The Winds of Khalakovo loa-1

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “Go,” he said, alternating glances between her and the hezhan.

  She backed up, but found it impossible to turn away from the unfolding carnage. The five streltsi on Bolgravya’s ship were reloading their muskets. The suurahezhan waded forward, the heat of its body burning right through the rigging. In seconds the soldiers were dead, and the fire was raging higher through the yacht’s sails.

  The Grand Duke’s wind master, standing near the center of the ship, moved her arms forward, palms facing the suurahezhan. A cyclone built around the spirit, pulling air away, but before it could have any discernible effect, the suurahezhan reared back and blasted a gout of flame toward her. She was buffeted backward and over the edge of the ship’s railing, gone in the blink of an eye. With one last gust the winds dissipated.

  The Grand Duke had backed up from the gunwales, but now with the hezhan so close he retreated to the ship’s starward mainmast. The hezhan followed, its footsteps thumping hollowly against the windwood deck.

  Many men tried to use their tall axes to protect him, but the creature was of one mind-it no longer appeared to care if it came into contact with iron. Dozens of strikes hit home, darkening the creature’s skin, but it plodded onward.

  Grigory ran forward, drawing his shashka from its scabbard, but several streltsi grabbed him, preventing him from reaching his father. Few of Stasa’s retinue had been on deck, preferring to leave the decks clear for the crew, but now many were climbing up and heading for the ship’s side. With the gangway still in its away position, the crew and passengers were leaping to the safety of the perch.

  The suurahezhan, standing over Stasa, crouched and stared into Stasa’s eyes. With one huge wail, and a heat that Atiana had never felt before, the creature reared up, facing the sky and throwing its arms wide. Stasa’s soulstone was aflame-much brighter than a soulstone ought to be. Moments later, the mainmast was ablaze, and the entire center of the ship was engulfed in a column of crackling orange fire. Stasa was lost in it, though there was a brief moment where Atiana thought she could hear his cries, high and desperate, mingling with the wail of the suurahezhan. They were eerily similar in those brief moments, but then both were cut short.

  The suurahezhan’s form seemed to be drawn into the flame. And then it was gone altogether, leaving behind a raging fire that had burned away a healthy portion of the mainmast and eaten a wagon-sized hole through the decking.

  The boom of a cannon shook Atiana’s entire body. They had been aiming at the hezhan, but the creature was now gone and the shot clipped the weakened mainmast. The mast cracked and began to lean toward the windward side.

  Then the ship began to descend. People were continuing to leap to the safety of the perch, but the acceleration was already increasing. Atiana saw Grigory’s sister launch herself from the gunwales, but she didn’t leap far enough. She fell screaming a moment later.

  Grigory was still fighting against the men who were holding him back. Tears streamed down his anguished face. Nikandr stood near the edge of the quay, swinging a rope. He tossed it to the deck and shouted at the soldiers to take hold. They pleaded with Grigory to come, but he ignored them. Over a dozen men anchored the rope behind Nikandr and took up the call, their voices becoming more and more insistent as the pace of the ship’s descent increased.

  Atiana thought surely Grigory had decided to spend his last moments with his father, but just as the ship’s main deck was dropping from view, he seemed to sense for the first time what was happening around him. He looked toward the perch, and then stood and grabbed the rope. The men on the eyrie bore down to hold Grigory and the soldiers. As they began heaving in time to pull them to safety, the ship’s tall, flaming sails slipped from view. Then it was gone, leaving only black smoke curling high into the cloud-stippled sky.

  CHAPTER 16

  Even while pulling Grigory to safety, Nikandr watched in wide-eyed horror as the yacht slipped from view. A great cacophony of snapping wood and rigging followed. Grigory was finally pulled up to solid ground. He immediately stepped to the edge of the perch, screaming in rage and confusion. Nikandr tried to hold him back, but Grigory shoved him away.

  Father and Ranos arrived and ordered the streltsi to escort everyone inside. “For your cousin, if not for yourself,” Iaros said to Grigory when he appeared reluctant to leave.

