them were aflame. As the Lihvyen and the Opha wheeled windward and cut back toward the wide plateau below the fort, the first of the ships they’d struck was little more than a burning torch twisting down toward the sea.
Nikandr ordered skiffs readied. Fifteen men from each ship loaded into two skiffs. They broke away and made their way to the ground, nervous that the enemy would be difficult to reach now that they’d taken the fort. They landed on the grassy plain below the fort and ran forward, each man bearing a musket, watching the fort for any sign of the enemy. There were none, however. They weren’t along the walls. They weren’t manning the towers.
But there was smoke on the wind. It rose up from the courtyard and drifted, a thin streamer floating up and away.
As they approached the keep, all muskets trained on the shattered remains of the doors or the top of the wall, Nikandr heard a hissing sound.
The hiss of gunpowder.
“To the courtyard! They’ve set gunpowder to blow!”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than a bright flash lit the interior of the fort. A bare moment later, something struck Nikandr in the face and chest and limbs.
He flew backward. A roar unlike anything he’d ever heard assaulted his senses.
He struck the ground, losing his musket. He stared up at the sky, his ears ringing.
And then he heard the crumbling. A sound like a landslide. A sound like the earth itself was opening up beneath him, beneath his men, ready to swallow them whole.
He rolled over and managed to make it to his knees.
The rumbling grew louder.
He looked up and saw the spire-seventy-five feet of obsidian standing tall and black against the blue of the sky-begin to tip. It tilted toward the courtyard’s interior. Toward Nikandr and his men.
“Away!” he shouted, though it was weak and caused him to begin coughing. “Away!” he shouted again through his coughs.
He helped the nearest of his men to his feet. It was Styophan, he realized. And then the two of them helped another. Soon all of them, including one they were forced to drag, were moving away from the walls of the fort as quickly as they could.
The rumble increased yet again. Nikandr glanced back and saw the top of the spire plummet. The tower crashed down, fell against the nearest wall of the fort, crushing it as if it were made of ash. Like leaves in autumn, the stones of the wall blew outward, pounding into the men on his right. In an instant seven of them were dead.
Some hidden force pushed at their backs, though it was not so strong as the explosion. Dust billowed outward and enveloped the entire area. In moments all of them were coughing and hacking and wheezing, and it was nearly impossible to see.
At last they made it out and away to clear ground and clear air.
They stopped and turned, looking at the cloud of dust that was still settling.
That was when Nikandr felt the wind. He felt it in his chest first-his chest and his soulstone, both.
He pulled the stone out and held it in his hand. He closed his eyes and opened himself to Adhiya. He could feel the havahezhan, the one that had been with him since Soroush’s men had summoned it forth on Uyadensk. But now it grew distant. It slipped further and further away. And then it was gone, ripped away, leaving an empty feeling that made him double over with a nausea he hadn’t felt since the worst of the wasting was upon him.
At last, all had grown quiet-all save the settling of stone within the broken walls of the fort. The area around him-the narrow plain, the sparse trees, even the tall brown grass dusted with snow-felt expectant, as though it knew what was coming.
The nausea began to ease, and Nikandr stared up at the sky. There had been only a few clouds high up before the fall of the spire, but now they began to form before his very eyes. Like cream poured into water, the clouds billowed and grew in odd, lurching increments. A rumbling came from above. Lightning lit the clouds, which were already beginning to darken. Soon the entire sky was covered in a thick layer, and it was settling over the island, lowering like a great woolen blanket thrown over the world by the fates themselves.
When the wind began to pick up, Nikandr realized that the sky was no place for his ships to be.
He turned east and scanned for them. They were told to hold position further inland, well away from the range of the fort’s cannons, but they were now approaching with speed.
And yet it felt as though they were leagues away.
Nikandr began to run. “We must warn them,” he said, waving his men to follow. “They must moor the ships in the cove!”
As he ran he waved his arms over his head. Styophan and Jonis and a half-dozen others followed, doing the same.
But already the wind was high and swirling. There were times when it robbed him of breath. The moment he was able to clear it, he shouted, higher and higher, as high as his raw and aching throat would allow him.
The ships twisted in the wind. They were blown north and then east. Nikandr could see crewmen standing on the deck, could see them in the rigging. Some of them saw him as well, for they waved back and seemed to then call toward the master to come to the gunwales.
Nikandr never found out if the master had heard, for just then, the Lihvyen, the closer of the two, twisted, nose down, until it was nearly standing on end. They had pulled in a good half of the sails, but the spars were beginning to snap. The rigging was ripped away from its belaying pins. White canvas flapped like burial pennants in the wind.
And then the Lihvyen shot down with such speed that Nikandr knew it was going to crash.
A pattering sound could be heard, coming from behind them. Nikandr glanced back and saw sheets of hail falling from the sky. It rushed toward them and fell upon them like wolves. It stung their face and hands and shoulders. It caused them to slip and fall, so thick was it in moments.
They continued on as they could.
The Lihvyen rushed toward the ground. Through the haze of hail, Nikandr could see men falling-or perhaps leaping-from the ship. Most flew wide, but several were caught in the whipping sails and rigging.
But then Nikandr saw a form flying free from the ship, not downward, but to one side. It was Jahalan. His robes whipped fiercely about his frame as the wind held him aloft. The alabaster gem glowed brightly upon his brow, much brighter than Nikandr had ever seen one become. He was like a bright star, his arms wide-taken, perhaps, by the havahezhan he’d bonded with.
“ Nyet, Jahalan.” It was too much, Nikandr knew. He was giving too much.
The wind changed. It became less chaotic, more focused on the Lihvyen. By the ancients who protect, the ship was slowing down.
But there was only so much Jahalan could do.
Nikandr wanted to add his own effort to Jahalan’s, but he still couldn’t feel his havahezhan.
In the sky, as the ship plummeted past Jahalan, he arched back as if he were offering all of himself to the hezhan if only it would save the ship.
The alabaster gem upon his brow burst in a spray of scintillating light as the Lihvyen crashed. The speed was not as great as it might have been, but still the forecastle crumbled beneath the weight of the ship’s impact, perhaps lessening the blow to those who remained. Snow and earth erupted as the bow gouged deeply. The stern tilted high and then tumbled over, snapping masts and rigging as it went.
Jahalan’s body plummeted and was lost among the rubble of the Lihvyen.
In the distance, dropping much faster than the Lihvyen had, the Opha struck the crest of the angled plain they stood upon. Nikandr knew immediately that everyone onboard had died.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
W hile Nikandr and his men searched through the wreckage of the Lihvyen, the hail continued to fall mercilessly. The sound of it was deafening, and for a time it grew so bad that all they could do was huddle beneath
