The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [120]
She turned around just before the men reached her, but her face was stung by dirt and stones as the wind picked up and swirled around her. It howled, and the only thing she could do was ward her face with her forearms and press backward into the door.
Suddenly she lost her balance, falling backward as the door opened behind her. She was grabbed by the elbow and pulled inward. The sound of the wind dropped. There was light, but her eyes stung so horribly from dust and dirt she couldn’t see.
The door slammed shut and several men secured it with three massive wooden beams. Atiana blinked, her eyes watering, but she could see by the lantern light a tall Aramahn man walking down the stairs. She recognized him as Jahalan, one of Khalakovo’s wind masters. Behind him came Ranos, who was bleeding from several cuts along his forehead. He looked fierce as his eyes met hers.
Atiana cringed as another cannon blast shook the room and trails of dust filtered down from the stone ceiling.
“The Maharraht,” Atiana began, unsure of what to say amidst all this madness.
“We know.” Ranos came to her side and took her arm in a painfully tight grip. “Come,” he said while leading her toward the inner gate, “the Duke would speak with you.”
Nikandr ducked as a canon blast struck the Vostroman yacht Olganya. For the first time, Nikandr noticed Zhabyn standing on the foredeck, watching the scene play out before him. His eyes met Nikandr’s momentarily as the streltsi led Nikandr toward the ship. His eyes were smug, but there was a tautness to his frame. He had not expected things to go so badly.
Several of the streltsi boarded the ship, but as Ashan was being led toward the gangplank, a horrendous rumble filled the eyrie. One moment the stone of the westernmost turret was bulging outward and the next its entire face, including the cannon emplacement, was tumbling to the ground. Nikandr felt it in his feet, in his chest and shoulders. Several streltsi were caught in the fall. Their bodies were dashed like pebbles upon the surf. A cloudo f dust exploded into the air, turning ochre and orange from the nearby fire.
Nikandr was shoved onto the ship by the streltsi. Ashan and Nasim were right behind him.
“Prepare to cast off!” Zhabyn yelled.
Before the last of the stones had settled into place, a massive form lumbered out of the cloud. The backs of its arms and legs were smooth, mottled stone. The front of it was dark as night and glittering. Its eyes twinkled, and to Nikandr it seemed to have singular purpose as it stalked forward.
Retreating from the palotza, the remaining Vostroman soldiers moved in formation, firing at the hezhan as they went. Many fell as they were shot by Khalakovan muskets, forcing them into an all-out retreat for the Olganya.
Behind the vanahezhan were several men dressed in the loose clothing and ragged turbans of the Maharraht. They reached the edge of the garden that bordered the eyrie. One of them was shouting and pointing toward the Olganya, and Nikandr knew he was pointing at Nasim. Ashan placed his body between the boy and the violence.
Several of the men on the Olganya—and even among the Khalakovan streltsi—began firing at the Maharraht instead of the hezhan. They had found a common enemy.
The hands of the Maharraht were gripped into tight fists as they walked, and the expressions on their faces were ones of concentration and even pain. Tufts of fabric lifted and tore free of their frames, but otherwise they seemed unaffected. Then a shot struck the closest—an aging man with a long white beard—and a bit of his cheek split from his face as if he were made of stone. Of all the Maharraht, he was the only one who had a glowing gem of jasper fitted within his turban. He was the closest to the vanahezhan, and it soon became clear that he was the one controlling the beast.
“Cast off!” Zhabyn shouted while Borund ordered their men to return to the ship.
The streltsi tried, but the hezhan lowered