expected things to go so badly.
Several of the streltsi boarded the ship, but as Ashan was being led toward the gangplank, a horrendous rumble filled the eyrie. One moment the stone of the westernmost turret was bulging outward and the next its entire face, including the cannon emplacement, was tumbling to the ground. Nikandr felt it in his feet, in his chest and shoulders. Several streltsi were caught in the fall. Their bodies were dashed like pebbles upon the surf. A cloudo f dust exploded into the air, turning ochre and orange from the nearby fire.
Nikandr was shoved onto the ship by the streltsi. Ashan and Nasim were right behind him.
“Prepare to cast off!” Zhabyn yelled.
Before the last of the stones had settled into place, a massive form lumbered out of the cloud. The backs of its arms and legs were smooth, mottled stone. The front of it was dark as night and glittering. Its eyes twinkled, and to Nikandr it seemed to have singular purpose as it stalked forward.
Retreating from the palotza, the remaining Vostroman soldiers moved in formation, firing at the hezhan as they went. Many fell as they were shot by Khalakovan muskets, forcing them into an all-out retreat for the Olganya.
Behind the vanahezhan were several men dressed in the loose clothing and ragged turbans of the Maharraht. They reached the edge of the garden that bordered the eyrie. One of them was shouting and pointing toward the Olganya, and Nikandr knew he was pointing at Nasim. Ashan placed his body between the boy and the violence.
Several of the men on the Olganya — and even among the Khalakovan streltsi-began firing at the Maharraht instead of the hezhan. They had found a common enemy.
The hands of the Maharraht were gripped into tight fists as they walked, and the expressions on their faces were ones of concentration and even pain. Tufts of fabric lifted and tore free of their frames, but otherwise they seemed unaffected. Then a shot struck the closest-an aging man with a long white beard-and a bit of his cheek split from his face as if he were made of stone. Of all the Maharraht, he was the only one who had a glowing gem of jasper fitted within his turban. He was the closest to the vanahezhan, and it soon became clear that he was the one controlling the beast.
“Cast off!” Zhabyn shouted while Borund ordered their men to return to the ship.
The streltsi tried, but the hezhan lowered itself and placed fists the size of beer casks on the ground. The stone at its feet flaked like dried mud in the rare heat of summer. The effect spread, faster than the men could run, and soon it had swept beneath them. The loose stone shifted beneath the soldiers’ feet, and many of them slipped and fell. One slid with the sound of scraping gravel as he approached the gangplank. He slid off the edge of the perch and plummeted soundlessly downward.
Shots continued to fly.
“The one with the white beard!” Nikandr shouted.
Few heard at first, but then more and more concentrated their fire on him. The old warrior cringed, no longer able to move forward. Seeing their success, the remaining streltsi lined up near the palotza’s walls shouted “ Kozyol!” and fired at the wounded man. The Maharraht pulled his arms tight around himself in a vain attempt at protection as several musket shots bit deep. He fell to the ground, twitching as many more shots struck home, and then his gem went dim.
The vanahezhan reared back, shaking its head to and fro. It dropped to its knees and struck its head twice against the stone. Huge, echoing booms shook the courtyard. And then it stood and stalked toward the ship.
The blast of a cannon shook the deck of the ship. The shot tore into the creature’s chest. The center was pulverized, and the remains of its torso cracked into several large pieces. It crumbled into a heap, and the men, both Khalakovan and Vostroman, raised their fists in a rousing and unified cheer.
The respite had given the remaining Maharraht time to rush forward as the Olganya pulled away from the perch. Zhabyn’s dhoshaqiram sat at her post near the center of the ship, palms laid against the deck, giving lift to the windwood from which the ship had been made. The havaqiram stood just behind her, calling the winds to pull the ship back. He spared one hand to raise a wind near the perch, sending dust and stone to flying around the Maharraht.
Soroush, the one with the golden earrings running through the scarred remains of his ear, ran toward the ship, which had nearly cleared the perch.
“Halt!”
Nikandr turned in time to see Ashan shoving Nasim toward the windward gunwale, away from the Maharraht. Ashan then lunged forward and grabbed the circlet from the brow of the havaqiram.
The wind swirled. The sails snapped. The rigging swung wildly as Ashan took two loping steps toward the gunwale.
Soroush shouted a command in Mahndi. The Maharraht stalked forward, pushing aside the streltsi who stood in their way. Ashan picked Nasim up and then tipped backward over the gunwale. He was gone, lost from view, taken by the howling wind.
A moment later the wind pulled sharply at the skiff lashed to the edge of the Olganya ’s deck. It rocked against its restraints, slamming the deck louder and louder, until finally the moorings were ripped free. Then it was gone, just like Ashan and Nasim.
The streltsi had been in complete disarray with the Maharraht among them, but they had regrouped. A dozen stood near the stairs leading belowdecks. The front six kneeled, the back six stood. The sotnik shouted, “Fire!” and the guns cracked in unison. Four of the Maharraht were struck as they tried to leap free of the ship. The other two reached the perch and ran along its length. Soroush hopped onto the back of the other, who crawled down along the perch’s stone supports like an insect. He moved quickly downward toward the surf before Zhabyn’s streltsi could reload. Several fired once they had, but with the winds and the distance to their targets, their shots would be ineffective.
For several moments the only sounds were from the burning ships. Then Father’s voice called out from the eyrie. “Zhabyn!”
Zhabyn, for the first time, seemed unsure what to do. He measured the carnage around him. Perhaps in that one moment he had come to regret what he’d done, but then the look was gone and he strode across the deck toward the gunwale.
As Zhabyn stared downward, Borund moved closer to Nikandr, pistol in hand. What Zhabyn saw, Nikandr couldn’t guess. He said nothing-only stared-but he was stiff, as if what he saw below had come as a complete surprise.
The Olganya had slipped toward the Tura, which was almost completely engulfed by fire. The bowsprit of the Olganya was momentarily caught in the rigging of the starward mizzenmast.
With most of the streltsi reloading, Nikandr ran for the bow.
Borund shouted behind him, “Nikandr, stop!”
He didn’t. He couldn’t.
A pistol fired.
Nikandr felt his shoulder flare in pain as he leapt for the rigging.
Ranos held Atiana’s arm in a tight grip as they made their way through the halls of Radiskoye. When they reached the long hallway that led to the eyrie, they found the Duke of Khalakovo standing behind a dozen streltsi, speaking with a man dressed in the uniform of a sotnik. The soldiers were filing outside, taking aim and firing on her father’s ship, the Olganya.
Before Ranos and Atiana could reach him, a rumbling shook the foundations of the palotza. It increased in intensity, and Atiana saw from the corner of her eye the crumbling of one of the palotza’s turrets. It happened at an impossibly slow pace, as if everything were caught in honey.
Then the leaded glass within the row of tall windows crashed inward. Atiana raised her arms, turning away as the sound intensified. A deafening roar filled the air, and she screamed as bits of glass tore into her arms and shoulders.
The roar subsided, followed by the sound of impossibly heavy stones clacking hollowly against one another. Other sounds entered her consciousness: the coughing and moaning of wounded men, a shrill cry for help, the sporadic crack of musket fire.
Ranos dragged Atiana to her feet. Bits of glass tore into the palm of her hand as she steadied herself, but she did not cry out. She refused to let Ranos hear such a thing.
