The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [57]
The Stasa that stared at them all from the gunwales of his ship was not the same man. He had always been a large man, barrel-chested and meaty about the arms and legs. His face had been plump, his cheeks red. He had possessed steely eyes. He was quick to anger, and he rarely laughed, but when he did, his eyes held that same keen edge, as if he were granting you some favor by allowing the display of his mirth.
This Stasa was crooked. He listed to one side, as if the position pained him but was the least painful position he could find. His cheeks were drawn, and they sagged about his chin like an old bloodhound. His lips drooped at the edges, giving him a permanent frown. And his eyes... They were sunken eyes, defeated eyes, as if they were tired from the mere viewing of the world.
Why he hadcomewhen the wasting hadnearlytaken him already, Atiana couldn’t guess. Perhaps he knew his death was near and wished to meet his fellow dukes one last time. Perhaps there were agreements he wished to negotiate, a final show of power before the fates finally took him.
It was disheartening to see him like this. Among the squabbles of the dukes, Stasa had always ruled with something akin to fairness. It felt like the wasting, or the blight itself, had taken him, and with him gone it would only be a matter of time before the rest succumbed as well.
Atiana’s attention was caught by a motion from Nikandr. He was touching his neck with a curious look on his face, but when he noticed her watching he dropped his hand immediately. It must be his soulstone, though why it had attracted his attention now she had no idea.
Stasa’s son, Grigory, stepped onto the forecastle deck and made his way to stand by his father’s side. Though he was fourth in line for the scepter of Bolgravya, he had learned the lessons of a prince well. As he swept his gaze over the crowd, he kept his face stern, as if it were his iron fist that ruled the islands, not his father’s.
A moment later a broad-winged rook flew over the eyrie, cawing loudly. “A suurahezhan approaches! Prepare! Pre—” It never completed those last words, for it dropped from the sky as if it had been shot. It struck the ground heavily and lay there, twitching. Then it went still.
The crack of a musket was heard. A soldier shouted orders, and then two more muskets rang out. The soldiers who had fired immediately sprinted along the wall, looking over their shoulders at something that had clearly shaken their resolve.
Then, over the curtain wall, flowing like flames over a burning log, came a form twice as tall as Atiana. It looked vaguely manlike, but its chest was compact, its arms long and fluid, its head little more than a featureless mound. Its form shifted—growing here, shrinking there. It burned orange with wisps of yellow and white, and though it was still twenty paces away she could feel the heat of it against her skin. The sound was like a heavy wind as it blew through winterdead trees.
The eyrie devolved into bedlam.
Shouts and screams filled the air. Several of the royalty pulled their pistols and fired. Many retreated along the stone pathway toward the palotza. Others edged toward the cliff and the perches, while a select few pulled shashkas from the sheaths at their belts. Nikandr, pistol in hand, stepped in front of Atiana and edged her backward while keeping his eyes fixed forward.
The wind shifted, bringing with it an acrid and choking scent. Atiana’s eyes began to tear as more musket shots rang out, some from the curtain wall and a few from Bolgravya’s ship. It was impossible to tell if the hezhan was affected as it plodded through the garden, singeing the squat evergreen bushes as it went. Where the musket balls struck the hezhan’s skin—if skin was what the gaseous surface could be called—it darkened as embers did when struck with water, but then it quickly returned to its previous brightness, all evidence of the wound gone.
Two jalaqiram, Aramahn water masters, rushed forward,