The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya (44 page)

“Faster,” he told Soroush, wanting this to be over and done with.

How many might have been buried like this? And for what purpose? Perhaps Muqallad wished to widen the rift, though why he would do this he had no idea. He had some memories of Muqallad through Khamal’s dreams, but it had always seemed as though Muqallad searched for what all three of them had hoped and for centuries failed to do—to close the rift over Ghayavand. Why then would he come here, to a place thousands of leagues from Ghayavand? What was it about Rafsuhan that made it so valuable to him? It could not merely be the rift.

Perhaps, Nikandr thought, it was the people. The Maharraht. Were they not a resource, something Muqallad could use to his benefit? But in what way? And what would the fire have to do with it?

As they dug deeper, Nikandr could feel the heart more fully now. Even Soroush looked uncomfortable.

“You can feel it as well?”

He nodded. “It is—”

He never finished his thought, for just then the beating of the heart changed. It became stronger, more pronounced. Nikandr coughed. He felt lightheaded for a moment. Soroush seemed even worse, blinking his eyes and staring at Nikandr as if he didn’t know who he was.

“Get away from it,” Nikandr said.

Soroush did not respond.

Nikandr pulled him away. The effect lessened but was still present as he guided Soroush along a wash in the sloping land that led to a creek below. The heartbeat quickened, and Nikandr suddenly felt another presence, far beyond where the heart lay buried.

Soroush must have felt it as well, for he was staring northeast, the same direction as Nikandr. They slid to their right until they were hidden behind a thicket that gave them a good view of the land in that direction. Nothing lay before them, however, save the white trunks of the birch and their golden leaves upon the ground.

From beyond the trees a tall man strode. He was muscular, and his light robes were more suited to summer than they were the chill days of autumn. Even at this distance, and even though it had been five years since he’d seen him, Nikandr knew it was Muqallad.

A girl followed, speaking to him. Kaleh.

And then came the akhoz.

Two, then three more. Another on a tall stone to their right. They snuffled low to the ground like dogs. Several craned their necks at the same time, perhaps sensing something, while the others turned their eyeless faces on Nikandr and Soroush’s position.

The akhoz froze. They strained against some unseen bond—their muscles flexed, the tendons in their necks stretched taut like rigging lines as they craned against some hidden leash—and then, at no more than a flip of Muqallad’s hand, they surged forward, loping across the ground at an alarming rate.

Nikandr and Soroush turned and ran, flying through the trees and down the slope toward the creek. They splashed through the water and used the speed they’d built to hurry up the far side, but making progress on the incline demanded much more effort, and they began to slow. By the time they reached the top, where level land led them deeper into the forest, the akhoz had reached the thicket where they’d been hiding a short time ago.

“Take this,” Soroush said, and he tossed the musket to Nikandr. He followed a moment later with his bandolier, which Nikandr slung over his shoulder.

He swung the frizzen back to check the pan. Seeing what little powder was there was too damp, he blew it clear while grabbing one of the wooden cartridges from the bandolier. He filled it with dry powder, and when he heard the akhoz clear the top of the rise behind him, he stopped and turned. Only two of the akhoz had crested the rise. The light rain fell against their loping bodies and immediately steamed, making them look like infernal machines plowing through the undergrowth. He sighted along the barrel, aiming for the nearest, and pulled the trigger.

The musket bucked, and the first akhoz crashed to the ground, leaves billowing up around it.

It was up again a moment later, a gaping hole leaking dark blood from its chest. Nikandr had hoped to strike the heart, but the ball had struck too low.

Pulling the wooden stopper from another cartridge, he loaded the pan and closed the frizzen. As he put more powder into the barrel and dropped the ball and wadding in, the second akhoz caught up to the first and galloped ahead of it. His hands shook as he used the ramrod to drive the shot home.

He raised the barrel and fired without thinking.

The shot took the closer akhoz full in the chest. Skin and black blood exploded as it released a gout of flame toward Nikandr. It was too far away, however, and the shot seemed to take its breath away. It fell to the earth in a heap. Its hands clutched at the earth, leaving deep furrows. And then it was still.

The second akhoz had reached Soroush. The akhoz was on all fours, wary of the khanjar Soroush held in one hand. Soroush, perhaps sensing its weakness, darted in. The akhoz raised and tried to attack, but Soroush ducked and slashed it behind the knees.

The akhoz fell and in a blink Soroush had raised the khanjar high and driven it down into its chest.

Nikandr reloaded as the remaining three akhoz charged forward. He got off only one more shot, striking the akhoz closest to him in the neck, before the other two were on him.

He swung the musket like a club against the first to reach him, a girl with stringy hair and a deep scar across the skin where her eyes should have been. The musket came down against her right arm, which she used to ward against the blow. He heard and felt the bone give way beneath. The girl mewled but grabbed for Nikandr’s neck with her free arm. Nikandr darted back, but it gave the other akhoz time to snatch the musket and rip it from his grasp.

Soroush hobbled toward him and from behind drove the knife into the one with the broken arm. The thing arched its neck back and released a sickening call. She sounded as if she were calling for help, and perhaps she was. She fell to the ground, clutching at the wound to her back as her other arm lay useless at her side.

Nikandr retreated as the last akhoz advanced. He tried to draw it away from Soroush. It worked, but Nikandr soon realized he’d made a grave mistake.

