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 gotten 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 ins
tant, 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.
“Sea whip is secured, kapitan!” shouted Privyet.
Two more of Sturmhond’s men hurdled over the whaler’s railing and flew through the air, arms pinwheeling wildly, to crash in a heap on the schooner’s deck. One was bleeding badly from a wound to his arm.
Then it came again, the boom of thunder.
“He’s up!” called Tamar.
Blackness tumbled toward us, engulfing the schooner, blotting out everything in its path.
“Free me!” I pleaded. “Let me help!”
Sturmhond threw Tamar the keys and shouted, “Do it!”
Tamar reached for my wrists, fumbling with the key as darkness rolled over us.
We were blind. I heard someone scream. Then the lock clicked free. The irons fell from my wrists and hit the deck with a dull clang.
I raised my hands, and light blazed through the dark, pushing the blackness back over the whaler. A cheer went up from Sturmhond’s crew, but it withered on their lips as another sound filled the air—a grating shriek, piercing in its wrongness, the creak of a door swinging open, a door that should have remained forever shut. The wound in my shoulder gave a sharp throb. Nichevo’ya.
I turned to Sturmhond. “We have to get out of here,” I said. “Now. ”
He hesitated, battling himself. Two of his men were still aboard the whaler. His expression hardened. “Topmen make sail!” he shouted. “Squallers due east!”