Nikandr stood still, breathing, weighing her words. There was truth in her words, but he realized that he should not be allowed such judgment. She had been Maharraht since before the day they had met and he had failed to uncover the truth of it. He was the wrong person to be standing here, determining if she should live or die. She may very well be orchestrating a trap for the Maharraht that might lead to something worse. With the wrong decision he might give the Maharraht exactly what they wanted.
But he also knew, as he stood there looking into her defiant eyes, that he was trapped. She had pulled him into her net long ago, and he could no more order her death than he could his father’s-not when everything rang so true-and he realized that his father must have known this as well.
Father wanted to believe her words.
And with that, he knew what he must do, and he left Rehada to render his decision.
CHAPTER 62
Nikandr watched as the first of the ships far ahead were lost from view in the snowstorm that had progressed steadily from a dusting to an outright blizzard. He had been too brash earlier. He had declared the storm an ill omen without considering its ability to hide them as their ships descended on Volgorod.
Behind the swiftest ships-which had been placed at the vanguard of the attack-were nearly five dozen more. It represented the entirety of their resources. Some were warships, more than ready for battle. Some had been hastily fitted with cannons in order to play a role in the battle-Nikandr could locate these easily by the way they listed to one side, the cannons not having been aligned properly with the masts. Other ships were decoys that had been fitted with cannons that were no more than mast poles painted black and affixed to cannon mounts. They would fool no one if they came close, but that was not their goal. They were there to provide cover so that Nikandr and Ashan and Rehada would have enough time to do what was needed.
Nikandr stood at the helm of the Adnon, a twelve-masted brigantine. Rehada was nearby, peering into the gray clouds as snow fell upon her dark robes and hair. She looked grim, as opposed to Ashan, who stood in the center of the deck near the mainmast, as calm as ever.
The first of the cannon shots came before they had closed to within several leagues of the shores of Uyadensk. It was not long after midday, but the sky was a leaden gray, the snow splashing across it in vast, eddying swaths. A return volley sounded. It was impossible to tell who was the attacker and who the defender. The return shot had been fired quickly, which pointed to a prepared crew-a state that would probably not describe the enemy. Then again, they might have been more prepared than he had guessed-they would be expecting some sort of attack, after all-or the Matri may have sensed their approach.
As agreed, their ship and two others assigned as escorts lowered their altitude. Only minutes later a twelve-masted brigantine appeared in the air ahead of them, on a near collision course with the ship to their landward side. It fired its forward cannon even before it had begun to tail off its original course, but when it did, it began to veer across the Adnon’s path.
“Fire!” Nikandr shouted, “And dive, men! Dive!”
After an adjustment to the fore cannon’s aim, the gunner holding the firing brand lowered the glowing red tip to the touch hole. A tail of white blasted forth from the mouth. Nikandr could feel it in his feet as the shot tore into the seaward foresail of the oncoming ship.
“Dive!” Nikandr repeated.
Their dhoshaqiram was a man no older than Nikandr. He was very gifted, the Duke of Mirkotsk had said, and so had been assigned to Nikandr’s ship, but he was not working fast enough. The oncoming ship’s hull would sail past-barely-but the ships’ rigging was going to tear both ships apart.
Nikandr pulled hard on the levers of the helm, causing the Adnon to tilt counterclockwise. The ship responded, but slowly. It wasn’t going to turn in time.
Nikandr pulled harder than was wise-too often the workings of the keel would bend or snap outright if the steersman pulled too hard-and at the last moment the two forward masts passed one another. The two seaward mainmasts, however-longer than the foremasts-caught one another, and the Adnon’s — a single length of windwood-snapped a third of the way down. The other ship lost a spar and dozens of yards of sail and rope as it was ripped away by the Adnon’s wounded mast.
Rigging and sails were ripped away as the ships cleared one another. A sailor was slipping along a rope, hoping to avoid the debris, but he was caught by a large wooden block across his back. He fell to the deck with a meaty thump.
“Fire aft!” Nikandr shouted.
The other ship’s kapitan called out the same command. The two cannons fired nearly simultaneously. Several of the Adnon’s crew, less than ten paces from where Nikandr stood at the helm, were ripped apart by the incoming grape shot. All three men fell to the deck, little more than bloody masses of flesh and lead.
The chained shot his own men had fired a scant moment before they had died whipped outward, the two balls twirling before catching the starward mizzenmast halfway along its length. A huge crack rent the air, and the mast tilted forward noticeably, the three white sails flapping like sheets. The mast tilted to one side as the ship’s nose tipped higher than its rear.
The Adnon continued on, Nikandr righting its heading and adjusting for the wounded mast. The other ship was soon lost from sight, swallowed whole by the howling storm.
Nikandr released his breath slowly. At the very least there was no need to worry about that ship. With yards and yards of canvas gone or ineffective, the entire characteristics of the ship would be thrown off. In this wind, in the low visibility, it would not rejoin the battle. It would in fact be just as likely to crash into land or sea as regain the eyrie.
Before they had gone another quarter-league, a crewman shouted, “Ship, aft!”
Behind them, in the blowing snow, a small, eight-masted caravel resolved against the background of the dark gray clouds. Moments later, another came clear-a huge, sixteen-masted clipper.
“Sound the bell,” Nikandr called.
Nearby, the boatswain rang a brass bell three times, just loudly enough for the ship on either side of them to hear. Moments later, the two ships began tailing away as Nikandr ordered the ship to climb. He felt himself grow heavy as the ship obeyed. The landward ship dropped and trailed away. The other ship began slipping windward, maintaining altitude.
Two shots came from the clipper, but they had been directed toward the starward ship. The other trailing ship, however, was ascending, hungry on the tail of the Adnon.
Now that it was closer and the ship could be seen more clearly through the snow, Nikandr realized whose ship it was. To the confused looks of his men, he laughed-even Rehada stared at him with a dour expression-but he ignored them all while staring at the trailing ship. With dozens of ships sailing the winds, the ancients had seen fit for Grigory to have found him.
“Get the gunners to the rear, boatswain,” Nikandr said, “and have them fire at will.”
The boatswain clapped his heels and shouted for the men to move aft. They hauled their equipment with them, and several crewmen came behind, hefting sacks of powder and the wooden trays that held the burlap bags of shot.
A rook flapped in and landed on the deck near Nikandr’s feet. It wore the device of Mirkotsk around its ankle.
“Swiftly, Iaroslov,” the rook said.
“What’s happened?”
“The Maharraht have secured an area near Radiskoye. Vostroma’s men have either not noticed or are choosing to ignore them.”