  Grigory looked at young Ivan, who stood nearby shaking with fear, though he was clearly ashamed of it.

  “Stop your trembling,” Grigory said, “and get yourself inside.”

  Ivan looked afraid to take a single step.

  “Go!”

  Ivan shivered, looking smaller than a boy his age ought to, and then complied.

  To Nikandr’s surprise, Grigory pulled himself taller and faced Father like an equal. “I will not hide indoors like some shivering child, not while there is any chance of survivors. My men and I will accompany the effort to save them.”

  This was of course a demand that a rescue effort be waged, for no mention of one had been made so far. Grigory had always been a bold young man-he was Stasa’s son after all-but he had never seemed so much like his father as he did just then.

  Father did not balk at Grigory’s tone. He merely nodded and turned to the sotnik of the streltsi. “Take the ships. Have the Broghan scour the area around Radiskoye. The Tura should search the rest of the island. And have men accompany Grigory to the harbor. Send two waterborne ships to the cliffs and have them search for survivors.”

  “Father,” Nikandr interrupted, “let me take the Broghan down to the sea. Help from Volgorod will arrive too late.”

  “ Nyet. The winds at the base of the cliffs are too dangerous.”

  Grigory stepped forward and pointed a finger at Father’s chest. “No effort will be spared, Khalakovo.”

  Father turned calmly. “Take yourself away, Bolgravya, before I have you dragged and thrown in with the women.”

  Grigory glanced at the nearby ships, knowing that any delay could mean the lives of his family below, and then he turned crisply and strode away.

  “We cannot risk it,” Father said once he was out of earshot.

  Nikandr lowered his voice. “But if there’s any chance that some survive, we should take it.”

  “Nikandr is right,” Ranos said. “And despite Grigory’s brashness, think on what is going through everyone’s minds. It’s bad enough this happened in front of the entire Grand Duchy. If we’re to save any face, we need to show our best effort.”

  “I cannot risk more lives,” Father said.

  “Nikandr has done it before, Father. With Jahalan and Udra, he’ll be safe.”

  Father hesitated, his gaze wandering to the smoke trailing up from the base of the cliff. He stepped forward and took Nikandr by the shoulders, and then pulled him into a tight embrace. “Go.” He kissed Nikandr on the forehead. “Save what can be saved, and come home safe.”

  And with that Nikandr was off. Grigory and the three Bolgravyan wind-men who had leapt to safety joined him. Jahalan and Udra were already waiting near the ship. They assembled a crew from the available men and pushed off as soon as they were able.

  Once the mooring ropes were released, a half-dozen men used poles to push the ship into the wind. Nikandr took the helm himself and ordered the sails set along all four mainmasts.

  Flying this close to an island always held its risks. A windship, unlike a waterborne craft, had three keels, each of them a shaft of obsidian running through the center of the ship. One ran lengthwise; one ran from the starward mainmast, through the ship and down the seaward mainmast; and the final one ran from the landward mainmast to the windward. The ends of each shaft were attuned to the aether such that it would align in a particular manner, each end pulling along ley lines drawn by the complex arrangement of islands and sea. This close to a cliff face, the currents were little more than whorls of aether, shifting and swirling with no discernible pattern. This was the reason eyrie landings were so difficult and the most seasoned pilots were
called upon to perform them.

  If it were only the aether that they had to contend with, Nikandr would not worry so much; it was the added danger of the wind, which was at best unpredictable, at worst deadly. There was little to do about it now, however. They could not abandon any survivors to the seas, no matter what the risk might be.

  Udra willed the Broghan to descend. Jahalan summoned the winds to push them away from the cliff face, but already they were being blown back toward it. Nikandr used the three levers on the bridge to control the ship’s alignment. Jahalan could only do so much; he used his bonded wind spirit, a havahezhan, to manipulate the winds, but fine control was impossible, so it was up to Nikandr to harness them properly and guide the ship away from the looming rock.

