The Winds of Khalakovo

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  The Stasa that stared at them all from the gunwales of his ship was not the same man. He had always been a large man, barrel-chested and meaty about the arms and legs. His face had been plump, his cheeks red. He had possessed steely eyes. He was quick to anger, and he rarely laughed, but when he did, his eyes held that same keen edge, as if he were granting you some favor by allowing the display of his mirth.

  This Stasa was crooked. He listed to one side, as if the position pained him but was the least painful position he could find. His cheeks were drawn, and they sagged about his chin like an old bloodhound. His lips drooped at the edges, giving him a permanent frown. And his eyes... They were sunken eyes, defeated eyes, as if they were tired from the mere viewing of the world.

  Why he hadcomewhen the wasting hadnearlytaken him already, Atiana couldn’t guess. Perhaps he knew his death was near and wished to meet his fellow dukes one last time. Perhaps there were agreements he wished to negotiate, a final show of power before the fates finally took him.

  It was disheartening to see him like this. Among the squabbles of the dukes, Stasa had always ruled with something akin to fairness. It felt like the wasting, or the blight itself, had taken him, and with him gone it would only be a matter of time before the rest succumbed as well.

  Atiana’s attention was caught by a motion from Nikandr. He was touching his neck with a curious look on his face, but when he noticed her watching he dropped his hand immediately. It must be his soulstone, though why it had attracted his attention now she had no idea.

  Stasa’s son, Grigory, stepped onto the forecastle deck and made his way to stand by his father’s side. Though he was fourth in line for the scepter of Bolgravya, he had learned the lessons of a prince well. As he swept his gaze over the crowd, he kept his face stern, as if it were his iron fist that ruled the islands, not his father’s.

  A moment later a broad-winged rook flew over the eyrie, cawing loudly. “A suurahezhan approaches! Prepare! Pre—” It never completed those last words, for it dropped from the sky as if it had been shot. It struck the ground heavily and lay there, twitching. Then it went still.

  The crack of a musket was heard. A soldier shouted orders, and then two more muskets rang out. The soldiers who had fired immediately sprinted along the wall, looking over their shoulders at something that had clearly shaken their resolve.

  Then, over the curtain wall, flowing like flames over a burning log, came a form twice as tall as Atiana. It looked vaguely manlike, but its chest was compact, its arms long and fluid, its head little more than a featureless mound. Its form shifted—growing here, shrinking there. It burned orange with wisps of yellow and white, and though it was still twenty paces away she could feel the heat of it against her skin. The sound was like a heavy wind as it blew through winterdead trees.

  The eyrie devolved into bedlam.

  Shouts and screams filled the air. Several of the royalty pulled their pistols and fired. Many retreated along the stone pathway toward the palotza. Others edged toward the cliff and the perches, while a select few pulled shashkas from the sheaths at their belts. Nikandr, pistol in hand, stepped in front of Atiana and edged her backward while keeping his eyes fixed forward.

  The wind shifted, bringing with it an acrid and choking scent. Atiana’s eyes began to tear as more musket shots rang out, some from the curtain wall and a few from Bolgravya’s ship. It was impossible to tell if the hezhan was affected as it plodded through the garden, singeing the squat evergreen bushes as it went. Where the musket balls struck the hezhan’s skin—if skin was what the gaseous surface could be called—it darkened as embers did when struck with water, but then it quickly returned to its previous brightness, all evidence of the wound gone.

  Two jalaqiram, Aramahn water masters, rushed forward, calling in their lyrical language. The one closest to the fiery beast spread his arms wide, and the azurite gem on his brow glowed brighter. A pool of water built around his feet, but before he could use it, the suurahezhan charged forward and brought him to the ground with both casket-sized hands, snuffing the life from him in an instant.

  A handful of streltsi rushed out from the palotza carrying dousing rods, circles of pure iron with long, leather-wrapped handles affixed to them. They were typically used against enemy qiram, but they were effective against hezhan as well. As the musket fire continued the streltsi surrounded the spirit, attempting to fence it in using the rods. For a moment, it seemed to be working. The suurahezhan paused, its form shrinking as its color turned deep red. Then, like a cornered dog, it shot between two of the soldiers. A deep moan escaped the creature as the iron struck its arms and sides. Where the metal touched the hezhan turned deep red, almost black, but the price had apparently been worth it. It was free of its containment.

  It charged forward as more shots hit home, passing mere yards away from Atiana. Nikandr was sure to place himself between her and the creature, but she still felt the heat of it on her face as it passed. Once it was clear it was headed for the ship, Nikandr pushed Atiana with a firm hand toward the palotza.

  “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.