The Winds of Khalakovo

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “I wouldn’t dream of robbing Gravlos of the pleasure.”

  “But you worked on her, did you not? Is it not your right as well?”

  Nikandr waved at the ship offhandedly. “A ship is a ship.”

  She said nothing, and her face changed not at all, but she was weighing his words. She knew—knew how much he loved this ship. To speak of it in such a cavalier manner would speak volumes to someone like her, a woman who had always—despite what other faults she might have—been insufferably bright.

  “I suppose you’re right. There’s much to do over the next few days. I doubt we’ll see much of one another until the dance.”

  “Regrettably, that is most likely true.”

  She glanced toward the gangway at a call from her Aunt Katerina.

  Nikandr took her hand in his and kissed it. “Until the dance?”

  She fixed her gaze on her hand, which was still held in his. Then she pulled it away and met his eyes. “I look forward to it.”

  When they were growing up, the sisters had always had a subtle tone to their words. Sometimes it was Mileva, sometimes Ishkyna, and sometimes—though more rarely—it was Atiana. They would say something that sounded innocuous while in fact was steeped in meaning. Nikandr’s ear had come to recognize this tone, for more often than not it was meant as a challenge. She was daring him to unravel the mystery, daring him further to prevent her from winning.

  “I await with bated breath,” Nikandr said.

  The ceremony itself was short. A collective prayer for the Gorovna’s safe passage, a song written and sung for the occasion by one of Volgorod’s most famous troubadours, and for a select few a tour from the shipwright, Gravlos.

  Then the gathering left—all except Borund, who was bidden by his father to judge the ship for its windworthiness. Gravlos was given the honor of launching her from the eyrie, but Nikandr soon took over and guided her eastward along the length of the island. It would be a short flight—out to open sea, a curve around the far end of the island, and back again. Enough time for Borund to assess her, enough time for a bit of celebration, and then a return to the shipyards for final fittings.

  They were nearing an hour out to sea. The entire time Borund had looked as if he were at a funeral.

  “Come,” Nikandr said, trying to lighten the mood. “We’ll give you a proper tour.”

  Borund, who was thankfully facing Nikandr and not Gravlos, rolled his eyes and spoke softly, “Can’t we just share a drink in the kapitan’s quarters, Nischka?”

  “It will take but a moment,” Nikandr replied under his breath.

  “I’ve been on a hundred of these ships, Nikandr. I know what they’re about.”

  Gravlos, who was eager to show off more of the ship than had been possible earlier, had come close enough to hear, and though he showed no disappointment on his face, his shoulders dropped, and the bow of his head he gave to Borund was longer than it needed to be. “Perhaps a turn at the helm, My Lord Prince...”

  To Nikandr’s horror, Borund declined this as well and began pacing the deck, spending more time examining the forward cannon mount than anything else.

  Gravlos’s face was red as he stared at Borund. Before Nikandr could say a word to him, he limped to the shroud running up along the mainmast and began yelling at the men to tighten the deadeyes. It wasn’t much longer before Borund stepped up to the aftcastle with an exasperated expression on his face. “It does seem terribly slow going, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s natural,” Nikandr said, trying to hide his displeasure, “with only half her sails flying.”

  “Da, but we’re also taking a rather circuitous route.”

  “Well then, perhaps I could arrange a skiff to take you back to Volgorod.”

  Borund exhaled noisily. “Nikandr, I know I’m being a boor, but until last night I had been on a ship for nearly a week, and the winds were not kind, believe me. The last thing I wish to do”—he glanced toward Gravlos and lowered his voice—“is spend one more minute on this ship than I need to.”

  Considering their history, Nikandr had hoped to bring Borund around to his way of thinking—to enjoy the day and the ship, to give honor to those that had spilled sweat and blood upon her decks—but now he saw that he would not. To him, this ship was nothing more than a row in his father’s ledgers, and it set his blood to boiling.

  “Your wish is my command, My Lord Prince.” He called for the ship to come about.

  Gravlos looked over severely, but Nikandr ignored him, and once Jahalan had sufficiently altered the winds, Nikandr steered the ship away from the lazy course he had set and flew straight for the shipyard, a course that would take them directly over the palotza.

  Borund looked nervous when he realized what Nikandr was doing, but then he tipped his head back and laughed. “Well, that’s one way to go about it.”

  Flying over the palotza was normally ill-advised, lest it be misinterpreted as an act of aggression, but the streltsi manning the palotza’s cannons had been briefed—they knew who was piloting the ship and would be much more forgiving than usual.

