Grisha 02 - Siege and Storm Page 5

  * * *

  THE MOOD HAD changed aboard the whaler. The crew had grown restless and watchful, the slight to their captain still fresh in their minds. The Grisha muttered amongst themselves, their nerves worn thin by our slow progress through the waters of the Bone Road.

  Each day, the Darkling had me brought above deck to stand beside him at the prow. Mal was kept well guarded at the other end of the ship. Sometimes, I heard him call out bearings to Sturmhond or saw him gesture to what looked like deep scratches just above the waterline on the large ice shelves we passed.

  I peered at the rough grooves. They might be claw marks. They might be nothing at all. Still, I’d seen what Mal was capable of in Tsibeya. When we were tracking the stag, he had shown me broken branches, trampled grass, signs that seemed obvious once he pointed them out but that had been invisible moments before. The crewmen seemed skeptical. The Grisha were outright contemptuous.

  At dusk, when another day had come and gone, the Darkling would parade me across the deck and down through the hatch directly in front of Mal. We weren’t permitted to speak. I tried to hold his gaze, to tell him silently that I was all right, but I could see his fury and desperation growing, and I was powerless to reassure him.

  Once, when I stumbled by the hatch, the Darkling caught me up against himself. He might have let me go, but he lingered, and before I could pull away, he let his hand graze the small of my back.

  Mal surged forward, and it was only the grip of his Grisha guards that kept him from charging the Darkling.

  “Three more days, tracker.”

  “Leave her alone,” Mal snarled.

  “I’ve kept my end of the bargain. She’s still unharmed. But perhaps that isn’t what you fear?”

  Mal looked frayed to the point of snapping. His face was pale, his mouth a taut line, the muscles of his forearms knotted as he strained against his bonds. I couldn’t bear it.

  “I’m fine,” I said softly, risking the Darkling’s knife. “He can’t hurt me.” It was a lie, but it felt good on my lips.

  The Darkling looked from me to Mal, and I glimpsed that bleak, yawning fissure within him. “Don’t worry, tracker. You’ll know when our deal is up.” He shoved me belowdecks, but not before I heard his parting words to Mal—“I’ll be certain you hear it when I make her scream.”

  * * *

  THE WEEK WORE ON, and on the sixth day, Genya woke me early. As I gathered my wits, I realized it was barely dawn. Fear sliced through me. Maybe the Darkling had decided to cut short my reprieve and make good on this threats.

  But Genya was beaming.

  “He found something!” she crowed, bouncing on the soles of her feet, practically dancing as she helped me from the bunk. “The tracker says we’re close!”

  “His name is Mal,” I muttered, pulling away from her. I ignored her stricken look.

  Can it be true? I wondered as Genya led me above. Or did Mal simply hope to buy me more time?

  We emerged into the dim gray light of early morning. The deck was crowded with Grisha gazing out at the water while the Squallers worked the winds, and Sturmhond’s crew managed the sails above.

  The mist was heavier than the day before. It clung thick against the water and crawled in damp tendrils over the ship’s hull. The silence was broken only by Mal’s directions and the orders Sturmhond called.

  When we entered a wide, open stretch of sea, Mal turned to the Darkling and said, “I think we’re close.”

  “You think?”

  Mal gave a single nod.

  The Darkling considered. If Mal was stalling, his efforts were doomed to be short-lived, and the price would be high.

  After what felt like an eternity, the Darkling nodded to Sturmhond.

  “Trim the sails,” commanded the privateer, and the topmen moved to obey.

  Ivan tapped the Darkling’s shoulder and gestured to the southern horizon. “A ship, moi soverenyi.”

  I squinted at the tiny smudge.

  “Are they flying colors?” the Darkling asked Sturmhond.

  “Probably fishermen,” Sturmhond said. “But we’ll keep an eye on her just in case.” He signaled to one of his crewmen, who went scurrying up the main royal with a long glass in hand.

  The longboats were prepared and, in minutes, they were being lowered over the starboard side, loaded with Sturmhond’s men and bristling with harpoons. The Darkling’s Grisha crowded by the rail to view the boats’ progress. The mist seemed to magnify the steady slap of the oars against the waves.

