The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [171]
Nikandr did not hesitate. He advanced and struck, driving the knife deep into the exposed back of the akhoz.
The creature turned and knocked Nikandr away with a vicious swipe of its arm. The heat from the akhoz’s skin was not nearly as formidable as it had been moments ago, but it was still enough to burn Nikandr’s forearm. He fell away, and rolled back to his feet.
The akhoz screamed as he tried to reach the knife in his back, but each time he grabbed the hilt of the weapon, he screamed louder and pulled his hand away as if the kindjal were burning him.
Ashan was kneeling, his arms spaced wide and his hands flat against the ground. He was whispering and rocking rhythmically back and forth. There was a pool of water collecting before him, and it was starting to trickle downhill. Before it could go far, however, it rose up and took form. It looked vaguely childlike—reaching only Nikandr’s waist—but it was twice as wide as he was.
The jalahezhan rolled forward and struck the akhoz’s legs. A sizzling sound accompanied the water spirit’s efforts as it slipped higher and higher along the akhoz’s body. The akhoz screamed, still trying to rid himself of the knife while bearing down to create more heat. A white gout of steam rose as the two creatures fought for control.
The jalahezhan seemed to be holding its own—the akhoz had been forced to the ground and water was gurgling into his mouth—but then the trailing akhoz reached it, and soon they had surrounded the water spirit. Moments later, the jalahezhan lost form and the water splashed to the ground. Steam rose. Their feet sizzled as they collectively turned and began moving up the trail.
Nikandr and Ashan and Nasim fled, but they were exhausted, and Ashan had already summoned two hezhan, something that must have sapped his strength sorely.
Finally, Ashan stopped, his breath coming in great gasps. He turned and faced the akhoz, opening his arms wide and tilting his head back to the sky while whispering words of prayer or perhaps commands in Mahndi. In the air before him the telltale signs of a dhoshahezhan formed. A crackling sound rent the air, which smelled suddenly acrid. Its shape—more elusive than when they were seen playing among lightning storms—was fluid, like an air spirit, but also more angular as the faint sparks of light brought on by its energy defined its boundaries.
Nikandr kneeled next to Nasim and turned the boy to face him. “Please. You must do something.”
But Nasim didn’t seem to hear him. His eyes were clamped shut and his face held a look of supreme discomfort, as if what he were doing was already taking too much. What effect it might be having, Nikandr had no idea. Perhaps without Nasim’s efforts they would be facing a score of akhoz and not just six.
Still, six, twenty, it mattered little if the dhoshahezhan could not save them, and Nikandr didn’t see how it could.
The akhoz once again surrounded the hezhan, preferring to deal with the thing that might harm them before dispatching their true prey. This was not so easy as the last, however. Blue-white lightning arced from the hezhan, through three of them, and back to the source. Two of them spasmed and dropped to the ground, unconscious or dead; the third fell to hands and knees, its torso convulsing as it fought to regain control of its body.
The other akhoz reared backward—a posture reminiscent of what Ashan had just done—and exhaled gouts of flame from their mouths. The muscles along their necks tightened like bowstrings, and their arms flayed backward as they released every remaining bit of breath within their lungs.
The shimmering signs of the dhoshahezhan seemed to elongate as the fire pulled the air upward. More lightning shot downward, arcing between two of the akhoz, but it was noticeably weaker than the previous, and the akhoz were only momentarily fazed. Together the four remaining breathed