used when silence was absolutely necessary.

It was a near thing, but they were rising fast enough that they would most likely avoid being seen, but then Nikandr heard a voice in the fog, a call made in desperation to his men.

It was the voice of Grigory.

N
ikandr stood at the bow of the
Bhadyar
, his eyes fixed down toward the sea where the sounds of battle still raged.

He considered leaving Grigory to his fate—it was important they reach land without being discovered by the Hratha or the Kamarisi’s men, and Grigory’s betrayal still stung, more than he’d realized until now—but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t abandon his countrymen.

“Soroush, we must turn back.”

“
Neh
, it cannot be risked.”

The report of a cannon shook the air.

“They are my
blood
.”

“I’m sorry, son of Iaros.”

“We must rescue them! They can help us!”

“What will help is to land and to worry about Muqallad. Blood or not, the Atalayina cannot be risked.”

Nikandr’s desperation turned to anger. He was ready to fight if need be, but as he stood there staring into Soroush’s stony eyes, he realized that his touch to Adhiya had returned. He could feel his havahezhan once more. Where it had gone he didn’t know, but for the time being he didn’t care. He drew upon it, more sharply than he had for some time.

The winds responded, snapping the sails and pulling the
Bhadyar
off the course the Maharraht qiram had set for them.

Soroush, realizing what was happening, pulled the khanjar, a dark length of steel, from his belt and stalked forward. “Stop, son of Iaros.”

Styophan shouted, “
Kozyol
!” and rushed forward to meet Soroush, but before he could take three steps, two Maharraht rushed in and grabbed his arms.

The winds increased. The ships slowed.

Soroush drew his arm back. The earrings along his ruined ear glinted, even in the dim light. He could easily swing it and cut Nikandr’s head from his shoulders. “Stop!”

“I will not!”

Soroush breathed heavily. His shoulders heaved; his eyes were aflame. At the boom of a cannon, much closer now, he glanced over to the gunwales. The battle was raging just below them. It would be easy now to slip behind the enemy, especially in the fog that had continued to thicken, but any moment now someone on those ships would hear the rhythmic pounding of the
Bhadyar’s
canvas.

Soroush, eyes still aflame, lowered the sword and stepped so close to Nikandr that they were practically nose-to-nose. “This is a foolish choice, son of Iaros.”

“I cannot leave them.”

He nodded and spoke so that only Nikandr could hear. “I know.”

And then he spun around and sheathed his sword and began sending hand signals to the rest of the crew.

Nikandr immediately released the call of his havahezhan. Though the spirit obeyed, it did so only reluctantly. Instead of drawing on the world, it drew instead upon Nikandr, made him cough, reminding him of nothing more than the wasting disease he’d had years ago.

Orders were relayed to the other ships via hooded lanterns as the Maharraht crewmen prepared the ship. They were a crack crew, these men, nearly a match for the best crews Nikandr had sailed with.

The ships swooped down like eagles. They found one ship in pursuit, and then another, both of them crewed by men wearing the black robes of the Hratha.

As the battle was joined, Nikandr struck the bell in a sequence that he hoped Grigory would hear. It was a call to allied ships that help was needed. If Grigory or any of his men heard it, they would hopefully understand that help had arrived.

Nikandr felt winds blowing against the ship—the havaqiram calling upon their spirits to delay them. Nikandr worked against them, keeping the winds as steady as he could. They tried to fly above the enemy to drop fire pots upon their ships, but the Hratha—like Soroush’s men—were too cunning. These men had been fighting Bolgravya and Nodhvyansk for decades; they were battle tested, and it showed.

For nearly an hour they tried unsuccessfully to catch them at a disadvantage. Even with four ships, they couldn’t manage to pin them down, and suddenly the
Bhadyar
was caught too far from their allies.

As the Hratha ships approached—one to the landward side and one to windward—Nikandr realized he could see only a few crewmen among the rigging.

“Get down!” Nikandr called.

Just as he ducked behind the starward foremast, the Hratha rose from behind the bulwarks, muskets at the ready.

The crack of musket fire rang across the deck on both sides. Cries of pain rose above it, some cut short by added fire.

The Maharraht crew manning the two small cannons was decimated. One returned fire, but it was hasty, the cannon ill-aimed.

“Boarders!”