  Finally they approached the sea. Spikes of rock jutted up from the water like the ragged teeth of a leviathan lying in wait just below the surface. Stasa’s ship lay in ruins between two of them, the massive hull shorn near its center. The masts were crooked and broken like the trunks of once-proud trees following a terrible cold snap. White, frothy water rose and fell with the surf. Bitterly cold spray flew off the crest of every wave and was thrown against the ship, against the exposed skin of the crew.

  Men crowded the gunwales and scanned the water for any sign of survivors. For minutes on end, Nikandr struggled with the rudders, fighting the tendency of the wind to send them toward the rock. Jahalan was doing his best, but even one as strong and skilled as he could not coax the havahezhan bound to him indefinitely, especially when there were so many other wind spirits gathered in places like this, ready to foil the wishes of the Aramahn masters.

  “There!” Grigory shouted from the gunwales. “Near the rock! Two of them!”

  Grigory pointed toward two men who were clinging to the rocks, too weary to pull themselves higher.

  “Ready-” Nikandr lost his breath when the wind threw the cold ocean spray into his face. “Ready the ropes!”

  Four of the crew shimmied along the landward mainmast, carrying ropes that were fed to them from the deck. Nikandr ordered men to the windward mainmast so the ship’s delicate balance would be maintained. There was no need to speak with Jahalan and Udra. Jahalan knew his part-to keep the winds as steady as he could-and Udra stood ready to right the ship as the new weight was taken on board.

  The wind buffeted the ship, first away from the rocks, then toward, then fiercely downward. All the while Nikandr guided the ship steadily closer to the stranded men. The crewmen on the mast heaved the ropes toward the rocks, but they had to be reeled in, because the survivors were either too weak to leave the safety of the rocks or too scared to brave the waters.

  The cliff and the tall, jutting rocks prevented them from moving directly above the men, but Nikandr brought the ship as close as he dared.

  The sound of the wind fades. The numbing cold and the tug of the wind soon follow until all of his senses have been robbed from him.

  Until there is nothing.

  Nothing save for a keen yearning. A summons.

  It tugs at his soul. It clambers for life. It is a need so great that it threatens to overwhelm him. It is the call of the spirits beyond the veil. One has reached through and taken hold of his soul, but there are many, many more, ready to scratch and claw in any way they can for the life that lies within him.

  The world slipped into view.

  Grigory shouted from the gunwales. “What are you doing? Bring her in closer!”

  Nikandr realized the Broghan was slipping away from the rocks, but he didn’t care. Jahalan was clearly concerned over Nikandr’s actions, but he continued to command the winds as he always had-with a steady hand.

  He rails against the hezhan that hungers for him as others approach. Several men have already succumbed. Surely more will follow if they attempt to save the men on the rocks. Soon, if he allows it, the entire ship will be lost to the hunger of the spirits.

  One of the two crewmen on the mast slipped free and fell to the white-capped waters below. Another man standing on deck near the head was screaming, scratching at his face, leaving dark runnels of blood. Nikandr understood what was assailing them. He also knew they had to flee, now, before they were all consumed.

  “Rise, Udra, rise! Jahalan, hold steady!”

  The ship rose immediately as the winds shoved the ship toward the rocks. Jahalan was ready-he commanded his havahezhan to thwart the elements yet again.

  Grigory’s eyes went wide. “Are you mad?”He stalked over from the gunwales, his eyes in a craze. “You cannot leave! They are just there!”

  “We cannot stay,” Nikandr replied, unable to articulate what had just happened.

  “Your own man has fallen in the waters!”

  When Nikandr did not reply, Grigory pulled the ornamental kindjal from its sheath at his belt and stalked toward Nikandr.

  “Take her back!” he shouted, but before he could come within striking range, three streltsi swarmed in and seized his arms.

  Grigory’s countrymen broke away from the gunwales, ready to help their Lord Prince, but the crew of the Broghan took them by force, preventing them from interfering.

  “I am a son of Bolgravya! You will release me!” When they did not, Grigory turned to Nikandr. “Turn back, coward! There are lives to be saved!”

