The Winds of Khalakovo loa-1

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  The akhoz parted as he approached.

  Muqallad came to a halt near Nasim, who was writhing in pain with an expression of shock and wonder. He kneeled, and as he did the world around them slowed. The akhoz ceased moving. Ashan, turning toward Nikandr, froze. The few clouds in the sky continued to drift, and the air above the akhoz continued to waver-

  — but all else is silent. All else is still.

  The pain in Nikandr’s chest vanishes. He feels complete, whole, more than he has ever felt before. He remembers the lives behind him. Senses those that lie before. He feels… another life. One that crosses his at the junction in which he now finds himself-on the island that holds centuries of his past life. The one from Hathshava.

  “You have come,” Muqallad says to Nasim.

  “ Yeh,” Nasim replies, though it is through the other’s lips.

  Muqallad raises his head, surprised. “Khamal.”

  Nasim shakes his head. “No more.”

  Muqallad’s dark eyes narrow. “ Neh. You are different now, aren’t you?”

  “I am.”

  Muqallad smiles. “Reborn. As you had planned.”

  “As I had planned…”

  He stares into Nikandr’s eyes. His gaze is piercing, precise. “Why return?”

  “We cannot escape our past,” Nasim replies.

  “ Neh, but we can forge our future.”

  The confusion inside Nikandr swells. He feels as though he is both participant and bystander to this conversation, both actor and audience.

  The air shimmers as Muqallad stands. It is clear, just as with Sariya, that he is slowly gaining control-over himself and his surroundings. He is entering Erahm once more, after having been banished since the moment of Khamal’s death. Fear wells up inside Nikandr. Nasim, as lucid as he is now, must know this. Why does he allow it?

  But then he understands. Nasim is not merely allowing it. He wants Muqallad to enter the material world. He needs him to do so to regain himself and the pieces he left behind.

  Perhaps Muqallad recognizes this, for there is a shift in the air, a sense that everything in this small space between worlds has stopped.

  “That has always been your way,” Nikandr says, hoping to draw Muqallad’s attention. “Hasn’t it?”

  Muqallad stares into Nikandr’s eyes, seems to grow as he does so. “Should we trust to the ancients, as you do?” From the corner of his eye, Nikandr sees the akhoz moving, ever so slowly. “Should we bury our dead”-Muqallad points to Nikandr’s chest-“with the stones that guided them through life? Or should we strive to better ourselves and pave the way for those who have yet to come?”

  “We should honor ourselves, our families, and strive to understand those who are not the same.”

  “As your family did with Nasim?”

  “We are not perfect.”

  “ Neh, you are not.”

  “Nor are the Maharraht,” Nikandr continues. “I used to think them an invention of my time. But now I wonder if the very seeds of their arrival weren’t sown on this island.”

  Muqallad’s face goes red. He takes a step forward, and when he does, Nikandr rushes forward and takes him into a deep embrace.

  Muqallad struggles. He is strong, but Nikandr holds tight, hoping that the mere contact will complete the process.

  They fall to the ground. Muqallad screams in rage-perhaps also in pain-and then Nasim is standing over them both. His eyes are sharp and piercing. His face is angry.

  “Not now,” Nasim says as he reaches down and touches Muqallad’s forehead.

  Muqallad rears back. His whole body stiffens as his eyes roll back. His skin begins to wrinkle, and Nikandr releases him from the sheer terror of it. As he scrabbles away, Muqallad continues to wither. His arms curl around his waist, and his legs pull up toward his chest. He looks, in these last moments, like Nasim, pained and ignorant of the world around him.

  His skin dries, turns gray, begins to flake. And then, as the wind picks up, it falls away as if he is so much sand being blown across the desert floor.

  “Come,” Nasim says, holding his hand out to Nikandr. He tips his head toward the akhoz. “They will wake soon.”

  The world is already speeding up. The akhoz shamble forward. Ashan is spreading his arms wide, his chest open to the sky.

  Nikandr allows Nasim to pull him to his feet, and together they pull Ashan out through the akhoz.

