Bradley Beaulieu - The Straits of Galahesh

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.

He followed Muqallad to the center of the Spar, where one tower stood proud. The other was ruined, with only crumbling remains.

“I nearly lost him,” Muqallad said to Nikandr as he beckoned him to kneel.

Nikandr complied, staring up into Muqallad’s dark eyes.

“Had he been taken years ago, all of my plans would have been lost. But you,” Muqallad said. “You saved him. You sheltered him.”

And then Nikandr understood. He didn’t mean Nikandr had saved Nasim in any physical sense. He meant that Nikandr had saved his soul and mind through their bond.

Muqallad held out one hand.

Nikandr stared at it-his right hand. In his left Muqallad held the Atalayina. The stone glowed so brightly it was blinding, even compared to the light of the sun hanging over the horizon. He knew that if he took Muqallad’s hand, it would give him what he needed to reach Nasim.

He couldn’t do that-not to Nasim.

But neither could he resist.

He put all of himself into defying Muqallad’s will, and still his arm lifted. He could hear Atiana’s voice, but it was so distant that he heard only disjointed portions of her desperate pleas.

Smiling, Muqallad took Nikandr’s hand, and the moment he did, Nikandr felt the connection between him and Nasim grow stronger, more vibrant, like the thread of a web caught with morning dew.

He felt Nasim approach. He was being drawn by this thread, drawn by the will of Muqallad and the power of the Atalayina.

He wanted to call to Nasim, to warn him away. He wanted to wake him from this spell.

But he could not. He was trapped by these events as surely as Nasim.

On the horizon, the sun stood upon the edge of the world. The skies over the Spar were swirling, as if this place were the very center of all that ever was and ever would be.

But then something caught Nikandr’s attention. Over Muqallad’s shoulder, beneath the swirling clouds, was a ship.

And it was hurtling toward the Spar.

It took him a moment to realize it was the Bhadyar.

But Soroush was here, Nikandr thought. The Maharraht had abandoned their ships at the hidden bay…

With a sudden and shocking clarity, he realized who had come.

Grigory…

Grigory had come with the men who’d been left behind, men too wounded to fight.

Nikandr marveled at the very thought of it.

Nasim watched as Nikandr kneeled on the blackened roadway. He was caught as everyone else was.

Nasim understood now. The Al-Aqim needed to die for this ritual to be complete. Sariya had already fallen, succumbing to the wound inflicted by Ushai. Muqallad had hoped that the ritual on the beach of Alayazhar would free Khamal’s link to the Atalayina. Nasim had been saved by Rabiah, but now Muqallad would finish what he’d started, and the only way Nasim could prevent it was by coming to himself once and for all.