The soldier, bearing the stars of a desyatnik, hopped up to the wagon, stepping past Ashan to take a key from the driver. He used it to unlock the chains that secured Nikandr and Ashan to the iron rings. “Where is the other?” he said, referring to the key that would release their manacles.
“I don’t have it,” the driver said quickly. “Prince Grigory kept them for himself.”
Using his pistol, and that of his second-in-command, he shot first Nikandr’s and then Ashan’s manacles free.
“Quickly, My Lord,” the desyatnik said, motioning Nikandr to the steep downward slope to the northwest.
Nikandr needed no reminder of how little time they had before the pursuit was on them. He leapt down and then he and Ashan and the soldiers were off, running down the mountain at a speed that made Nikandr fear he would break an ankle at any moment. Ashan, despite his age, held up well, and all of them made it down to a plateau before the sound of galloping ponies could be heard from the trail behind them. The sound of barking dogs came as well.
“Halt,” the desyatnik called. “Reload, one musket only.”
They did, and they were as quick, even in the darkness, as Nikandr had ever seen. In less than twenty seconds, they were done, and as a group they descended along the next slope.
The barking dogs, perhaps eight or nine of them, were gaining on them quickly. When it was clear they would not be able to outrun them, the desyatnik called for another halt and for the men to line up their shots. In fits and starts, a dozen shots rang out, and a good many of the dogs were felled; but three made it through, leaping upon the men, who defended themselves with muskets at the ready.
Two soldiers cried out, but the others pulled long knives from the sheaths strapped to their thighs and stabbed the dogs until all of them lay dead or dying. They continued without pause, though it was with no small amount of regret since most of the dogs-perhaps all-had been Khalakovo’s. It was a terrible betrayal to kill beasts that had been raised to protect his father’s land.
The pursuit was gaining on them. Nikandr spared a quick glance, seeing only silhouettes-perhaps a dozen of them-with more following on foot.
The first shots rang out as they reached a gently sloping land that led down to the seashore. A waterborne ship waited in the distance. More shots were fired, and one of the men to Nikandr’s right was struck. He grunted-no more than this-and on they went. Another shot struck the ground near Nikandr’s feet. He cringed reflexively as a spray of loose gravel pelted his legs and chest and face.
The ponies had reached open land behind them, and they were now galloping wide, clearly hoping to cut them off before they could reach the ship.
They had not counted on the men from the ship.
A half-dozen shots rang out, accompanied by flashes of white. Three ponies fell. The enemy reined in and fired into Nikandr’s group-ignoring the ship-as their reinforcements on foot began to close in. One soldier screamed and fell. Immediately two others shouldered their weapons and lifted him up, supporting him while moving as quickly as they could manage.
“Reload,” the desyatnik called as more shots came in from the ship. They did so on the run, and as they finally neared the water’s edge, the desyatnik ordered them to fire. Most did so, the others continuing into the surf.
Two rowboats waited. The soldiers levered themselves in as return fire came from the shore. They rowed furiously as the men on the ship attempted to suppress the fire of the men in pursuit. Another soldier was shot through the chest, but finally they rowed beyond the far side of the ship so that it would shield them from any more incoming fire. Immediately, the firing from the deck ceased as well-the men taking cover as the ship, which had already put on a good amount of sail, headed westward toward open sea.
“All quiet,” came a voice that was soft but nonetheless carried over the entire ship.
By the time they reached the deck, the men on the shore had given up. Minutes later, nearly a league out to sea, Nikandr saw the barest form of a windship scouring the waves. Their ship had veered from their initial course, however, and was now heading in a northerly direction.
Minutes passed, and slowly it became clear that the pursuing ship would not find them. And finally, Nikandr breathed a sigh of relief he’d been holding since the first shot had been fired outside the keep.
Nikandr couldn’t sleep, partly because of his wounds, partly because of his inherent distaste for waterborne craft, and partly because he was so unsure about what the coming day would bring. Kapitan Lidan would tell him little except that he had been ordered to take the desyatnik and his men to the coast of Duzol and to bring him southeast when they returned.
“But there is nothing to the southeast,” Nikandr said.
“The Matra said you’d be transferred.”
“To what?”
“I’m sorry, My Lord Prince, she didn’t say.”
Most likely there hadn’t been time to arrange anything more complex. It was probably wise, as well, not to tell the man too much in case they were caught. There would probably be a windship sent to pick him up. He only hoped it came sooner rather than later, for his stomach’s sake if nothing else.
He abandoned his cabin well before dawn. The air was bitterly cold and blustery. As the sky brightened in the east, the black wings of a bird could be seen heading toward them from the south. It became clear that it was a rook, but it did not land. It only turned and flew southward again, a sign that they should follow. If Nikandr had judged their speed correctly, they were heading toward the Shallows, an area directly south of Uyadensk that had a mass of sandbars spread over an area nearly as large as Duzol.
As the sun rose, a high layer of clouds rushed in from the west. Not long after, snowflakes began to fall-an ill omen for the day to come.
Two airships were spotted off the portbow flying low over the sea. At first he thought they belonged to one of the traitor dukes, but then he recognized a ship he had sailed on three different occasions-a massive four-masted galleon known as the Hawk of Rhavanki. Then he saw where they were headed: a mass of seven windships anchored in the sandbars.
Clearly an important gathering had been called, and it made a certain sort of sense-the traitor dukes would be scouring the islands, all of them, in search of Nikandr and in hopes of suppressing any incoming resistance. Father’s only hope for surprise was to avoid such places and to have the allied Matri mask their presence from the others.
Ashan stood on deck, watching. He had a concerned look on his face, as if this was the last thing he had hoped for.
Nikandr stepped close to him and spoke softly, even though he was among allies. “In the cell last night, you said that Nasim would be healed if I drew him across.”
“That is what I believe.”
“Why? What does the rift have to do with it?”
“It is only at the rift, Nikandr, the deepest part, that we will have any hope of success.”Ashan glanced around the deck, then up to the rigging, making sure no one was close enough to hear.
“And my stone?”
“That is what will draw him. He will see it and you will draw him to our world.”
They fell silent as Kapitan Lidan joined them. He pointed up to the sky, to a skiff that was headed their way. “Best you get ready.”
Soon they were on the skiff and headed toward the Zhabek, a ship of Mirkotsk nearly as large as the Hawk. The snow had begun to fall more heavily, though it was still only a light snowfall. On deck, Nikandr was surprised to see several dukes: Andreyo Rhavanki, Heodor Lhudansk, and Aleg Khazabyirsk were speaking beneath the helm, and they were not dressed in their rich coats of office, but the long, dark cherkesskas cut in the style of the windsmen. Each had the designs of their Duchy and other badges of honor upon their left breast.
“What is happening?” Ashan asked. His face was tight, the wind whipping his curly hair about his forehead and cheeks.
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
“But Nasim…”
“I’ll do what I can, Ashan. For now you must trust me.”
