The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya (98 page)

“Nikandr!” Atiana called. There was a desperation in her voice that he didn’t understand.

Until he saw the creatures bounding after her.

He sprinted toward her, his men close behind. They passed the larch and reached the entrance to the street in little time. The akhoz behind her uttered sickening brays that made Nikandr’s skin crawl. They galloped along the cobblestones like dogs. In moments they’d be on her.

“Down, Atiana!” Nikandr called as he skidded to a halt and swung his musket up to his shoulder.

Atiana either didn’t listen or hadn’t heard, and the first of the akhoz leapt upon her back, driving her to the ground.

It cleared a path for him. He fired at the second akhoz. Styophan, standing to his left, fired as well, as did two Maharraht.

Two akhoz dropped, writhing on the ground as the one that had leapt on Atiana fought with her, snarling and clawing as Atiana screamed.

Nikandr charged forward, pulling his shashka.

Atiana twisted away and kicked at the akhoz. It rolled away momentarily, but it gave Atiana enough leverage to kick again, this time much harder.

The akhoz was much smaller than Atiana, and it was sent reeling backward. It struck the cobblestones while releasing a sound that was half growl, half mewl. It spun over and was back on all fours when Nikandr swept in and brought his sword down hard, aiming for its neck. The creature ducked, receiving a cut across its shoulder blade. It scrabbled away, but Nikandr lunged forward and drove his sword through its gut.

It screamed to the night sky. The sounds echoed among the buildings. It grasped at the sword blade, slicing its fingers open as it clawed for Nikandr’s hand. He jerked the sword free, and at last it collapsed to the ground.

“Atiana,” Nikandr said as he stepped close to her.

She stood, the whites of her eyes visible in the early morning light. She stared at him as if she didn’t know him.

Nyet
, he thought, as if she were
afraid
of him.

“Atiana,” he said, softer this time. He reached for her hand, but she snatched it away.

It was then that Nikandr realized that all of them—he, Styophan, the Maharraht—all of them were in a narrow stretch of street, one easily defended on both sides.

“Reload!” he shouted, while Atiana stared at him with uncaring eyes.

The men responded, but too slowly. Dark forms slid into the street from an alley ahead. They swept in behind.

One of the Maharraht brought his weapon up.

Three muskets flashes came from the men ahead, and in that brief moment, Nikandr could see that they were Hratha, their black robes merging with the deep shadows.

The Maharraht grunted and fell to the ground. As he wheezed, a gurgling sound coming from a chest wound, the Hratha called in Mahndi, “Lay down your arms.”

Nikandr had no intention of obeying. The Hratha could not be trusted, especially now with all their plans so close to fruition.

He drew upon his hezhan, pulling the wind to swirl through the narrow street. Dust and dirt stung him as he grabbed Atiana’s wrist and pulled her back toward the edge of the alley.

The Maharraht and the men of Anuskaya took this as his answer, and those that had already reloaded fired.

The Hratha returned fire, and Nikandr saw a glowing stone of jasper upon one man’s brow. Another of azurite glowed a deep shade of blue. A cracking sound rent the ground. It shook the street and the nearby buildings.

Nikandr held Atiana close as he called upon the wind to drive the Hratha back. He saw several raise their muskets, but only two shots were released.

Nikandr opened himself wider. He stepped away from Atiana and spread his arms wide. The presence of the hezhan filled him. He felt the flow of the wind through the streets of the city and called upon it to converge here. He called upon it to scour the Hratha from their path.

The wind answered, hungry for the breath of man, but just as it rose to a gale, Nikandr felt a rising fury within him. His mind went wild, memories of walking on the fields below Radiskoye coming to him, of planing curls of wood as he worked on the helm of the
Gorovna
, of those nervous moments before he’d touched stones with Atiana years ago when they were to be married. Those and a thousand more came unbidden. He had no control over them, and soon after he felt his muscles going slack.

He realized in a distant and disconnected way that this was no illness, that this was something being done forcibly
to
him.

He was being assumed, he realized, and he couldn’t at first understand who would attack him in such a way.

Stars filled the field of his vision as his knees gave way and he tipped toward the ground. As the ground rose up, he had a sudden moment of crystal clarity. He knew who had done this to him.

He knew without a doubt.

It was Atiana.

He would have felt betrayed if it hadn’t been for the stone-hearted indifference radiating from her.

He willed his arms to arrest his fall, but they refused him, and he struck the ground like a tree felled. And then the darkness, held at bay for so long, finally embraced him.

A
tiana watches as Nikandr falls to the ground.

He goes limp. Beneath him, strangely, are
two
glowing soulstones, not one. She kneels down to inspect them, but the akhoz are hungry. They shuffle toward him until she holds her hand up for them to stop.

Two of the Maharraht charge her, and she’s forced to back away.

“My Lady Princess!” This comes from a strelet at the head of a group of soldiers. Atiana has seen him before. This is Styophan. For years he’s been Nikandr’s steadfast second, a loyal soldier who would protect him above all things.

“Please wake!” Styophan runs toward the Maharraht, dropping his musket and pulling his eagle’s-head shashka from its sheath. The sword gleams for a moment in the early morning light. “Call them away!” he pleads, just before the first of the akhoz leaps through the air toward the Maharraht standing before him.

The first of the akhoz loses an arm to a fierce swing of a blade from the first of the Maharraht, a young man with bright eyes and a black beard. The akhoz falls to the ground from the force of the swing, but it is up again moments later, blood pouring from its wound as it ducks beneath another hasty swing by the Maharraht. It is within the young man’s guard now, and it is vicious, grabbing the Maharraht’s sword arm and snarling forward toward his throat.