  Just as they were coming abreast of the palotza, the ship’s master waved his hand over his head several times, the sign that danger had been spotted and that silence was required.

  This was not a seasoned crew. It was a collection of old deck hands that Gravlos had put to work in the shipyard, but many of them had served in the staaya—the windborne wing of Khalakovo’s military—or the merchant marine, and old habits die hard. Once the signal was picked up, it was passed silently to the landward and windward sides and finally below to the few who would be manning the seaward masts. The two gun emplacements—one fore and one aft—were manned with a crew of three men each.

  Nikandr, his heartbeat quickening, waved Gravlos over to the helm and raised his hand in the signal for the crews to begin loading grapeshot. They complied, finishing in respectable time, as Nikandr sent another sign to the ship’s acting master, calling for muskets.

  The Gorovna was not complete and had been readied with only five muskets. They were removed from their locker by the master and four of them were passed out to the crewmen known to be good with the weapon. The fifth was handed to Nikandr.

  He immediately pulled one of the walrus tusk cartridges filled with gunpowder from the bandolier across his chest and began loading the weapon. He finished well before the others and began scanning the ground below. It took him a moment to find it among the mottled patches of stone and snow—a skiff, nestled in a copse of scrub pine. Once he had found the ship, he found the men. Twenty paces away four of them kneeled at the edge of a tall cliff that ended hundreds of feet below in a forest of spruce. They appeared to be inspecting the ground, though for what reason Nikandr couldn’t guess.

  It was possible they were Aramahn like Jahalan and Udra, but their almond-shaped turbans and long beards and threadbare clothing made him think otherwise. Plus, the Aramahn knew that to come so close to the palotza without permission was to risk trial and possibly death. They had to be Maharraht, members of a group that had decades ago broken with the peace-loving ways of the Aramahn, dedicating their lives to driving the Grand Duchy from the islands and drowning them in the sea.

  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 ope
ned 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.

  CHAPTER 3

  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.

  The hole that had opened up inside him filled. The feeling of a yawning, bottomless pit vanished in a moment. The wind began to die. The sound faded, and eventually, he could breathe again. He retched several times, but thankfully nothing came up. It would have been understandable—to vomit after such a strange encounter—but he didn’t care for the entire crew, plus Borund, to see him in that state; it would bring too many unwelcome questions.

  Moments later he was finally able to stand. When he opened his eyes, a final gust buffeted him, and then all was calm. He scanned the rigging and sky for any telltale signs of the hezhan, but it was clear the creature was gone, and he could only thank the ancients that they had somehow watched over him.

  He pulled out the heavy gold chain that held his soulstone, knowing now that it had been the source of the strange sensation against his chest. He stared at it, dumbfounded.

  The stone was smoky and gray and somewhat transparent, whereas before it had been cloudy and white with a low radiance to it. He polished the surface against his coat
, thinking it had become dirty. But he soon came to realize that the encounter with the hezhan had altered it, perhaps for good. Why had it shone so brightly when the hezhan had been close? Had the stone somehow destroyed the spirit? Had it been damaged while doing so?

  Seeing Borund watching him, Nikandr kissed the stone as though he were thanking the ancients and stuffed it back inside his shirt.

  The Gorovna eased back into balance as the breeze bore them southward like a seed upon the wind. The crew, seeming to realize the danger had passed all at once, cheered and whipped their woolen hats in circles over their heads. Even Borund appeared to be caught up in the emotion as he rushed forward and took Nikandr in a bear hug, lifting him from the deck.

  “Let go of me, you big ox!”

  “Ha ha!” Borund twirled him around several times before finally setting him back down. “How did you do it?” he asked with a grin as wide as the seas.

  Nikandr could only shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Then you’re the luckiest man I know, Nischka!” Borund picked Nikandr up and twirled him around again, laughing the whole time.

  “Enough!” Nikandr said.

  Borund set him down as the cheering finally began to subside.

  “Set sails, men. Let’s go home.”

  The crew did so, and though at first they did not sail smartly, the master soon brought them in line with his booming voice while Gravlos steered for the shipyard.

  Nikandr, meanwhile, moved to the gunwale and scanned the island below for some small sign of the skiff. There could be no doubt that they had been Maharraht. What wasn’t clear was the purpose behind their attack. The Gorovna might have represented a juicy prize had they been able to take it—even juicier with Nikandr and Borund aboard—but in attacking they had also announced their presence. Why settle for two princes when Council was upon them? Why not wait for the ships of the incoming dukes?

  Nikandr continued searching for a long while—both for the answers to his questions and for the escaped men—but as he had feared, he found neither.