The wind intensified. It was so loud Nasim could barely think. Two of the akhoz fell and were whisked off of the bridge. They twisted and clawed at empty air, twisting and tumbling until they were lost from sight.
Nasim drew upon a havahezhan to counter these winds-Ashan helped as well-but it was a constant tug o’ war, the two of them pulling this way and that in reaction to the chaotic ways of the winds.
They made slow progress, but three more akhoz were lost. The remaining seven Nasim unleashed. They stayed low as they sprinted forward, their calls nearly lost among the thunder of the wind. The Hratha-only two or three dozen were left now-ran forward to meet them. They raised their muskets, but Ashan called down rain to foil their shots. Only two managed to fire, and one of the akhoz dropped. It was up again in a moment, limping after the others.
The akhoz leapt upon the warriors. They belched fire as the Hratha’s curved shamshirs arced and spun. Their war calls dimly mixed with the braying of the akhoz.
Nasim and Ashan were now within a hundred paces of the Spar’s midpoint, which was marked by two squat towers on either side of the roadway.
From these towers, a score of men emerged-by the fates, they were the Maharraht.
As they ran toward the Hratha and the akhoz, two final forms emerged from the left tower. The first was Soroush, and the second was Ushai, the qiram Nasim had seen those many weeks ago on his flight toward Ghayavand. Her left arm was bandaged heavily, but she otherwise seemed hearty and hale. How she had come to be here with Soroush, he couldn’t guess, but there was no time to wonder.
They both appeared ready to chase after Soroush’s men, but when they spotted Nasim they stopped. Soroush glanced at the tower, then down at the roadway, and finally he beckoned to Ushai and began sprinting toward Nasim and Ashan.
They hadn’t taken ten long strides when an explosion rocked the Spar. Stone flew into the air, and the center of the bridge became little more than a roiling cloud of black smoke and bright flames.
Nasim was struck by something-he knew not what. It propelled him backward, throwing him down roughly against the roadway. A sound like worlds breaking came immediately after, and for long moments he could only blink his eyes and stare at the stones flying outward and the rubble raining down.
His ears rang.
His fingers were numb.
He pushed himself up so that he could sit and look upon the devastation. The wind had not yet cleared the air fully, but he could see through the dust and smoke the remains of the left tower. It was crumbling before his very eyes. The bulk of it collapsed and fell toward the cold embrace of the churning white waves, leaving only one low portion of wall, as if the destruction of the world had already begun.
At last the wind drew the dust away, and the roadway was revealed. Nearly half of it had been devoured by the explosion, but the rest remained.
It remained…
By the fates, Soroush had failed.
And that meant Muqallad could still complete his plans.
Atiana feels the explosion in her chest. She falls, but the sensations are distant, like a memory from her childhood.
She walks through the currents of the aether more than she does the world of Erahm, and the feeling is heady.
Ahead, the akhoz are the first to recover, but the Maharraht are not far behind. Together they attack what remain of the Hratha, killing many of them before Muqallad reaches his feet. He raises one hand, the one holding the Atalayina, and a bolt of searing white lightning arcs from it to the nearest of the akhoz. It slips through three of them, and one of the Maharraht, felling them in an instant.
Atiana feels the walls of the aether here. They are so close she can almost reach out and touch them. As she did on Oshtoyets years ago, she pushes them away in hopes that Muqallad’s summoning will become more difficult, but the pressure is too great. She forces Sariya to help her, and Ishkyna joins as well. The gap does indeed widen, but it does nothing to stop Muqallad from drawing upon a dhoshahezhan again and again until all of the Maharraht lay dead.
Only three akhoz remain, and to these he raises his hand and calls above the wind, “Come… Come, my children.”
The akhoz crouch and bare their teeth. They bark and snarl and stretch their necks as if they’re suddenly afflicted. One of them turns and looks back to the four souls who approach from the far side of the blackened tower. Nasim is there, as well as Ashan and Soroush and Ushai.
Two of the akhoz mewl and crawl toward Muqallad, but the other sprints toward Nasim. He does not gallop on all fours like the akhoz often do. Instead, he runs, as a child might. In that moment he looks like nothing more than a small, naked boy.
Before he can go more than ten paces another bolt flies from the Atalayina, but it strikes ground short of the akhoz. Another blinding strike is sent forth, but this too is foiled.
Nasim has one hand raised, and he walks ahead of the others. There is something about him that seems different. No longer does Atiana see a boy who cowers from the world, who wonders how he might find his way through it. Instead she sees a young man, confident and strong. Transcendent.
But Muqallad is not weak, and he holds the Atalayina.
Atiana beckons her sisters. Come.
Sariya, knowing the time approaches, grows desperate. She rises up, stronger than Atiana would have guessed she could be. She rails against Atiana and her sisters, and she surfaces at last. “Beware, Muqallad! The Matri have come!” With those simple words, she is overcome with pain, and she falls to her knees, clutching her side.
With Ishkyna and Mileva at her side, Atiana advances. The three of them know one another so well that they are able to fend off Muqallad’s clumsy attacks. He is not weak, however, and he stands against them.
And then his presence is gone. Simply gone.
Atiana searches desperately, until she realizes the Atalayina is the power behind this. Muqallad has somehow drawn his presence from the aether so that he exists only in the material world.
Muqallad turns, holding the Atalayina high. It is bright and blue. Power emanates from it like the light of the sun.
And then the world slows. The wind stills. A shimmering builds at the edges of her vision, and her mind feels leaden.
With a raised hand, Muqallad calls out to Nikandr. “Come,” he says. It is soft, for the wind can no longer be heard beyond a low susurrus at the edge of hearing. The clouds above have not stopped swirling, but they move so slowly that Atiana wonders if they are real. If this is real. Perhaps it is all a dream…
And yet she knows it is not. She knows this is the power of the Atalayina.
Nikandr goes to him.
Sariya, however, does not. She has fallen to the ground. She still holds her side, but she is weak and near to death.
Muqallad looks down at her with something akin to sadness or regret, but then he turns, beckoning Nikandr to follow. Together the two of them leave Sariya lying on the ground like a forgotten she-bitch and walk toward the blackened center of the Spar.
Stop! Atiana calls to Nikandr.
But he doesn’t look back. Not once.
Please, Nischka! Stop!
She calls to him over and over, but she knows that his mind has been taken. She doesn’t understand how at first, but then she sees it, the tendril that connects him to Nasim. The connection that was formed between them years ago. It thinned when Nasim woke in Oshtoyets, but it had never been severed, and here it is now, being used against him.
Nikandr, please wake!
But he does not heed her calls.
Nikandr tried to deny Muqallad, but the command had come not just from him; it had been amplified by the Atalayina. Nikandr could feel it, glowing like a brand against his will, and he could do nothing but shrink from it.