The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [215]
And then it reformed.
Musket fire snapped across the ship. Men shouted as the water spirit slipped around the men holding the dousing rods and attacked those that had yet to fire.
The vanahezhan had finished with the forward streltsi. Only two streltsi and the sotnik remained. Ashan was still trying to slow the approach of the vanahezhan. Rehada summoned the power of the suurahezhan once more, focusing a blast of heat against the spirit of earth.
The vanahezhan stopped. It seemed to gather its strength. A moment later the earth rolled before it like a wave upon the water. It traveled outward—tight and focused on Rehada and Ashan.
It struck, sending her flying. She landed with a thud as the wave of earth thundered onward and was lost among the sloping hills behind her.
She looked toward Ashan. He lay unmoving, unconscious or dead. The vanahezhan lumbered forward, mere moments from reaching him.
She poured everything she had left, but she had already given too much. She managed a gout of flame that lasted no longer than a breath, and then the suurahezhan released her, knowing she was now little more than a mere husk. The moment it did, however, it slipped back through the aether to Adhiya. The vanahezhan’s attack had weakened it—that and the demands Rehada had placed on it—and when it had released her, it had also released a critical bond that was keeping it squarely grounded to this world.
In a way she was glad, for she could no longer have controlled it, but in another it made her desperate, for she had been left utterly powerless to prevent the vanahezhan from reaching Ashan.
CHAPTER 65
The wind whipped around Nikandr, pushed harder and harder against his frame as he rushed toward the sea. His descent was slowing, but it seemed impossible to prevent himself from plummeting into the waves. Strangely, that only deepened his commitment to the hezhan. He released all of his worries, all of his hopes, and drew strength from the hezhan, asking—not demanding—that it help him.
The winds blew harder. It rushed up and around him, whipping his clothes and his hair. He slowed and halted in midair—only seconds from the water—and then he was flying upward along the cliff. The walls of Oshtoyets were high above him. He urged the winds to push him faster, knowing there was little time left. He had to reach Nasim to protect him somehow.
The wind roared in his ears as he crested the wall. In the center of the courtyard was the black spire towering five stories high, and at its base was Nasim, chained to a spike set into the obsidian stone. The Maharraht stood around the spire in a circle, chanting, but as Nikandr moved toward the battlements, one of them spotted him. Nikandr could not hear above the noise, but the Maharraht summoned another, who had an alabaster stone set into the circlet on his brow. He raised his hands, and immediately the winds shifted, pushing Nikandr over the courtyard.
And then the wind was utterly, inexplicably gone. He fell nearly two stories and crashed onto the stone, striking his head as he did so.
Pain resounded through him—especially along the back of his skull—as he woke to a low and rhythmic chanting. He tried to move, but cold metal held his wrists in place. His arms were pulled painfully above his head.
Soroush stood before him, his eyes serious, his long black beard blowing in the wind. “It is true that the fates are kind.” He did not seem smug, but rather grateful, as if he truly felt that the fates had smiled upon him.
“The day is not yet done,” Nikandr replied.
“But it is, Nikandr Iaroslov. It is.” He held the stone of opal between his fingers. “This was the first of the stones—I found it on Rhavanki—but did you know that you granted me the second?”
Nikandr shivered, knowing it was true.
“Rehada gave me the third. My brother the fourth. And your betrothed gave me the fifth. We are linked,