CHAPTER 34
Borund wore a thick cherkesska, the type one would wear on a long journey, and his cheeks were flushed as if he’d been in the elements.
Nikandr stared at the pistol, realizing he had come for Nasim. “Never did I think to see this day.”
“Then you’re as blind as your father.” He pointed to Nasim with his pistol. “You should have given him to us the day you found him.”
“You would have done the same in our place.”
Borund paused. “You are right. We all have our pride. But I think, all things being equal, we would not have placed the life of two Motherless so high that it would cloud our vision.”
“There is more to him than meets the eye,” Nikandr said.
“We will be the judge of that-not you, not your father, and certainly not that Motherless qiram. Now come.” Borund waved his pistol, indicating that Nikandr should step into the hall. “I would rather this trigger go unpulled.”
Nikandr complied. A dozen Vostroman streltsi stood at the ready in heavy winter coats. In the other direction were two dead guardsmen.
Three of Borund’s men moved into the room-one of them hoisting Nasim over his shoulders, the other two pointing their pistols at Ashan.
Ashan looked completely helpless. He held his hands before him in a gesture of peace. “Please don’t hurt him.”
Their only response was to shove him into the hall. They all left en masse, seven soldiers to the fore, then Nikandr, Ashan and Nasim, and finally Borund and the remaining men. The gaoler had also been shot. He lay behind his desk, a sea of blood pooled beneath him.
As they took to the stairwell leading up, it was clear Borund’s mission had not gone unnoticed. A smattering of gunfire could be heard above, and by the time they reached the ground floor, the clash of swords rang through the halls of Radiskoye.
Nearly two dozen Vostroman streltsi had set up a host of tables and statues as barricades, but the Khalakovan soldiers had broken through, and there was now a violent skirmish being waged not twenty paces down the hall. The polkovnik of the royal guard was among them, and when he saw Nikandr he shouted for his men to push, and the fighting intensified.
Borund pressed his pistol into Nikandr’s back. “Come, quickly, and you’ll live to see another day.”
Nikandr allowed himself to be taken. They moved southward, toward the eyrie, and Nikandr wondered how much damage had been done in order to capture one small boy. How many men had been killed?
They moved through a set of tall glass doors and into the garden. The eyrie lay just beyond, and a great fire was raging through the rigging of the Tura. As he watched, flames washed over the deck of the Gorovna, which was moored to the perch.
Nikandr swallowed, his hands balling into fists at his side as the flames began climbing the starward mainmast. Gravlos had worked day and night to repair the ship, completing it well before his estimates in hopes of appeasing Zhabyn Vostroma. But now it was another victim in this cowardly attack.
Nikandr turned, but Borund had guessed his intentions and had his pistol raised and aimed at Nikandr’s chest.
“Don’t be foolish, Nischka. It’s only a ship.”
Gunfire cracked over the eyrie, coming from the walls. One of the streltsi on the Gorovna screamed and fell. Two of his countrymen carried him. A dozen more returned fire and retreated toward Vostroma’s ship.
I am lost, Nikandr realized.
He would be taken as a hostage, a bargaining chip to force Khalakovo to do as the southern alliance commanded.
He could not allow it, but he could see no way out of it other than simply leaping from the eyrie or getting shot in the back.
Shortly after Radiskoye came into view, Atiana’s pony collapsed. She was thrown to the ground, dirt and stone biting the palms of her hands as she rolled away. She whispered a prayer of thanks to the ancients for giving the animal such strength as she jogged up the hill.
Her will was strong and her need was great, but the pitch of the road soon slowed her. A smatter of gunfire came from the palotza, echoing moments later against the cliffs of Verodnaya. By the light of the flames she could see Khalakovan men firing into the palotza grounds-aiming, no doubt, at her countrymen. Atiana bent over, grasping her knees as her lungs burned. After only a moment, she spit to clear her mouth and pushed on, worried now not just over Nikandr, but her family as well.
When she came within a hundred paces of the wall, where the ground finally leveled off, a cannon blast lit the night. She felt it in her chest, and she saw outlined in the white flash the streltsi manning the weapon.
The gates were closed, and Atiana saw no one manning them. Most likely they were on the far side of the barbican, training their muskets toward the courtyard. She approached and was just about to call out when another cannon lit the wall. The blast had also lit the low clouds, giving off enough light to reveal the forms of men-a dozen or more of them-crawling up the wall.
She stood stock still, afraid to move, afraid to give her position away. As the flash from the cannon fire faded and her night vision returned, the glow from the fire gave her enough light to detect the dark forms of the men climbing upward. They were already halfway to the top.
It was the Maharraht, she realized. In moments they would gain the battlements.
“On the wall!” she screamed, hoping she wasn’t making a huge mistake. “On the wall, attackers!”
She didn’t know if they could hear her, but the Maharraht certainly did. Several of them looked her way, and she could see the dull glow of the jasper gems upon their brows. Two slid down the wall, reaching the ground in less than a breath. They sprinted toward Atiana as she continued to yell. “To the wall! To the wall!”
Atiana made for the barbican as quickly as her leaden legs would allow.
One of the Maharraht was just below the crenelations along the curtain wall. As he reached up, the report of a flintlock broke the crisp night air. He struck the earth with a hollow thump. Another Maharraht flung his arm. A spray of rock flew from his hand toward the strelet who had fired. Like the spray of grapeshot it cracked along the top of the wall. The strelet screamed, grabbing his face with both hands, losing his musket. Three more streltsi arrived and were treated to a similar attack.
Atiana reached the huge doors and began pounding them with her fists. “Open! It is Atiana Vostroma! Open the gates!” She heard footsteps approaching from behind. “Please, hear me!” Her fists felt like mangled pieces of meat.
She turned around just before the men reached her, but her face was stung by dirt and stones as the wind picked up and swirled around her. It howled, and the only thing she could do was ward her face with her forearms and press backward into the door.
Suddenly she lost her balance, falling backward as the door opened behind her. She was grabbed by the elbow and pulled inward. The sound of the wind dropped. There was light, but her eyes stung so horribly from dust and dirt she couldn’t see.
The door slammed shut and several men secured it with three massive wooden beams. Atiana blinked, her eyes watering, but she could see by the lantern light a tall Aramahn man walking down the stairs. She recognized him as Jahalan, one of Khalakovo’s wind masters. Behind him came Ranos, who was bleeding from several cuts along his forehead. He looked fierce as his eyes met hers.
Atiana cringed as another cannon blast shook the room and trails of dust filtered down from the stone ceiling.
“The Maharraht,” Atiana began, unsure of what to say amidst all this madness.
“We know.” Ranos came to her side and took her arm in a painfully tight grip. “Come,” he said while leading her toward the inner gate, “the Duke would speak with you.”
Nikandr ducked as a canon blast struck the Vostroman yacht Olganya. For the first time, Nikandr noticed Zhabyn standing on the foredeck, watching the scene play out before him. His eyes met Nikandr’s momentarily as the streltsi led Nikandr toward the ship. His eyes were smug, but there was a tautness to his frame. He had not