  Despite Grigory’s pleas, Nikandr knew he could not, and though his face burned with shame from the screams of the men below the ship, he would not throw away a ship-along with the lives of a score of men-when the spirits themselves had somehow risen against them.

  CHAPTER 17

  “My Lord Prince?” Isaak, the palotza’s seneschal, was standing in front of Nikandr with a look on his face that made Nikandr wonder just how long he had been standing there.

  Nikandr had always been a sure-footed man, but he’d had a terrible case of vertigo ever since his return to solid ground. It was another symptom of the wasting, one often associated with the latter stages of the disease, but Nikandr hoped that it had somehow been brought on by his strange experience and that it was merely lingering because of his condition.

  He couldn’t get the scene from the Broghan out of his mind.

  The crewman who had been attacked by the spirits, an old gull with a wide jaw and heavy growth of beard, was standing nearby. He was pressing a bloody kerchief against his self-inflicted wounds. He looked at Nikandr with something akin to solidarity-he understood Nikandr’s confusion-yet at the same time he looked embarrassed, as if he felt weak for admitting that he had succumbed to this unexpected attack.

  It mirrored Nikandr’s own feelings precisely.

  “I’ll be fine, Isaak,” Nikandr said. “I’m only a bit shaken. Where did you say I could find my father?”

  “I said His Highness would find you. He asks that you retire to the Great Hall to assist Ranos in staving off the wolves, as he put it.”

  “Where has he gone?”

  “Have you heard a word I’ve said?” Isaak asked.

  The sounds of screaming came to Nikandr again. Closing his eyes only made matters worse.

  Isaak stepped forward, lowering his voice. “Are you quite well, My Lord Prince?”

  Nikandr waved him away. “It’s nothing.”

  “There is trouble afoot, My Lord. Your father, the Duke, is with the Matra, and he’ll return as soon as he is able. If you’re well, as you say, then best you get to the Great Hall now, before things turn sour.” He turned and walked briskly away, and when he reached the end of the hallway, he turned. “The Great Hall, My Lord, the Great Hall.”

  Flanked by the old seaman, Nikandr made his way there. The doors stood open, and Nikandr entered as an argument played out at the head of the hall. Some noticed his entrance, but they remained silent as Nikandr and the crewman made their way to the dais. The screams of the men on the rocks, the silence as his man slipped free of the mast and fell to the sea, the clawing feeling he’d experienced as if his very soul had been held in the balance, all of it still swirled within his mind
as if it were still happening.

  He paused, nearly retching at the discontinuity. He took deep breaths as Ranos shouted over the noise of the crowd. “I have told you thrice, Vostroma. We have secured Radiskoye, Nikandr and Grigory are attempting to find any survivors, and our Aramahn are searching for signs of foul play.”

  “ Foul play?” Zhabyn barked. “Can there be any doubt?”

  “Spirits have crossed randomly before, Duke.”

  “And if you believe that’s the case here, then you’re less prepared to follow in your father’s footsteps than I thought.” Zhabyn stabbed a finger toward the eyrie. “What happened out there was murder. No more, no less.”

  Nikandr reached the dais. When Ranos took note of him, he tipped his head, indicating Nikandr should join him. “We don’t know that yet. Your blood is boiling, I know. Mine is as well. But we can discuss this further once more is known.”

  Voices rumbled about the room, clearly perturbed that Ranos was questioning the obvious.

  “Discuss?”

  This came from Duke Leonid of Dhalingrad, a heavyset man with a crooked shoulder and a long white beard that shook as he spoke.

  “You wish to discuss when the Grand Duke himself has been murdered on your very doorstep? This is a time for action, not wandering about asking polite questions while you hide your cock with your hand.”

  “Spirits cross when they will, Dhalingrad,” Ranos replied.

  “Not only when they will,” Duke Leonid said. “They can be summoned, as you very well know. It happened to your brother. This might have been planned days before Council”-Leonid opened his arms wide-“from within these very walls.”

  Ranos’s face turned hard, mirroring Nikandr’s own feelings. “If you have something to say, Dhalingrad, you’d better come out from hiding and say it.”