“Signal the Opha to send a skiff for survivors!” Nikandr shouted to Styophan, and then he quickly turned his attention back to the fort. There were few men in the open, but to take a fort like this there must be dozens at the very least. The front gates had been shattered, most likely with cannon shot from the enemy ships.
He looked ahead to the cove. The ships were in a very vulnerable position. He couldn’t allow the forces of Yrstanla to return to them.
“Ready the pots, men! We make a line for the ships!”
A cry came up from the crew. They were seasoned, and now they were thirsty for blood.
As the ship made its way eastward toward the cove, a deep iron brazier was filled with wood and lit with a healthy splash of whale oil. Several dozen clay pots filled with cotton were filled with more oil until they were nearly full.
As they flew above the hill hiding the ships and the cove came into view, the three ships-all twelve-masted schooners-were on the move. They’d spotted the Lihvyen and had certainly heard the cannon shots, but they’d begun to flee too late. They could not prevent the ships of Khalakovo from passing over them at least once.
Nikandr took one of the clay pots, as did Styophan and a dozen more of the crew. They positioned themselves around the deck in places where the path downward was clear of rigging and sails. The enemy ships tilted their cannons to fire straight up. Everyone hunkered low as the Lihvyen caught two more shots along the forward hull.
“Now, men! Let’s send them to the sea!”
As the crew raised up a cry, releasing their fury, Nikandr dropped his pot. The flames were bright against the wood and rigging of the ship below. It struck the deck at the aftcastle, the oil splashing over the side of the ship, engulfing it in flame. A few other pots were dropped too quickly and missed, but a good dozen struck home. Flame blossomed about the ship, some of it splashing against the crewmen of Yrstanla. They tried desperately to smother the flames, but it was already too late.
The Opha had steered toward the windward ship. Their pots struck the second enemy ship, engulfing it in flames as well.
The remaining schooner had gained enough altitude that it could challenge them if they weren’t careful.
“Fire!” Nikandr called.
The forward cannons of the Lihvyen and Opha let loose. The chained shot cut through the upper rigging of the enemy galleon. Both shots caught the starward mainmast at two different points. The mast snapped halfway. As the upper sails crashed down to hang loose against the mizzen rigging, the Lihvyen gained more altitude.
It didn’t take long from there. They dropped more pots against the last of the ships, and soon all three of 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.