  By the time they have passed the circle of the akhoz, the world continues as it always has.

  They ran, and with the akhoz slowed by the fall of their master, they quickly added distance between them. But Nikandr knew this was temporary at best. The akhoz were already gaining speed, and if anything, their anger rose to new heights as they howled in their pursuit.

  They reached the edges of the city, where the buildings were more sparse. The road led to the trail that would take them higher toward the island’s central ridge and toward the remains of Nikandr’s crew, but before they had passed the last of the ruined stone buildings, a call came from behind-higher-pitched, more insistent.

  An akhoz, the same girl as before, was frenzied in her pursuit and was now much closer than the pack further behind. She would be on them in moments.

  Nikandr pulled his kindjal, not knowing what else to do. Ashan, the jasper gem upon his wrist glowing faintly, turned and raised his hands up high. The ground rose in a mound before the akhoz. They squealed as they were flung backward. A vanahezhan stood, fully formed, sidestepping to place itself in the path of the akhoz as she attempted to circumvent it to reach Nasim.

  Nikandr had not expected even an arqesh like Ashan to be able to summon a hezhan-he should have only been able to use its powers on this plane- but surely it had something to do with the particulars of Ghayavand.

  The akhoz’s blackened eyes widened and her lips pulled back, revealing the shattered remains of teeth, as the hezhan charged forward. The akhoz darted to one side and gripped the hezhan’s massive arm. A sizzling sound filled the air as the hezhan moaned and reared backward. Its arm dried in an instant and powdered to dust as the akhoz retreated once more.

  She was not quick enough, however. The other arm of the hezhan pounded her across the head. It sounded like a hammer that butchers use to fell pigs before the slaughter. The akhoz flew through the air and landed in a heap, her head bent backward under her body.

  She lay there, lifeless, as the other akhoz approached, and when Nikandr looked beyond to the city, he saw three more shamble from the streets-then another pair-all of them heading their way. They had only minutes to defeat the nearest of them and flee before they were overwhelmed.

  The older akhoz leapt when it neared the vanahezhan. The beast was not ready for it, and the akhoz landed on its chest. The akhoz remained in place as it hugged the chest of the earth spirit and released a hoarse cry into the air. The hezhan moaned as the heat intensified to the point that Nikandr had to retreat.

  Moments later, the hezhan’s body powdered just as its arm had, and parts of it began to ablate in a way that was eerily similar to Muqallad’s death.

  Nikandr tried to advance with his kindjal, but the heat was too intense. However, when the hezhan finally fell to the ground, the heat dropped to almost normal levels. The akhoz was bent over, perhaps recovering itself after expending so much energy.

  Nikandr did not hesitate. He advanced and struck, driving the knife deep into the exposed back of the akhoz.

  The creature turned and knocked Nikandr away with a vicious swipe of its arm. The heat from the akhoz’s skin was not nearly as formidable as it had been moments ago, but it was still enough to burn Nikandr’s forearm. He fell away, and rolled back to his feet.

  The akhoz screamed as he tried to reach the knife in his back, but each time he grabbed the hilt of the weapon, he screamed louder and pulled his hand away as if the kindjal were burning him.

  Ashan was kneeling, his arms spaced wide and his hands flat against the ground. He was whispering and rocking rhythm
ically back and forth. There was a pool of water collecting before him, and it was starting to trickle downhill. Before it could go far, however, it rose up and took form. It looked vaguely childlike-reaching only Nikandr’s waist-but it was twice as wide as he was.

  The jalahezhan rolled forward and struck the akhoz’s legs. A sizzling sound accompanied the water spirit’s efforts as it slipped higher and higher along the akhoz’s body. The akhoz screamed, still trying to rid himself of the knife while bearing down to create more heat. A white gout of steam rose as the two creatures fought for control.

  The jalahezhan seemed to be holding its own-the akhoz had been forced to the ground and water was gurgling into his mouth-but then the trailing akhoz reached it, and soon they had surrounded the water spirit. Moments later, the jalahezhan lost form and the water splashed to the ground. Steam rose. Their feet sizzled as they collectively turned and began moving up the trail.