  I took a step toward Mal. Everyone’s attention was focused on the men in the water. Only Genya was watching me. She hesitated, then deliberately turned and joined the others at the railing.

  Mal and I faced forward, but we were close enough that our shoulders touched.

  “Tell me you’re all right,” he murmured, his voice raw.

  I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I’m fine,” I said softly. “Is it out there?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. There were times when I was tracking the stag that I thought we were close and … Alina, if I’m wrong—”

  I turned then, not caring who saw us or what punishment I might receive. The mist was rising off the water now, creeping along the deck. I looked up at him, taking in every detail of his face: the bright blue of his irises, the curve of his lip, the scar that ran the length of his jaw. Behind him, I glimpsed Tamar scampering up the rigging, a lantern in her hands.

  “None of this is your fault, Mal. None of it.”

  He lowered his head, setting his forehead against mine. “I won’t let him hurt you.”

  We both knew he was powerless to stop it, but the truth of that was too painful, so I just said, “I know.”

  “You’re humoring me,” he said with the hint of a grin.

  “You require a lot of coddling.”

  He pressed his lips to the top of my head. “We’ll find a way out of this, Alina. We always do.”

  I rested my ironbound hands against his chest and closed my eyes. We were alone on an icy sea, prisoners of a man who could literally make monsters, and yet somehow I believed. I leaned into him, and for the first time in days, I let myself hope.

  A cry rang out: “Two points off the starboard bow!”

  As one, our heads turned, and I stilled. Something was moving in the mist, a shimmering, undulating white shape.

  “Saints,” Mal breathed.

  At that moment, the creature’s back breached the waves, its body cutting through the water in a sinuous arch, rainbows sparking off the iridescent scales on its back.

  Rusalye.

  CHAPTER

  4

  RUSALYE WAS A folk story, a fairy tale, a creature of dreams that lived on the edges of maps. But there could be no doubt. The ice dragon was real, and Mal had found it, just as he had found the stag. It felt wrong, like everything was happening too quickly, as if we were rushing toward something we didn’t understand.

  A shout from the longboats drew my attention. A man on the boat nearest the sea whip stood up, a harpoon in his hand, taking aim. But the dragon’s white tail lashed through the sea, split the waves, and came down with a slap, sending a rolling wall of water up against the boat’s hull. The man with the harpoon sat down hard as the longboat tipped precariously, then righted itself at the last moment.

  Good, I thought. Fight them.

  Then the other boat let fly their harpoons. The first went wide and splashed harmlessly in the water. The second lodged in the sea whip’s hide.

  It bucked, tail whipping back and forth, then reared up like a snake, hurling its body out of the water. For a moment, it hung suspended in the air: translucent winglike fins, gleaming scales, and wrathful red eyes. Beads of water flew from its mane and its massive jaws opened, revealing a pink tongue and rows of gleaming teeth. It came down on the nearest boat with a loud crash of splintering wood. The slender craft split in two, and men poured into the sea. The dragon’s maw snapped closed over a sailor’
s legs and he vanished, screaming, beneath the waves. With furious strokes, the rest of the crewmen swam through the bloodstained water, making for the remaining longboat, where they were hauled over the side.

  I glanced back up to the whaler’s rigging. The tops of the masts were shrouded in mist now, but I could still make out the light of Tamar’s lantern burning steadily atop the main royal.

  Another harpoon found its target and the sea whip began to sing, a sound more lovely than anything I’d ever heard, a choir of voices lifted in a plaintive, wordless song. No, I realized, not a song. The sea whip was crying out, writhing and rolling in the waves as the longboats gave chase, struggling to shake the hooked tips of the harpoons free. Fight, I pleaded silently. Once he has you, he’ll never let you go.

  But I could already see the dragon slowing, its movements growing sluggish as its cries wavered, mournful now, their music bleak and fading.

  Part of me wished the Darkling would just end it. Why didn’t he? Why not use the Cut on the sea whip and bind me to him as he had done with the stag?

  “Nets!” shouted Sturmhond. But the mist had grown so thick that I couldn’t quite tell where his voice was coming from. I heard a series of thunks from somewhere near the starboard rail.

