gray clouds as snow fell upon her dark robes and hair. She looked grim, as opposed to Ashan, who stood in the center of the deck near the mainmast, as calm as ever.
The first of the cannon shots came before they had closed to within several leagues of the shores of Uyadensk. It was not long after midday, but the sky was a leaden gray, the snow splashing across it in vast, eddying swaths. A return volley sounded. It was impossible to tell who was the attacker and who the defender. The return shot had been fired quickly, which pointed to a prepared crew-a state that would probably not describe the enemy. Then again, they might have been more prepared than he had guessed-they would be expecting some sort of attack, after all-or the Matri may have sensed their approach.
As agreed, their ship and two others assigned as escorts lowered their altitude. Only minutes later a twelve-masted brigantine appeared in the air ahead of them, on a near collision course with the ship to their landward side. It fired its forward cannon even before it had begun to tail off its original course, but when it did, it began to veer across the Adnon’s path.
“Fire!” Nikandr shouted, “And dive, men! Dive!”
After an adjustment to the fore cannon’s aim, the gunner holding the firing brand lowered the glowing red tip to the touch hole. A tail of white blasted forth from the mouth. Nikandr could feel it in his feet as the shot tore into the seaward foresail of the oncoming ship.
“Dive!” Nikandr repeated.
Their dhoshaqiram was a man no older than Nikandr. He was very gifted, the Duke of Mirkotsk had said, and so had been assigned to Nikandr’s ship, but he was not working fast enough. The oncoming ship’s hull would sail past-barely-but the ships’ rigging was going to tear both ships apart.
Nikandr pulled hard on the levers of the helm, causing the Adnon to tilt counterclockwise. The ship responded, but slowly. It wasn’t going to turn in time.
Nikandr pulled harder than was wise-too often the workings of the keel would bend or snap outright if the steersman pulled too hard-and at the last moment the two forward masts passed one another. The two seaward mainmasts, however-longer than the foremasts-caught one another, and the Adnon’s — a single length of windwood-snapped a third of the way down. The other ship lost a spar and dozens of yards of sail and rope as it was ripped away by the Adnon’s wounded mast.
Rigging and sails were ripped away as the ships cleared one another. A sailor was slipping along a rope, hoping to avoid the debris, but he was caught by a large wooden block across his back. He fell to the deck with a meaty thump.
“Fire aft!” Nikandr shouted.
The other ship’s kapitan called out the same command. The two cannons fired nearly simultaneously. Several of the Adnon’s crew, less than ten paces from where Nikandr stood at the helm, were ripped apart by the incoming grape shot. All three men fell to the deck, little more than bloody masses of flesh and lead.
The chained shot his own men had fired a scant moment before they had died whipped outward, the two balls twirling before catching the starward mizzenmast halfway along its length. A huge crack rent the air, and the mast tilted forward noticeably, the three white sails flapping like sheets. The mast tilted to one side as the ship’s nose tipped higher than its rear.
The Adnon continued on, Nikandr righting its heading and adjusting for the wounded mast. The other ship was soon lost from sight, swallowed whole by the howling storm.
Nikandr released his breath slowly. At the very least there was no need to worry about that ship. With yards and yards of canvas gone or ineffective, the entire characteristics of the ship would be thrown off. In this wind, in the low visibility, it would not rejoin the battle. It would in fact be just as likely to crash into land or sea as regain the eyrie.
Before they had gone another quarter-league, a crewman shouted, “Ship, aft!”
Behind them, in the blowing snow, a small, eight-masted caravel resolved against the background of the dark gray clouds. Moments later, another came clear-a huge, sixteen-masted clipper.
“Sound the bell,” Nikandr called.
Nearby, the boatswain rang a brass bell three times, just loudly enough for the ship on either side of them to hear. Moments later, the two ships began tailing away as Nikandr ordered the ship to climb. He felt himself grow heavy as the ship obeyed. The landward ship dropped and trailed away. The other ship began slipping windward, maintaining altitude.
Two shots came from the clipper, but they had been directed toward the starward ship. The other trailing ship, however, was ascending, hungry on the tail of the Adnon.
Now that it was closer and the ship could be seen more clearly through the snow, Nikandr realized whose ship it was. To the confused looks of his men, he laughed-even Rehada stared at him with a dour expression-but he ignored them all while staring at the trailing ship. With dozens of ships sailing the winds, the ancients had seen fit for Grigory to have found him.
“Get the gunners to the rear, boatswain,” Nikandr said, “and have them fire at will.”
The boatswain clapped his heels and shouted for the men to move aft. They hauled their equipment with them, and several crewmen came behind, hefting sacks of powder and the wooden trays that held the burlap bags of shot.
A rook flapped in and landed on the deck near Nikandr’s feet. It wore the device of Mirkotsk around its ankle.
“Swiftly, Iaroslov,” the rook said.
“What’s happened?”
“The Maharraht have secured an area near Radiskoye. Vostroma’s men have either not noticed or are choosing to ignore them.”
“Ranos?”
“Has begun the attack on the eyrie.”
“Then we’ll be alone?”
The rook tilted its head backward and cawed as grape shot whizzed through the air above them. “It appears so, Khalakovo, but it may not hold.” It flapped its wings and took to the air. “It may not hold,” it repeated as it flew over the edge of the ship and dropped from view.
Ashan, who hadn’t moved during the fighting, woke himself and climbed the stairs to reach the aftcastle. “We have reached land,” he said to Nikandr.
“After the next cannon shot, drift down as we agreed,” Nikandr called, “and prepare the skiffs.”
At the calls from the ship’s master, two dozen streltsi stormed up from belowdecks and moved themselves into the two skiffs waiting on either side of the deck.
The aft cannon fired, but its aim was too low and it tore a meaningless hole into the hull of the Kavda. As soon as the shot had been fired, every-one-the crew and Rehada and Ashan-grabbed onto whatever they could. The next moment, the dhoshaqiram allowed much of the buoyancy to leave the windwood, and the Adnon plummeted.
As soon as the Kavda was lost from view, the waiting streltsi filed into the skiffs. Ashan, Rehada, and Nikandr moved to the one on the landward side. Once they were seated, the crewmen above began cranking the windlass like madmen, letting out the stout ropes that held the skiff secure. The other skiff followed suit, and soon they were floating free of the ship’s seaward sails.
The wind was strong. It threatened to swing them into the sails, but these men were seasoned. They raised the skiff ’s sails quickly and released the catches on the two steel clamps securing the ropes.
Ashan, working alone, used the two ropes attached to the lower corners of the sail to guide the ship. He was their lone havaqiram, but he was exceptional, and he guided the ship forward and downward smoothly and quickly. The other skiff, steered by a younger havaqiram, was having trouble with the wind, but he was a man Father had sworn by, and he seemed to be holding his own.
The Adnon, now far above and ahead of them, was nearly lost from sight, but the Kavda had lowered further-perhaps overcompensating for the sudden drop of the Adnon. Nikandr was sure that they would launch skiffs of their own, but they continued doggedly. Nikandr was watching the deck closely when a silhouette stepped to the gunwales and looked downward through the swirling snow.
He could not be sure-he could see no clear details-but something inside him knew that it was Atiana. He nearly called out to her, but it was a foolish notion, quickly discarded. She would not hear him, and if she could, so
