The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [121]
Shots continued to fly.
“The one with the white beard!” Nikandr shouted.
Few heard at first, but then more and more concentrated their fire on him. The old warrior cringed, no longer able to move forward. Seeing their success, the remaining streltsi lined up near the palotza’s walls shouted “Kozyol!” and fired at the wounded man. The Maharraht pulled his arms tight around himself in a vain attempt at protection as several musket shots bit deep. He fell to the ground, twitching as many more shots struck home, and then his gem went dim.
The vanahezhan reared back, shaking its head to and fro. It dropped to its knees and struck its head twice against the stone. Huge, echoing booms shook the courtyard. And then it stood and stalked toward the ship.
The blast of a cannon shook the deck of the ship. The shot tore into the creature’s chest. The center was pulverized, and the remains of its torso cracked into several large pieces. It crumbled into a heap, and the men, both Khalakovan and Vostroman, raised their fists in a rousing and unified cheer.
The respite had given the remaining Maharraht time to rush forward as the Olganya pulled away from the perch. Zhabyn’s dhoshaqiram sat at her post near the center of the ship, palms laid against the deck, giving lift to the windwood from which the ship had been made. The havaqiram stood just behind her, calling the winds to pull the ship back. He spared one hand to raise a wind near the perch, sending dust and stone to flying around the Maharraht.
Soroush, the one with the golden earrings running through the scarred remains of his ear, ran toward the ship, which had nearly cleared the perch.
“Halt!”
Nikandr turned in time to see Ashan shoving Nasim toward the windward gunwale, away from the Maharraht. Ashan then lunged forward and grabbed the circlet from the brow of the havaqiram.
The wind swirled. The sails snapped. The rigging swung wildly as Ashan took two loping steps toward the gunwale.
Soroush shouted a command in Mahndi. The Maharraht stalked forward, pushing aside the streltsi who stood in their way. Ashan picked Nasim up and then tipped backward over the gunwale. He was gone, lost from view, taken by the howling wind.
A moment later the wind pulled sharply at the skiff lashed to the edge of the Olganya’s deck. It rocked against its restraints, slamming the deck louder and louder, until finally the moorings were ripped free. Then it was gone, just like Ashan and Nasim.
The streltsi had been in complete disarray with the Maharraht among them, but they had regrouped. A dozen stood near the stairs leading belowdecks. The front six kneeled, the back six stood. The sotnik shouted, “Fire!” and the guns cracked in unison. Four of the Maharraht were struck as they tried to leap free of the ship. The other two reached the perch and ran along its length. Soroush hopped onto the back of the other, who crawled down along the perch’s stone supports like an insect. He moved quickly downward toward the surf before Zhabyn’s streltsi could reload. Several fired once they had, but with the winds and the distance to their targets, their shots would be ineffective.
For several moments the only sounds were from the burning ships. Then Father’s voice called out from the eyrie. “Zhabyn!”
Zhabyn, for the first time, seemed unsure what to do. He measured the carnage around him. Perhaps in that one moment he had come to regret what he’d done, but then the look was gone and he strode across the deck toward the gunwale.
As Zhabyn stared downward, Borund moved closer to Nikandr, pistol in hand. What Zhabyn saw, Nikandr couldn’t guess. He said nothing