Rabiah seemed to hear something, for she turned and looked deeper into the city. What had attracted her attention Nasim couldn’t guess. Rabiah glanced back once through the doorway, her eyes searching, confused. She didn’t seem to notice him.
And then she turned and walked away.
Nasim held the door open, hoping she would return, knowing she would not.
Then, knowing he had to leave now if he was ever going to, he closed the door until the latch clicked shut.
In that moment, he felt a boom. The earth shook and stones of the tower rumbled above him. He heard shouting and screams. Musket fire erupted, rising to a fierce intensity as men shouted and the clash of steel rang out. When Nasim opened the door again, he saw outside a completely different city filled with bloodied men waging war against one another.
Beyond the tower stood dozens of men wearing dark woolen cherkesskas. They held berdische axes in one hand, muskets in the other, and when they prepared to fire, they dropped the butt of the axe to the ground and placed the barrel of the musket at the crook of the axe head before sighting along the length of the barrel and pulling the trigger.
It all seemed as it should be, as if these men were merely a force of nature unleashing their vengeance upon another.
Another boom shook the tower. Grape shot tore through the forward ranks of the streltsi. Dozens of them spun and twisted and arched backward, as if they were men made from cloth and sticks, not blood and bone.
He thought at first that this was all happening in Alayazhar, but of course it was not. This city looked nothing like Alayazhar. Rabiah had transported him, or rather, the magic of Sariya’s tower had.
But where had he come? Kiravashya? Had the war stretched so far?
Neh, he thought as he took in the imposing form of the Mount. He was in Baressa, and the streltsi were warring against the men of the Kaymakam and the Kamarisi.
There were hundreds of Anuskayan soldiers along this length of road. The akhoz had gathered behind him. They watched, mouths open, tongues lolling, as if they tasted the battle that raged only paces away. They strained at their leash. They hungered for battle. But Nasim would not allow it. Not yet. Not here.
Among the cries of the wounded and the crack of musket fire and the sound of a charge in the distance, he heard the cawing of a rook. He saw the bird fly over a tall stone building and come winging down straight toward him. It landed and pecked at the ground. A young man of Anuskaya lay dying nearby. His fur-lined kolpak had fallen away, revealing dirty blond hair. He blinked several times with a look on his face that made it clear he thought the bird had come to save him. He tried to speak, but words failed him, and then he fell slack.
The rook beat its wings against the air and cawed over and over again, but then it regained itself and hopped toward the open doorway as the battle continued to rage.
“I have looked long and hard for you, Nasim,” it said in Anuskayan.
“Matra Saphia,” Nasim said, bowing his head though he knew not why. “I’ve just returned.”
“Returned to her tower.”
It was a question, one he could not in any way answer fully. “They took me,” he said simply, staring down at his robes, which were still bright red with blood.
The rook clucked three times. “So they did.”
The tower shook as another shot thundered into it. Stone and sand rained down. He could feel the entire structure begin to shift with several piercing cracks breaking through the sounds of war.
Behind the rook, riding on ponies from the same direction in which Saphia had come, were four streltsi wearing red kolpak hats.
“Quickly,” she said. “We must get you to safety.”
More screams of the dying came. As he stepped out of the tower, musket fire tore through the line to his right. A roar was taken up, and dozens of janissaries wearing tall turbans came rushing forward. Their strangely bent kilij swords were drawn, and they broke into the double line of streltsi. The shouting intensified as men were shifted from other parts of the line, but as soon as those orders were passed, another roar was heard. More men of Yrstanla counterattacking along the right flank.
All four ponies galloped forward. One was felled a dozen yards from Nasim. Another broke away to meet the charge of three Yrstanla soldiers. The pony rammed one, and the soldier took out another, but the third swung his kilij high over his head and down against the strelet’s thigh. The pony reared and clubbed the soldier, but the strelet was lost, blood poring from his nearly severed thigh before he struck the blood-slick stones of the street.
Before Nasim could stop them, the akhoz streamed out of the tower. Three ran like hounds toward the soldiers of Yrstanla. The soldiers’ eyes went wide. They warded the akhoz with their swords just before two gouts of flame were released from widened maws, catching them across their chests and heads. The third akhoz leaped upon one of the flaming men, taking him down and tearing into his neck with its teeth.
This one was shot point-blank by two other soldiers. It reared back, baring its teeth and blackened gums and leaping at another soldier despite the black blood seeping down from its chest and shoulder. It was caught by another musket shot in the temple, and a vicious slice from a sword across its neck, and it fell twitching to the ground.
Its brothers and sisters bayed in sickening tones, bringing the battle to momentary silence. Soldiers of both sides turned, weapons lowered, as they looked on with fear plain on their faces.
“Come!” Nasim called to them as the streltsi on the ponies rode near. One of the remaining two streltsi reached down. He and Nasim locked forearms, and then Nasim swung up into the saddle behind him. “Hear me! Come!” he called again.
And now they obeyed. Slowly, reluctantly, they turned away from the battle and followed the pony that bore Nasim southward.
The rook flew silently up and over the same buildings, guiding them. The streltsi followed, the hooves of their two ponies ringing, gaining in volume over the sounds of the battle as they wound their way through the empty streets.
As the sounds of battle faded, the relative peace allowed Nasim to notice what he hadn’t before. The sky. The wind. The taste of the air. It had that same feeling that it had had in Alayazhar.
And it felt worse.
The time was growing short.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
W ood thundered as the barque crashed into the bow of their brigantine. The deck bucked and slid beneath Nikandr’s boots. Three of his men fell, scrambling for handholds.
Nikandr’s attention was caught by a dark shape in the sky above him. It was a ship, gliding not thirty paces above them. There was another higher up, and another. Four in all.
Before he could identify them, the barque slammed into the cliff again. Gaping cracks formed in the hull, running jaggedly from top to bottom, and the ship was beginning to lose its loft. As the ship dropped, its seaward masts got caught up in their brigantine’s starward rigging.
“To the masts!” Nikandr cried. “Cut the barque free!”
The men responded, slipping down the deck to the foremast and climbing it quickly and expertly even in the wind and the shaking of the ship.
Nikandr looked up to the ships. His first thought was that the forces of Yrstanla had arrived, but these ships did not look new like the Kamarisi’s. These ships were old and weatherworn, and the sails were heavily patched and dyed gray as the Maharraht would do.
The barque pulled away, tugging on their lines, stretching them taut until the only thing that was holding them in place were the twelve mooring spikes that had been driven into the rocks of the cliff.
One of them snapped free as Nikandr watched. And another.
The bow of the ship swung wide, snapping another line, and soon all twelve had been pulled free and their ship was sliding out to sea.