  Nikandr and Ashan and Nasim fled, but they were exhausted, and Ashan had already summoned two hezhan, something that must have sapped his strength sorely.

  Finally, Ashan stopped, his breath coming in great gasps. He turned and faced the akhoz, opening his arms wide and tilting his head back to the sky while whispering words of prayer or perhaps commands in Mahndi. In the air before him the telltale signs of a dhoshahezhan formed. A crackling sound rent the air, which smelled suddenly acrid. Its shape-more elusive than when they were seen playing among lightning storms-was fluid, like an air spirit, but also more angular as the faint sparks of light brought on by its energy defined its boundaries.

  Nikandr kneeled next to Nasim and turned the boy to face him. “Please. You must do something.”

  But Nasim didn’t seem to hear him. His eyes were clamped shut and his face held a look of supreme discomfort, as if what he were doing was already taking too much. What effect it might be having, Nikandr had no idea. Perhaps without Nasim’s efforts they would be facing a score of akhoz and not just six.

  Still, six, twenty, it mattered little if the dhoshahezhan could not save them, and Nikandr didn’t see how it could.

  The akhoz once again surrounded the hezhan, preferring to deal with the thing that might harm them before dispatching their true prey. This was not so easy as the last, however. Blue-white lightning arced from the hezhan, through three of them, and back to the source. Two of them spasmed and dropped to the ground, unconscious or dead; the third fell to hands and knees, its torso convulsing as it fought to regain control of its body.

  The other akhoz reared backward-a posture reminiscent of what Ashan had just done-and exhaled gouts of flame from their mouths. The muscles along their necks tightened like bowstrings, and their arms flayed backward as they released every remaining bit of breath within their lungs.

  The shimmering signs of the dhoshahezhan seemed to elongate as the fire pulled the air upward. More lightning shot downward, arcing between two of the akhoz, but it was noticeably weaker than the previous, and the akhoz were only momentarily fazed. Together the four remaining breathed once more, and the death throes of the hezhan were evidenced by a faint crackle and the barest winking of light.

  The two wounded akhoz had just begun lifting themselves from the ground when a great boom rent the air. The skin of three of the akhoz lifted in random places about their bodies as grape shot tore into them.

  Nikandr looked up and saw a ship-the Kavda — floating not a hundred paces above them in the sky, and standing at the gunwale, his face unreadable, was Grigory Stasayev Bolgravya.

  The fore cannon bucked as it coughed its own shot, and another of the akhoz was taken. The gun crew worked feverishly to reload as a rope ladder snaked downward.

  Nikandr guided Nasim as Ashan limped toward the ladder. The akhoz screamed and gave chase, but they seemed hesitant. They released their fiery breath up toward the ship, but it didn’t travel high enough to do damage.

  One of the akhoz shook its head and sprinted forward, but its left arm was taken off by another blast from the rear cannon. It fell to the ground, moaning and reaching for the dismembered arm that now lay far out of reach.

  The ship descended far enough that Nikandr could lift Nasim up to the ladder. Ashan followed and Nikandr brought up the rear as the ship lifted. Nikandr’s legs and feet were burned by one last blast from two more akhoz, but he would count himself lucky if he had only blisters.

  When he reached the deck, he found Grigory waiting. Five streltsi stood behind him-two held Ashan and Nasim; the other three held pistols at the ready.

  Grigory jutted his chin toward the ladder. “If I hadn’t been given orders to bring you back, Iaroslov, I would have left you to them.”

  Nikandr held his eye. “Spoken like a hound well trained.”

  Grigory waved one hand, at which point two of the streltsi came forward and bound Nikandr’s hands behind his back. “We’ll see if your tongue is so loose when you return to a Khalakovo that finds itself in Bolgravyan hands.”

  “Never.”

  Grigory smiled. “By now Vostroma will have ordered the attack. ”Grigory shook his head sadly. “The eyrie will be taken first. Radiskoye will be saved for last, and it will be torn apart unless your father agrees to cede his islands to us.”