  “Clear the mist,” ordered the Darkling. “We’re losing the longboat.”

  I heard the Grisha calling to one another and then felt the billow of Squaller winds tugging at the hem of my coat.

  The mist lifted, and my jaw dropped. The Darkling and his Grisha still stood on the starboard side, attention focused on the longboat that now seemed to be rowing away from the whaler. But on the port side, another ship had appeared as if from nowhere, a sleek schooner with gleaming masts and colors flying: a red dog on a teal field—and below it, in pale blue and gold, the Ravkan double eagle.

  I heard another series of thunks and saw steel claws studding the whaler’s portside rail. Grappling hooks, I realized.

  And then everything seemed to happen at once. A howl went up from somewhere, like a wolf baying at the moon. Men swarmed over the rail onto the whaler’s deck, pistols strapped to their chests, cutlasses in their hands, yowling and barking like a pack of wild dogs. I saw the Darkling turn, confusion and rage on his face.

  “What the hell is going on?” Mal said, stepping in front of me as we edged toward the meager protection of the mizzenmast.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “Something very good or something very, very bad.”

  We stood back-to-back, my hands still trapped in irons, his still bound, powerless to defend ourselves as the deck erupted into fighting. Pistol shots rang out. The air came alive with Inferni fire. “To me, hounds!” Sturmhond shouted, and plunged into the action, a saber in his hands.

  Barking, yipping, snarling men were descending on the Darkling’s Grisha from all sides—not just from the railing of the schooner but from the rigging of the whaler as well. Sturmhond’s men. Sturmhond was turning against the Darkling.

  The privateer had clearly lost his mind. Yes, the Grisha were outnumbered, but numbers didn’t matter in a fight with the Darkling.

  “Look!” Mal shouted.

  Down in the water, the men in the remaining longboat had the struggling sea whip in tow. They had raised a sail, and a brisk wind was driving them, not toward the whaler but directly toward the schooner instead. The stiff breeze that carried them seemed to come from nowhere. I looked closer. A crewman was standing in the longboat, arms raised. There was no mistaking it: Sturmhond had a Squaller working for him.

  Suddenly, an arm seized me around the waist and I was lifted off my feet. The world seemed to upend itself, and I shrieked as I was thrown over a huge shoulder.

  I lifted my head, struggling against the arm that held me like a steel band, and saw Tamar rushing toward Mal, a knife gleaming in her hands. “No!” I screamed. “Mal!”

  He put up his hands to defend himself, but all she did was slice through his bonds. “Go!” she shouted, tossing him the knife and drawing a sword from the scabbard at her hip.

  Tolya clutched me tighter as he sprinted over the deck. Tamar and Mal were close behind.

  “What are you doing?” I squawked, my head jouncing against the giant’s back.

  “Just run!” Tamar replied, slashing at a Corporalnik who threw himself into her path.

  “I can’t run,” I shouted back. “Your idiot brother has me slung over his shoulder like a ham!”

  “Do you want to be rescued or not?”

  I didn’t have time to answer.

  “Hold tight,” Tolya said. “We’re going over.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, preparing to tumble into the icy water. But Tolya hadn’t gone more than a few steps when he gave a sudden grunt and fell to one knee, losing his grip on me. I toppled to the deck and rolled clumsily onto my side. When I looked up, I saw Ivan and a blue-robed Inferni standing over us.

  Ivan’s hand was outstretched. He was crushing Tolya’s heart, and this time, Sturmhond wasn’t there to stop him.

  The Inferni advanced on Tamar and Mal, flint in hand, arm already moving in an arc of flame. Over before it began, I thought miserably. But in the next moment, the Inferni stopped and gasped. His flames died on the air.

  “What are you waiting for?” Ivan snarled.

  The Inferni’s only response was a choked hiss. His eyes bulged. He clawed at his throat.

  Tamar held her sword in her right hand, but her left fist was clenched.

  “Good trick,” she said, swatting away the paralyzed Inferni’s flint. “I know a good trick, too.” She raised her blade, and as the Inferni stood helpless, desperate for air, she ran him through with one vicious thrust.

