Bradley Beaulieu - The Winds of Khalakovo

Ashan stood nearby, holding his own against the elder, but the tide had already begun to turn. He shook, his gentle face locked in a grimace.

And then he fell. The grass smoked as it was touched by his skin. He lay there, his chest unmoving, while the havahezhan descended upon the soldiers. Some screamed, but the sounds of their pain was swallowed by the thundering gale that now enveloped them.

One by one the streltsi dropped. One lay a few paces away from Rehada, his eyes already vacant. Small rocks and ice cut into his lifeless face, leaving small trails of red against his snow-white skin.

Rehada turned to see the elder suurahezhan slipping over the walls of Oshtoyets. She could no longer feel her bonded hezhan, but she could feel the elder, and it occurred to her how akin it felt to her. It was hundreds of yards away, but there was a purity about it that she could not help but admire. She wondered who it might have been in another life, how great it might be in the next.

Perhaps it had been her mother. Perhaps Ahya.

She stood, knowing what she was about to do was not wise, but knowing also that she would do it even if the hezhan claimed her. “To me!” she cried, rallying the few remaining soldiers. “To me, men of Khalakovo!”

They heard something in her voice, some small amount of hope, and five of them formed a guard in front of her. Two were sucked away by the raging wind, but the rest were able to escort her up toward the keep.

The jalahezhan had slithered down the hill, but the suurahezhan had moved faster. Rehada stood in its path, motioning the streltsi to stop and allow her to proceed.

The suurahezhan, wavering heat rising above the dark red surface of its skin, came to a halt before Rehada. It recognized her, and for the moment did not attack. Rehada threw aside her circlet-knowing this was no spirit to be enticed by mere stones-and spread her arms wide.“I am yours,”she said simply. Her mind was as resolute as it ever would be. There was no fear, only purpose and a willingness to give of herself.

The elder did not need her-it had already entered the world and had no need of a bridge-but it was intrigued, and it felt a kinship, the same kinship that Rehada felt with every bit of her heart.

Rehada stepped forward.

And felt the fire of the world.

It consumed her, gave light to the innermost recesses of her mind, those places she hadn’t wanted to visit, hadn’t wanted to uncover. But she had been ready for this-there was no longer anything left for her to hide.

The spirit felt this. It accepted her, and for the time being, granted her a bond.

She turned toward the havahezhan, which had sensed this new threat and was now twisting toward her. The Landed soldiers scrambled away, watching her with crazed eyes. They feared her, which was as it should be. She was flame. She was fire itself.

Her clothes burned away. She stood naked in the snow, pouring herself into one last effort as the havahezhan raged against her, hoping to knock her from her feet. But she was no mere candle to be snuffed by an errant breeze.

She could feel the pain of the wind spirit, could feel it slipping away toward Adhiya. Had it not been weakened already, it might have fought longer, but as it was, the suurahezhan was too strong, and soon the spirit of wind was lost, the last remnant of its existence a buffet of wind against the snow.

The vanahezhan was closing in, its earthen form looming large. Ashan had regained his feet. He seemed pained with exertion as he drew water up from beneath the earth, using the snow to infuse the earth spirit as it approached. More and more of its form was softened by the water, ablating it as the thing stalked forward.

The hezhan paused, however, and replenished itself with the muddy earth at its feet. It was slowed, but it would not be defeated. Not like this.

The jalahezhan reached two of the soldiers who were holding up their guns. It bore down on them, splitting around their simple defense and drowning them in moments.

The shot of a cannon brought Rehada’s attention toward the keep. A passing ship unleashed another cannon shot into the courtyard. Several more ships followed, each of them loosing blasts of their own.

The jalahezhan, perhaps sensing they were a greater threat, turned toward the oncoming ships. Droplets of water flew off of its body and up toward the nearest of them. More and more of it flowed like rain up and against the oncoming galleon, its body shrinking as it did so. It fell against the sails and the deck of the ship as the crewmen working frantically to prepare their dousing rods.

And then it reformed.

Musket fire snapped across the ship. Men shouted as the water spirit slipped around the men holding the dousing rods and attacked those that had yet to fire.

The vanahezhan had finished with the forward streltsi. Only two streltsi and the sotnik remained. Ashan was still trying to slow the approach of the vanahezhan. Rehada summoned the power of the suurahezhan once more, focusing a blast of heat against the spirit of earth.

The vanahezhan stopped. It seemed to gather its strength. A moment later the earth rolled before it like a wave upon the water. It traveled outward-tight and focused on Rehada and Ashan.

It struck, sending her flying. She landed with a thud as the wave of earth thundered onward and was lost among the sloping hills behind her.

She looked toward Ashan. He lay unmoving, unconscious or dead. The vanahezhan lumbered forward, mere moments from reaching him.

She poured everything she had left, but she had already given too much. She managed a gout of flame that lasted no longer than a breath, and then the suurahezhan released her, knowing she was now little more than a mere husk. The moment it did, however, it slipped back through the aether to Adhiya. The vanahezhan’s attack had weakened it-that and the demands Rehada had placed on it-and when it had released her, it had also released a critical bond that was keeping it squarely grounded to this world.

In a way she was glad, for she could no longer have controlled it, but in another it made her desperate, for she had been left utterly powerless to prevent the vanahezhan from reaching Ashan.

The wind whipped around Nikandr, pushed harder and harder against his frame as he rushed toward the sea. His descent was slowing, but it seemed impossible to prevent himself from plummeting into the waves. Strangely, that only deepened his commitment to the hezhan. He released all of his worries, all of his hopes, and drew strength from the hezhan, asking-not demanding-that it help him.

The winds blew harder. It rushed up and around him, whipping his clothes and his hair. He slowed and halted in midair-only seconds from the water-and then he was flying upward along the cliff. The walls of Oshtoyets were high above him. He urged the winds to push him faster, knowing there was little time left. He had to reach Nasim to protect him somehow.

The wind roared in his ears as he crested the wall. In the center of the courtyard was the black spire towering five stories high, and at its base was Nasim, chained to a spike set into the obsidian stone. The Maharraht stood around the spire in a circle, chanting, but as Nikandr moved toward the battlements, one of them spotted him. Nikandr could not hear above the noise, but the Maharraht summoned another, who had an alabaster stone set into the circlet on his brow. He raised his hands, and immediately the winds shifted, pushing Nikandr over the courtyard.

And then the wind was utterly, inexplicably gone. He fell nearly two stories and crashed onto the stone, striking his head as he did so.

Pain resounded through him-especially along the back of his skull-as he woke to a low and rhythmic chanting. He tried to move, but cold metal held his wrists in place. His arms were pulled painfully above his head.