Nikandr looked over the edge of the ship. Along the enemy ship’s seaward yards were four Hratha. As Nikandr watched, they swung down and across the open space between their ship and the
Bhadyar
. One of them had a stone of opal that glowed, making it clear he was bonded to a dhoshahezhan. All four landed in the
Bhadyar’s
seaward rigging and were lost from sight.

It was a risky maneuver, but smart if it worked, for the seaward sails were the least manned. They might try to set fire to the ship from there, or cut what rigging they could before men could arrive to stop them.

“Come,” Nikandr said to Styophan.

The two of them slipped over the side and dropped to the landward shrouds. They moved quickly along the rigging, seeing one of the Hratha sawing at the ropes of the seaward mainmast. Nikandr hooked his arm around a rope and slid along it to the crow’s nest.

They were just below the Hratha.

Seeing them approach, the lone Hratha stopped sawing at the ropes long enough to pull a pistol from his cloth belt and fire it.

Nikandr felt it tug his cherkesska just beneath his rump.

Another pistol shot came from Styophan at Nikandr’s side. Blood welled up along the Hratha’s ribs, below his heart. He dropped his pistol and fell groaning from the rigging and plummeted into the fog.

Nikandr scanned the underside of the ship for the other Hratha. Three more Maharraht had joined him and Styophan, but of the enemy he could see no sign.

And then he looked straight up.

The mainmast had a ladder that led from the crow’s nest, along the mast, and through the hull and into the lowest deck. It would normally be secured.

But the dhoshaqiram…

He could use his spirit to work at the wood, to warp it and allow him entrance.

But why? Why would they steal into this ship of all ships when so many men stood against them?

And then it was crystal clear.

“Come!” he shouted to Styophan.

And he took to the ladder, climbing as quickly as he could.

“Tell Soroush!” Nikandr shouted to the Maharraht, waving them back up to the deck. “They’ve come for the Atalayina!”

They nodded and climbed up toward the deck as Nikandr reached the dim interior of the ship.

He could see little, but he pulled his own pistol—

—and managed to raise it just in time to block the sword thrust of the Hratha that stood over him on the ship’s lower deck.

He heard something click on the pistol as the blade struck. Nikandr aimed and pulled the trigger, but nothing happened.

The Hratha, expecting the pistol to fire, was momentarily stunned. But he recovered quickly. He pulled his sword back and swung down fiercely. He was cramped by the low ceiling, however, and the motion was unnaturally compact.

Nikandr slipped as far as he could to his left. The sword bit into the wood just to his right.

The Hratha was close now, allowing Nikandr to reach forward and grab his leggings. He pulled with all his might and the Hratha tumbled forward. Nikandr pulled his kindjal from his belt and stabbed it into the man’s throat. Blood spurted and immediately the Hratha’s hands went to his neck, trying to stop the flow of blood.

Nikandr pushed him away, allowing himself and Styophan to gain the deck.

They moved quickly to the stairs, but just as they reached the top, where the men slept, they heard the sounds of ringing steel above. A musket was fired as they climbed the stairs toward the main deck. Then another, as men shouted in Mahndi, “Stop them! Stop them!”

Nikandr made it back to deck just in time to see the two Hratha running along the windward mainmast. They moved with sure steps, as if their feet were glued to the wood—an effect, no doubt, of the qiram’s bonded hezhan.

A half-dozen Maharraht, including Soroush, were lined up along the windward gunwales, each of them bearing muskets. One fired, catching the Hratha that was closest to the ship, but immediately after the boom of a cannon came and grape shot tore into them and the wood of the gunwale. The shot was not well aimed, but it caught four of them. Blood and bits of wood flew outward from the men gathered there.

As cries of pain fell across the deck, Nikandr rushed to the gunwales. Another Hratha ship was passing just below them along the windward side.

Nikandr dropped as he noticed, from the corner of his eye, the forward cannon pointed up toward him.

A boom shook the ship, and more grape shot bit into the bulwarks, spraying his side with splinters of wood.

He made it to his knees in time to see the dhoshaqiram, a knife in one hand, leap from the end of the windward mainmast. He flew downward and used the knife to punch into the other ship’s mizzen mainsail. Downward he slipped, slowing himself with the cut of his knife against the canvas. The sail flapped free as he reached the foot of the sail and crashed against the deck.