The akhoz crawled along the ground toward Soroush, closing the distance quickly. Soroush squatted into a swordsman’s pose, preparing for the charge, but he was too close to one of the wounded akhoz.

The girl with the broken arm stood and grabbed him from behind. Soroush stumbled backward, and the other fell upon him from the front. Nikandr ran, shouting, when pain exploded at the back of his skull. It sounded like windships breaking.

Stars danced in his vision as he tipped toward the ground. His arms were suddenly leaden, unable to break his fall.

He struck the ground…

And woke some time later.

He managed to pick his head up off the damp earth, and when he did he saw three akhoz surrounding Soroush.

The sixth akhoz, Nikandr thought. He’d lost track of how many there were and the sixth had crept up from behind.

Soroush stabbed the wounded akhoz in the chest and managed to wrest himself free and scrabble backward along the ground, but the other two jumped on him.

“
Neh
!” Nikandr tried to get to his knees. He lifted himself off the ground, but that’s as far as he got. He became dizzy, nauseous, and seconds later the stars closed in around him.

Soroush’s cries of pain were the last thing he remembered.

Nikandr woke staring up through the boughs of the trees. Rain was falling, stealing warmth. The back of his head felt like it’d been mauled by a blacksmith’s hammer. The left side of his face ached. The skin there was abraded and tender, but it was only from his fall, which had been onto soft earth. The wound behind his ear, however, was different. It was matted with blood and hair, and it flared like a brand as he probed it gently. His hand came away bloody, but he was satisfied that it was no longer bleeding much, and if that were so, he judged that he’d been unconscious for fifteen minutes, perhaps twenty.

Next to him lay a musket, useless now that rain had seeped into the pan and the barrel. For a moment he thought it was his own, but it looked nothing like his. It was Soroush’s, the one he had brought from the village before...

Before the girl… Kaleh. They had chased her through the woods. The rest came rushing back as he pushed himself up to his hands and knees. He could go no further; the screaming inside his head and the waves of pain that washed over him saw to that. He grabbed the musket and used it to lever himself to his feet. It may be useless, but it felt good to be holding a length of steel.

He stood there, bowed over, leaning against the musket, squinting against the pain not merely from the wounds but the light pummeling him as it filtered down through the trees.

He found signs of Soroush’s struggle with the akhoz nearby. Matted plants, furrowed earth. Blood.

There was a trail that led eastward. He followed this, staring ahead for signs of being watched, but as he climbed the short rise toward the thicket where he and Soroush had hidden themselves, the ground tipped and he fell. He barely managed to bring his arms up to fend off the worst of the fall. He thought surely he was being attacked again, but as the rain pattered against the forest floor, he realized the disorientation was a symptom of his wounds. When he tried to reach his feet again, a fit of nausea overcame him. What little he had in his stomach came rushing up, burning his throat as it went.

He spit to clear his mouth and found, strangely, that he felt better. He moved with a slow steady pace and found the nausea beginning to ebb and his breath coming easier. He could see straight again, and although the light was still bothersome, it was becoming less of a problem as nightfall neared.

The trail led him up the rise and down a long hill. Ahead, the trees of Siafyan towered high above the surrounding forest.

When he came to the edge of the village, the earth was more packed, more well worn, and the trail he was following vanished. It was with a growing sense of dread that he entered the village proper. It had felt empty before, but now it felt ancient and forgotten.

He had felt something like this before, though he could not place the memory. Perhaps while walking the tunnels of Iramanshah, or while strolling through the streets of the Mount in Baressa.

He realized he was walking toward the northern end of the village, toward the burning site. Without quite knowing why, he began to hurry. Then he began to lope—at least as well as he was able. Soon the sense of dread was so strong upon him that he began to run, heedless of the intense pain in his head.

He passed beyond the village and ran through the trees, worried that he was losing his way, that he would forget where the clearing had stood.

After rounding a rocky promontory where a massive tree created an archway of sorts, he came to it. The rain beat down against the blackened circle, striking the burned remains of the dozens who had given themselves that their brothers and sisters—their sons and daughters—might yet live.

Nikandr walked to the edge of it, stopping when he came within several paces. He could not find it in himself to come closer. It felt like sacrilege, as though treading upon this hallowed ground would cause irreparable harm—though whom it would harm, and in what ways, he did not know.

And then he saw it. A glint of metal among the ashes, buried beneath the bones, nearly hidden.

He swung back and forth, trying to determine what it was, but he couldn’t—not from this distance.

Swallowing heavily, he dropped the musket and took one step forward. Then another. Soon he stood at the edge of the ashes.

“Forgive me,” he said softly, and stepped onto the remains. He moved as carefully as he could, but he could feel the brittle crunch of bone, the slurp of the wet ashes as he went.

At last he came to the source of the glinting. He reached down and picked it up.

It was Soroush’s dagger. The khanjar, the one he’d drawn against Nikandr when they’d fought over Rehada. There were patterns in the ashes that spread from the place the knife had rested. Four large furrows radiated outward, and he though immediately to the hillock that had opened for Kaleh. He wondered if Soroush were dead, buried beneath this very place where he now stood.

But that made no sense. They wouldn’t have dragged him this far simply to kill him. Soroush was alive. Of this he was sure. He just had no idea where they might have taken him, nor why his knife had been left behind. Perhaps it was a sign from Soroush himself. Or perhaps it had been left as a warning for Nikandr to stay away.