Bradley Beaulieu - The Winds of Khalakovo

Nikandr sucked in breath as one of them leapt from the cliff. The man’s descent quickened. He spread his arms wide, as if preparing for the cool embrace of the sea, not the singular end that would be granted by the earth and stone that lay below him.

Improbably, his descent slowed. His long robes were whipped harder than the speed of his fall could account for, and soon it was clear that the wind was carrying him like a gull on the upward drafts that blow along the cliffs. Like a feather on the breeze he was carried, arms held wide as many of the wind masters do. He soon regained the level where his comrades still stood, at which point he alighted to solid land as if stepping down from the mountain on high.

Nikandr coughed and pitched forward, supporting himself with one hand on the deck. A well had opened up inside him, a hole impossibly deep, impossibly black. It had coincided so closely with the man’s leap that he couldn’t help but think they were linked in some way, though how this could be he couldn’t guess.

On the cliff below, the one who had leapt turned and pointed up toward the Gorovna.

“Come about,” Nikandr called, “and bring her down by half!”

As one, the Maharraht bolted for the skiff.

“Jahalan, they have at least one havaqiram with them, probably two.”

“I feel him,” he replied, “but it is not just a havaqiram, son of Iaros. They have summoned a hezhan.”

Nikandr turned. “That’s not possible.”

“I agree that it should not be, but they have done it.”

Nikandr doubted him, but now was not the time for questioning; they needed to neutralize this threat before it could be brought to bear on the Gorovna — or worse, Radiskoye.

The skiff was airborne in less than a minute-the same time it took for the Gorovna to come about and close within striking distance.

“All fire!” Nikandr called.

The crack of four muskets rang out, followed a heartbeat later by the thunder of cannons. Bits of wood flew free from the stern of the skiff, and one of the Maharraht jerked sharply to his right, his shoulder and ribs a mass of red. One of the others helped him to the floor and immediately began binding his wounds while the other two steered the craft northward.

The clatter of four men reloading their muskets filled the air as Nikandr sighted carefully down the barrel of his musket. His mouth was watering, his throat swallowing reflexively. He took as deep a breath as he could manage and released it, slowly squeezing the trigger as the urge to curl into a ball grew markedly worse.

The pan flashed. The gun kicked into his shoulder.

The shot went wide. He’d been aiming for the man holding the sails, but it had struck the Maharraht tending to his wounded comrade. The man held his shoulder and stared up at the ship. Nikandr was close enough now that he could see the look of venom on the man’s face.

The wind continued to blow. The sails began to luff, and the ship twisted with the force of the wind. Jahalan was trying to adjust when a gale blew across the landward bow. It was so fierce that the ship’s nose was pushed upward and windward.

Nikandr blinked at nearby movement.

A heavy thud sounded next to him.

When he turned, he found a crewman lying on the deck, moaning and a river of red flowing out from underneath his head. The severe angle of the deck caused him to slide. Nikandr reached for him, but he was too far. He accelerated until Borund, holding tightly to a cleat, locked his meaty arm around the man’s waist.

Then the wind reversed.

The ship tilted sharply forward. There were only sixteen sails in use, but they were full and round and near to bursting.

A crack resounded from the upper part of the ship. Like a spruce felled in the forest, the topmost portion of the foremast tilted and was thrown amongst the rigging astern it.

“Reef the sails, men!” Nikandr called above the roar of the wind.

The crew began lowering the sails as the wind intensified. It was so loud that most would no longer be able to hear Nikandr’s commands.

The ship had now tilted to the point where the dozen men on deck, including Nikandr and Borund, were sliding toward the landward bulwarks. Nikandr landed well enough, but Borund cried out as the weight of the wounded man fell upon his ankle.

“Gravlos, right her!”

Gravlos fought hard against the controls, saying nothing as the ship tilted further and further.

As the ship continued to rotate, the hull groaned. A crewman plummeted from the starward foremast and was caught in one of the windward shrouds. He screamed in pain, his left arm hanging uselessly above his head at an unnatural angle.

Gravlos, who had been forced to maneuver himself onto the cabinet that housed the helm’s levers, was pulling frantically on the one that controlled the roll, but it was having no effect.

Suddenly Nikandr realized what was happening. “Gravlos, release the controls!”

Gravlos’s eyes grew wide. “ Nyet, My Lord!”

“Now, Gravlos!”

The ship had tilted nearly to the point where the starward masts were pointing toward the horizon.

Gravlos’s eyes locked onto Nikandr, his face filled with fear. He swallowed and began pulling upward on the lever he had been working so hard to maneuver.

Nikandr stared in disbelief as the lever refused to budge. Gravlos wasn’t going to be able to release it on his own. Nikandr slid along the bulwark until he was positioned directly below the helm. Borund, sensing his plan, leaned against the now-vertical deck and interlaced his hands. Once Nikandr had placed a foot into them, Borund heaved the lighter man upward.

Nikandr grabbed onto the helm and pulled hard on the lever along with Gravlos. They tried again and again, but it refused to budge. He feared it would never give, but then finally it came free with a hollow thud. They moved quickly and did the same to the other two.

For long moments the ship hung in the air, tilted on its side as the wind howled. Nikandr’s heart beat madly. He had thought that freeing the ship’s keels from the effects of the unpredictable aether would allow it to return to a state of equilibrium. Though the tilt was no longer getting worse, it wasn’t getting better, either. Several of the crew shouted warnings.

Nikandr looked up. His eyes widened, and his skin began to tingle.

Reeling among the sails was a vortex of wind and moisture. It looked like the waterspouts that sometimes came with spring weather, only smaller. Jahalan had said plainly that a havahezhan, a spirit of the wind, had been summoned, but Nikandr had never seen one with his own eyes.

“The dousing rods!” Nikandr called to the men.

He doubted anyone had heard him above the terrible roar caused by the hezhan, but even if they had, the rods would be nearly impossible to reach, stored as they were belowdecks.

The nausea that had struck him moments ago intensified, and then, like a dog hunting grouse among the bushes, the hezhan twisted closer and closer. The crew retreated, moving nimbly along the bulwarks and rigging. But then the hezhan seemed to find what it was looking for.

It headed straight for Nikandr.

Nikandr leapt from the helm down to the bulwarks in an attempt to evade the creature, but it was on him in moments.

The wind tore at his skin like hail, forcing him to bury his head between his arms. A deafening roar assaulted him. The breath was sucked from his lungs. Among the madness he saw, inside his shirt, his soulstone glowing bright white, though he had no time to wonder why this might be.

He fell to his knees and crawled along the bulwark, but the spirit hounded him. Stars danced behind his eyelids. His arms began to weaken.

And then he felt something thump against his chest.