  “He would die first.”

  The smile on Grigory’s face was one of pure pleasure. “We can only hope, Nischka. And do not worry for your former bride. She has been promised to me, to reforge the southern alliance that has been, shall we say, lacking these last twenty years. I care little for that, but I will admit that I won’t mind sharing a bed with Atiana Radieva.”

  Grigory paused, waiting for Nikandr to speak, and then his face lit into a smile and he released a full-chested laugh. “Your bride has just been stolen, Nischka. Can it be the vaunted Son of the North has no words?”

  “She was never my bride,” Nikandr said, feeling his face burn. “She was a woman chosen by my mother, a woman as replaceable as your own mother.”

  It was Grigory’s turn to burn red. His mother, Alesya, had been spurned by the Duke of Mirkotsk when he discovered just how homely she was. It had led to a small skirmish between the two duchies and had nearly led to civil war. Stasa had taken her as his bride, cementing his relationship with Dhalingrad, and he had refused to allow anyone to speak of the matter after they had been married.

  Grigory stepped forward and struck Nikandr across the face. It stung, but Nikandr refused to bend.

  “I’ll be sure to write to tell you how she tastes.” Nikandr could smell vodka on Grigory’s breath.

  They were brought belowdecks-Ashan without his bracelets and circlet- and thrown into a small, windowless room near the center of the ship.

  Nasim was taken elsewhere, no doubt so Grigory could turn his attentions on the boy before they reached the blockade. Nikandr started to think better of raising Grigory’s ire. He sincerely hoped the man didn’t do something eminently foolish with Nasim.

  Like make him angry.

  CHAPTER 53

  Borund sat within the kapitan’s cabin, eying Atiana like a prisoner of war-like some Motherless wretch he was ready to drag before his father for questioning. On a silver perch fixed to the wall sat an old black rook with a chipped beak. Its eyes were not sharp, and it was preening its feathers, so Atiana did not think her mother or any of the other Matri were inhabiting its form. Considering what was happening on Khalakovo the possibility was even more remote. Still, she reminded herself to watch her tongue.

  “Mother said you were glad to be there,” Borund said.

  “I was not glad,” Atiana said.

  “Then what were you?”

  “Relieved to be out of the village.”

  “And what were you doing there in the first place?”

  “I told you. I had escaped from Radiskoye.”

  “But why go to a Motherless village?”

  “There were riots in the streets, Bora. You would rather I returned to Radiskoye?”

  Borund shrugged his shoulders,
which were not as round as she remembered them. No doubt he had not been eating well, rations being what they were. “You could have hidden in Izhny, or anywhere else for that matter. You could have stayed in one place until Mother found you.”

  “You assume Mother was even looking for me. I practically tripped over her before she noticed me. I managed to get myself to a place where she could find me. That should be enough for you.” Borund opened his mouth to speak, but Atiana talked over him. “Enough, brother. You act like I wanted to be left there, when it was you and Father who abandoned me.”

  “You were not abandoned.”

  “Then what happened?” The feeling of betrayal she had felt on the eyrie-the ship pulling away, taking Borund and Father with it, while the barrel of a gun was being held to her head-all came back in a rush.“How could you have forgotten me?”

  “I checked on the three of you before I left. Ishkyna said you had already boarded the yacht.”

  “And you believed her?”

  “Mileva said the same thing. Why would they lie?”

  Atiana wanted to grab the brass seal sitting at the edge of Borund’s desk and throw it at him, but Borund had changed. He was harder, and she couldn’t act like she had years ago. He was being groomed to take Father’s place, and the last thing she could afford was to give him a reason to scrutinize her further. “Because it suits them, Bora. Do you even know what your sisters are like anymore?”

  “Why were you gone?” he asked, ignoring her question. “Why did it suit them to lie for you?”

  She knew she had to give him an element of the truth, but she did not trust him enough to give him the complete story. “I left to investigate the crossing of the suurahezhan.”