“What is there to do but go on?”
They resumed the chase, faster than before. Light began to fill the eastern sky. Gone were all but the brightest stars on the horizon, the weakest replaced by a swath of indigo that foreshadowed the dawn. They knew when they were coming close from the calls of the akhoz. Few had appeared at the battle at the munitions building, which made sense, for if the ritual was anything like the one on Rafsuhan, most would have been sacrificed to make the Atalayina whole.
They came to a place where six roads met at a large circle with a lawn at its center with a lone, towering larch. This was the heart of Vihrosh. The ponderous stone buildings were old remnants of the power that Vihrosh had once held as the seat of Yrstanla’s power here on Galahesh. On the far side of the larch, running down the opposite street toward the circle, was the silhouette of a woman.
“Nikandr!” Atiana called. There was a desperation in her voice that he didn’t understand.
Until he saw the creatures bounding after her.
He sprinted toward her, his men close behind. They passed the larch and reached the entrance to the street in little time. The akhoz behind her uttered sickening brays that made Nikandr’s skin crawl. They galloped along the cobblestones like dogs. In moments they’d be on her.
“Down, Atiana!” Nikandr called as he skidded to a halt and swung his musket up to his shoulder.
Atiana either didn’t listen or hadn’t heard, and the first of the akhoz leapt upon her back, driving her to the ground.
It cleared a path for him. He fired at the second akhoz. Styophan, standing to his left, fired as well, as did two Maharraht.
Two akhoz dropped, writhing on the ground as the one that had leapt on Atiana fought with her, snarling and clawing as Atiana screamed.
Nikandr charged forward, pulling his shashka.
Atiana twisted away and kicked at the akhoz. It rolled away momentarily, but it gave Atiana enough leverage to kick again, this time much harder.
The akhoz was much smaller than Atiana, and it was sent reeling backward. It struck the cobblestones while releasing a sound that was half growl, half mewl. It spun over and was back on all fours when Nikandr swept in and brought his sword down hard, aiming for its neck. The creature ducked, receiving a cut across its shoulder blade. It scrabbled away, but Nikandr lunged forward and drove his sword through its gut.
It screamed to the night sky. The sounds echoed among the buildings. It grasped at the sword blade, slicing its fingers open as it clawed for Nikandr’s hand. He jerked the sword free, and at last it collapsed to the ground.
“Atiana,” Nikandr said as he stepped close to her.
She stood, the whites of her eyes visible in the early morning light. She stared at him as if she didn’t know him.
Nyet, he thought, as if she were afraid of him.
“Atiana,” he said, softer this time. He reached for her hand, but she snatched it away.
It was then that Nikandr realized that all of them-he, Styophan, the Maharraht-all of them were in a narrow stretch of street, one easily defended on both sides.
“Reload!” he shouted, while Atiana stared at him with uncaring eyes.
The men responded, but too slowly. Dark forms slid into the street from an alley ahead. They swept in behind.
One of the Maharraht brought his weapon up.
Three muskets flashes came from the men ahead, and in that brief moment, Nikandr could see that they were Hratha, their black robes merging with the deep shadows.
The Maharraht grunted and fell to the ground. As he wheezed, a gurgling sound coming from a chest wound, the Hratha called in Mahndi, “Lay down your arms.”
Nikandr had no intention of obeying. The Hratha could not be trusted, especially now with all their plans so close to fruition.
He drew upon his hezhan, pulling the wind to swirl through the narrow street. Dust and dirt stung him as he grabbed Atiana’s wrist and pulled her back toward the edge of the alley.
The Maharraht and the men of Anuskaya took this as his answer, and those that had already reloaded fired.
The Hratha returned fire, and Nikandr saw a glowing stone of jasper upon one man’s brow. Another of azurite glowed a deep shade of blue. A cracking sound rent the ground. It shook the street and the nearby buildings.
Nikandr held Atiana close as he called upon the wind to drive the Hratha back. He saw several raise their muskets, but only two shots were released.
Nikandr opened himself wider. He stepped away from Atiana and spread his arms wide. The presence of the hezhan filled him. He felt the flow of the wind through the streets of the city and called upon it to converge here. He called upon it to scour the Hratha from their path.
The wind answered, hungry for the breath of man, but just as it rose to a gale, Nikandr felt a rising fury within him. His mind went wild, memories of walking on the fields below Radiskoye coming to him, of planing curls of wood as he worked on the helm of the Gorovna, of those nervous moments before he’d touched stones with Atiana years ago when they were to be married. Those and a thousand more came unbidden. He had no control over them, and soon after he felt his muscles going slack.
He realized in a distant and disconnected way that this was no illness, that this was something being done forcibly to him.
He was being assumed, he realized, and he couldn’t at first understand who would attack him in such a way.
Stars filled the field of his vision as his knees gave way and he tipped toward the ground. As the ground rose up, he had a sudden moment of crystal clarity. He knew who had done this to him.
He knew without a doubt.
It was Atiana.
He would have felt betrayed if it hadn’t been for the stone-hearted indifference radiating from her.
He willed his arms to arrest his fall, but they refused him, and he struck the ground like a tree felled. And then the darkness, held at bay for so long, finally embraced him.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
A tiana watches as Nikandr falls to the ground.
He goes limp. Beneath him, strangely, are two glowing soulstones, not one. She kneels down to inspect them, but the akhoz are hungry. They shuffle toward him until she holds her hand up for them to stop.
Two of the Maharraht charge her, and she’s forced to back away.
“My Lady Princess!” This comes from a strelet at the head of a group of soldiers. Atiana has seen him before. This is Styophan. For years he’s been Nikandr’s steadfast second, a loyal soldier who would protect him above all things.
“Please wake!” Styophan runs toward the Maharraht, dropping his musket and pulling his eagle’s-head shashka from its sheath. The sword gleams for a moment in the early morning light. “Call them away!” he pleads, just before the first of the akhoz leaps through the air toward the Maharraht standing before him.
The first of the akhoz loses an arm to a fierce swing of a blade from the first of the Maharraht, a young man with bright eyes and a black beard. The akhoz falls to the ground from the force of the swing, but it is up again moments later, blood pouring from its wound as it ducks beneath another hasty swing by the Maharraht. It is within the young man’s guard now, and it is vicious, grabbing the Maharraht’s sword arm and snarling forward toward his throat.
“Princess Atiana! You must wake!”
She looks toward Styophan. For a moment, she remembers who she was, remembers that she came to this place for a different purpose. She came to kill, perhaps, but not these men. Not this man.
