The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [143]
Above, among the clouds and the winds, a lone havahezhan dives among the drifts and eddies of the wind. And then it is gone, returned from whence it came.
He follows.
And Nikandr woke.
Someone was screaming his name.
His stomach was churning and turning as if he’d tumbled upside down without realizing it.
He was gripping the railing for support, but it crumbled at the slightest touch. He stared at the desiccated fragments still sticking to his hands, unable to comprehend who he was, where he was. His mind was reeling, not from the physical nature of what was happening around him, but the realization of what he’d just seen. It had been Nasim somewhere on Ghayavand. But the havahezhan... Nikandr knew it—or knew of it, at least. It had been the same hezhan that the Maharraht had summoned on the cliff below Radiskoye, the same one that had attacked him on the maiden voyage of this very ship. But how?
“Nikandr!”
How could that be?
“Nikandr, leap!”
Nikandr shook his head violently.
The ship was diving toward the sea, her nose tipped seaward, the white-capped waves high and moving fast. Jahalan was standing on the windward mainmast, ready to leap free.
Nikandr launched himself toward Jahalan. He fell only a few steps out and slid down the deck as the ship continued to rotate. Jahalan reached for him, but Nikandr shot past.
He managed to leap and grab onto the ratlines leading up to the starward mizzenmast. So brittle was the wood that the mizzen snapped, and he found himself sliding once more.
He struck the forward hull and latched onto it as the ship’s starward masts tipped toward the horizon. “Go!” he commanded.
Both of them leapt just as the ship crashed into the sea.
Bitterly cold water enveloped him as he plunged beneath the waves. Hundreds of feet of rigging and yard upon yard of sail fell around him, occluding his vision. Something bit into his ribs, and began pulling him downward. He pulled himself free, feeling something scrape against his skin as he did so.
He fought for the surface. When he finally broke free of the waves, he drew on the air as if it were the liquor of life itself while wave after wave rolled over him. The spray was high, and it was difficult to see anything but the blue-white waves, but among the flotsam, he thought he saw one of the crew. He swam in that direction, using a barrel that had floated free from the ship. He was nearly exhausted by the time he reached him.
It was Viggen. He was face-down in the water, and Nikandr knew as he turned him over that he was dead.
“Jahalan!”
He screamed his name again and again.
A short while later he heard a muffled cry for help behind him. He turned in the water, seeing nothing for a moment, but then he saw a form beneath a swath of canvas that was still attached to the mast. He swam, fighting the waves with every stroke, and felt something strike his leg beneath the water. He dove under, and saw the long white tail of a serpent slither into the dark.
He regained his breath and then sucked in one last intake before heading under. He kicked beneath the rigging and reached Jahalan, who was caught beneath the sail. His movements were frantic. Nikandr could see that he was trapped in a mass of ropes and netting, and the struggling was only making things worse.
He pulled the kindjal from the sheath at his belt and with his free hand began to pull some of the ropes away. He hoped that once Jahalan realized he was here to help he would stop thrashing. He did a moment later, but Nikandr realized it was because he had fallen unconscious.
He sawed at the ropes that would not come free easily, but in his haste, he cut Jahalan’s thigh. His thoughts turned to the white serpent, but the best thing he could do now was to free Jahalan and swim for the island.
Above them, the ship rolled further. The sails were pulled down on top of them, dragging them beneath the surface.
The water was dark, making it difficult to see, so he swam deeper, the only clear way to get out. He kicked away from the ship,