  The Inferni crumpled to the deck. Ivan stared in confusion at Tamar standing over the lifeless body, her sword dripping blood. His concentration must have wavered, because in that moment, Tolya came up from his knee with a terrifying roar.

  Ivan clenched his fist, refocusing his efforts. Tolya grimaced, but he did not fall. Then the giant’s hand shot out, and Ivan’s face spasmed in pain and bewilderment.

  I looked from Tolya to Tamar, realization dawning. They were Grisha. Heartrenders.

  “Do you like that, little man?” Tolya asked as he stalked toward Ivan. Desperately, Ivan cast out another hand. He was shaking, and I could see he was struggling for breath.

  Tolya bobbled slightly but kept coming. “Now we learn who has the stronger heart,” he growled.

  He strode slowly forward, like he was walking against a hard wind, his face beaded with sweat, his teeth bared in feral glee. I wondered if he and Ivan would both just fall down dead.

  Then the fingers of Tolya’s outstretched hand curled into a fist. Ivan convulsed. His eyes rolled up in his head. A bubble of blood blossomed and burst on his lips. He collapsed onto the deck.

  Dimly, I was aware of the chaos raging around me. Tamar was struggling with a Squaller. Two other Grisha had leapt onto Tolya. I heard a gunshot and realized Mal had gotten hold of a pistol. But all I could see was Ivan’s lifeless body.

  He was dead. The Darkling’s right hand. One of the most powerful Heartrenders in the Second Army. He’d survived the Fold and the volcra, and now he was dead.

  A tiny sob drew me out of my reverie. Genya stood gazing down at Ivan, her hands over her mouth.

  “Genya—” I said.

  “Stop them!” The shout came from across the deck. I turned and saw the Darkling grappling with an armed sailor.

  Genya was shaking. She reached into the pocket of her kefta and drew out a pistol. Tolya lunged toward her.

  “No!” I said, stepping between them. I wasn’t going to watch him kill Genya.

  The heavy pistol trembled in her hand.

  “Genya,” I said quietly, “are you really going to shoot me?” She looked around wildly, unsure of where to aim. I laid a hand on her sleeve. She flinched and turned the barrel on me.

  A crack like thunder rent the air, and I knew the Darkling had g
otten free. I looked back and saw a wave of darkness tumbling toward us. It’s over, I thought. We’re done for. But in the next instant, I glimpsed a bright flash and a shot rang out. The swell of darkness blew away to nothing, and I saw the Darkling clutching his arm, his face contorted in fury and pain. In disbelief, I realized he’d been shot.

  Sturmhond was racing toward us, pistols in hand. “Run!” he shouted.

  “Come on, Alina!” Mal cried, reaching for my arm.

  “Genya,” I said desperately, “come with us.”

  Her hand was shaking so badly I thought the pistol might fly from her grip. Tears spilled over her cheeks.

  “I can’t,” she sobbed brokenly. She lowered her weapon. “Go, Alina,” she said. “Just go.”

  In the next instant, Tolya had tossed me over his shoulder again. I beat futilely at his broad back. “No!” I yelled. “Wait!”

  But no one paid me any mind. Tolya took a running leap and vaulted over the railing. I screamed as we plummeted toward the icy water, bracing for the impact. Instead, we were scooped up by what could only have been a Squaller wind and deposited on the attacking schooner’s deck with a bone-jarring thud. Tamar and Mal followed, with Sturmhond close behind.

  “Give the signal,” Sturmhond shouted, springing to his feet.

  A piercing whistle blew.

  “Privyet,” he called to a crewman I didn’t recognize, “how many do we have?”

  “Eight men down,” replied Privyet. “Four remaining on the whaler. Cargo on its way up.”

  “Saints,” Sturmhond swore. He looked back to the whaler, struggling with himself. “Musketeers!” he shouted to the men on the schooner’s maintop. “Lend them cover!”

  The musketeers began firing their rifles down onto the deck of the whaler. Tolya tossed Mal a rifle, then slung another over his back. He leapt into the rigging and began to climb. Tamar drew a pistol from her hip. I was still sprawled on the deck in an undignified tangle, my hands held useless in irons.