“Princess Atiana! You must wake!”

She looks toward Styophan. For a moment, she remembers who she was, remembers that she came to this place for a different purpose. She came to kill, perhaps, but not these men. Not
this
man.

Then something bears down on her and smothers her will. In the time it takes her to flick her wrist toward the akhoz, she has forgotten her allegiance to this soldier of Khalakovo.

The akhoz abandon their attack on the two Maharraht, who have fallen to the cobblestones, moaning in pain, bleeding their lifeblood. The akhoz charge Styophan and the streltsi who stand by him, shashkas at the ready. The first is cleaved through its ribcage where it has no arm to defend itself. Styophan kicks the akhoz free and drives his sword tip-first through the second. This one, a girl who might have been twelve or thirteen when she was changed, is run through, but she reaches out, snatches his jaw, and pulls herself forward until she’s able to pierce his right eye with a long, claw-like thumb.

Styophan screams, writhing, trying to shake her away. His comrades step in, and the girl leaps to another man, darting forward until she’s high enough to latch her jaws onto his throat.

The last of the battle rises to a bloody frenzy in its closing moments. More and more of the Maharraht and the soldiers of Anuskaya fall, and at last it is ended, and all Atiana can hear is the ragged breathing of the akhoz; all she can feel are the stares of the Hratha as they wait for her.

She ignores them, gazing down upon the soldier, Styophan. Blood pours from his ruined eye, from the jagged cuts along his scalp and face from the akhoz. She watches his chest rise and fall slowly with breath. It won’t be long before he passes the veil. She should care that he is about to die, but the truth is she does not. All she feels is a cold satisfaction that the end is finally near. What does it matter if one more is lost before the time has come?

And yet, she’s unwilling to order his death, not when he’s no longer a threat. Let him lie here in the streets. Let him pray to his ancestors if he wishes. That will be a good enough death for this soldier of Anuskaya.

One of the Hratha approaches, but she turns and points him back toward the Spar, then she beckons the akhoz and motions to Nikandr. “Take him.”

The nine that remain obey, lifting Nikandr and bearing him on their backs like food for their burrow. The Hratha in their dark robes and black turbans walk ahead and behind, watching for any signs of the enemy who might be lying in wait. She knows already that the city is all but deserted of military men. All that remain are the huddling inhabitants of this doomed place.

There
is
something that draws her attention, however.

Ishkyna.

She moves through the aether like a moth, barely visible as she flits near the flame. Atiana wants to find her, to rend her as a cat rends meat, but she cannot—not unless Ishkyna falters and comes too close.

For now, Atiana ignores her and heads for the bridge, moving through the old city with its graceless stone buildings. Under the growing light of dawn, they look like things long ago abandoned, the sad remnants of man. She wonders whether the buildings will remain—and the roads and the eyries and the homesteads—or will they be gone? Will they be burned as the akhoz were, forging the world anew as the Atalayina had been?

And what of the world beyond? Will it too burn?

She supposes it will.

The light in the east makes her think of nothing but the kindling of the fires that will soon consume the world. The wind, as if heeding the call of the coming dawn, rushes along the streets. The last of the spires fell upon Kiravashya yesterday, and though the weather has been strangely still since then, it now builds. The wind is strong and getting stronger, and soon it will be a gale the likes of which has never been seen.

The skin between her breasts itches. The tips of her fingers tingle. She can hardly wait.

She comes to the wide thoroughfare that leads to the Spar. She hears the battle beyond the bridge, hears the screams of individual men rising above the calls and cries of war. She sees the brightness of the cannon flashes against Baressa’s tallest buildings.

Ahead are those she left earlier to set her trap. Muqallad and Sariya stand near the first stones of the Spar, but they have not yet stepped foot upon it. Why, she does not know. Nearer, the girl, Kaleh, watches. She looks as though she wishes to approach, but Muqallad summons her and she leaves. She cannot hear Muqallad’s words, but he points to the Spar, and immediately after Kaleh begins to first walk and then jog across the impossibly long bridge.

As she does, Atiana feels something—a shifting of wind in the dark of the aether—and it comes from the Spar.

She strides forward, steps up onto a wooden stage in the abandoned yard of an auction house, and from here she can see much of the Spar unobstructed. The upper reaches of its white stone are difficult to discern against the white cliffs beyond, but the tall, elegant arches are easy to see.

Atiana closes her eyes, casts herself outward, searching for the source of the disturbance. The sight of the Spar fades and is replaced by the blue-black of the aether. She moves like a marlin through the ocean depths, flitting along the Spar, searching its arches and the supports structures beneath the road deck and the squat towers at the center where the keystones were recently dropped into place. But there is nothing. Nothing.

And yet she knows there must be.

Have you found it?

It is Sariya.

Not yet
, she replies. Sariya is weak, but has the strength yet to cast herself into the aether. If she bonds with Atiana, they might find the source together.
Join me,
Atiana says
.

The two of them meld their minds with one another. It is not so easy to do, partly because they are unaccustomed to one another, but mostly from the wound Sariya took from Ushai’s blade. She is so close to parting the veil it is a wonder she can draw breath much less navigate the currents of the dark. Still, she is Al-Aqim, and she has strength yet. It allows Atiana to search more thoroughly, to sense the subtle shifts in the currents of the dark.