Bradley Beaulieu - The Straits of Galahesh

But then Atiana feels something. Her body in Erahm… There is something near her, something so familiar she begins to weep.

Wet salty tears creep along her skin, and it is this one simple sensation that draws her attention to her soulstone- her soulstone. It makes her painfully aware of the connections she’d lost when she’d placed the chain around Ishkyna’s neck. It had been in the kasir only two days before.

Ishkyna and Mileva storm over her.

Do not listen, Sariya calls, defending her as well as she’s able. You are mine!

She wants to listen, to obey, but Nikandr is here… He is with her in Vihrosh. He was the one who put the necklace around her, though how he could have come by it she has no idea.

Mileva is thrown from the aether at last as Sariya assaults her.

Ishkyna, however, draws Atiana fully from her trance. She’s become a force of nature. Willingly or not, she has given up her mortal shell to roam through the currents of the dark like the goedrun in the unseen depths of the sea, and though she was no master before this transition, she is one now. She is at home. She embraces that which she once feared, and with seeming ease clears from Atiana’s mind the final remnants of Sariya’s control.

Sariya knows that this battle has been lost, and she flees, but Ishkyna is ready. She snares Sariya before she can fully retreat. As skilled as Ishkyna is, Atiana knows that she cannot do this alone. She joins her sister, and together they press Sariya. They bear down on her soul.

Sariya lashes out, but she cannot hope to hold them off. Soon, she has been taken, and Atiana shifts her attention to controlling her instead of the other way around. Unknowingly, Sariya has taught her well, and she uses these skills now to tighten her hold on Sariya’s mind.

On the platform in Vihrosh, she pushes herself up to her hands and knees.

Nikandr is next to her. Two akhoz are on top of him, biting, clawing, scratching.

“Stop,” she commands.

In an instant the akhoz obey. They crouch and bark and then whimper.

Beyond them, Sariya and Muqallad are walking toward the platform. Muqallad’s expression is one of confusion as he takes in the scene on the platform. “What’s happened?” He stares at Atiana, but the question is directed at Sariya.

At Atiana’s bidding, Sariya turns to Muqallad. “As I said, the Matri attacked, but there were more than I’d guessed, and they were nearer.”

“Where are they?”

“In the Shattering, but their minds are lost. We won’t be bothered again.”

Muqallad looks into the depths of Atiana’s eyes. She can feel him probing in the aether, trying to determine for himself if all is well, but he is not gifted in the ways of the dark and cannot penetrate her defenses.

Atiana feigns that Sariya’s spell still influences her, and Muqallad seems satisfied.

He glances to the east, where the sun’s first rays are cresting the horizon. “Come,” he says. “It is time.”

Nasim woke, jostling back and forth. The sky above him shook. It took him some time, but he realized he was in someone’s arms. He looked up and found Ashan grimacing as he carried Nasim away from the battle. Behind them, a dozen akhoz followed, galloping over the ground on all fours like a pack of mongrel dogs. There were no soldiers-no streltsi of Anuskaya, no janissaries of Yrstanla.

Over the tops of the smaller buildings, Nasim saw a gout of fire strike the vanahezhan he’d summoned. The skin of the vanahezhan’s chest steamed and cracked like parched earth.

Ashan was nearing the Spar’s wide, circular landing.

“Put me down,” Nasim said.

Ashan kept running.

“Put me down!”

Ashan stopped, and finally did put Nasim down. His glanced at his own shoulder, shaking, as if he were about to pass out. How he had managed to carry him so far, Nasim couldn’t guess.

Ashan smiled as widely as he was able, revealing crooked teeth. “I’ll be well.”

“Then come. We must hurry.”

Together they took to the bridge, both of them moving slowly, Nasim from the wound to his left leg and Ashan from the shot to his shoulder. As they passed beyond the cliff and over the straits, the currents of the wind became chaotic. The wind gusted and howled, pressing against them as they made their way along it. It was so strong it threatened to knock them from their feet if they weren’t careful.

They moved lower to the ground, and could see others approaching the center of the bridge from the far side. A cadre of men and women wearing robes of black and gray-the Hratha, led by several Nasim already recognized: Muqallad and Sariya and Atiana.

And Nikandr, from whom he could still sense their shared bond. He was shocked. He thought it had been severed on Ghayavand, but here it still was, a tendril thin as spider’s silk.

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.