The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [58]
A handful of streltsi rushed out from the palotza carrying dousing rods, circles of pure iron with long, leather-wrapped handles affixed to them. They were typically used against enemy qiram, but they were effective against hezhan as well. As the musket fire continued the streltsi surrounded the spirit, attempting to fence it in using the rods. For a moment, it seemed to be working. The suurahezhan paused, its form shrinking as its color turned deep red. Then, like a cornered dog, it shot between two of the soldiers. A deep moan escaped the creature as the iron struck its arms and sides. Where the metal touched the hezhan turned deep red, almost black, but the price had apparently been worth it. It was free of its containment.
It charged forward as more shots hit home, passing mere yards away from Atiana. Nikandr was sure to place himself between her and the creature, but she still felt the heat of it on her face as it passed. Once it was clear it was headed for the ship, Nikandr pushed Atiana with a firm hand toward the palotza.
“Go,” he said, alternating glances between her and the hezhan.
She backed up, but found it impossible to turn away from the unfolding carnage. The five streltsi on Bolgravya’s ship were reloading their muskets. The suurahezhan waded forward, the heat of its body burning right through the rigging. In seconds the soldiers were dead, and the fire was raging higher through the yacht’s sails.
The Grand Duke’s wind master, standing near the center of the ship, moved her arms forward, palms facing the suurahezhan. A cyclone built around the spirit, pulling air away, but before it could have any discernible effect, the suurahezhan reared back and blasted a gout of flame toward her. She was buffeted backward and over the edge of the ship’s railing, gone in the blink of an eye. With one last gust the winds dissipated.
The Grand Duke had backed up from the gunwales, but now with the hezhan so close he retreated to the ship’s starward mainmast. The hezhan followed, its footsteps thumping hollowly against the windwood deck.
Many men tried to use their tall axes to protect him, but the creature was of one mind—it no longer appeared to care if it came into contact with iron. Dozens of strikes hit home, darkening the creature’s skin, but it plodded onward.
Grigory ran forward, drawing his shashka from its scabbard, but several streltsi grabbed him, preventing him from reaching his father. Few of Stasa’s retinue had been on deck, preferring to leave the decks clear for the crew, but now many were climbing up and heading for the ship’s side. With the gangway still in its away position, the crew and passengers were leaping to the safety of the perch.
The suurahezhan, standing over Stasa, crouched and stared into Stasa’s eyes. With one huge wail, and a heat that Atiana had never felt before, the creature reared up, facing the sky and throwing its arms wide. Stasa’s soulstone was aflame—much brighter than a soulstone ought to be. Moments later, the mainmast was ablaze, and the entire center of the ship was engulfed in a column of crackling orange fire. Stasa was lost in it, though there was a brief moment where Atiana thought she could hear his cries, high and desperate, mingling with the wail of the suurahezhan. They were eerily similar in those brief moments, but then both were cut short.
The suurahezhan’s form seemed to be drawn into the flame. And then it was gone altogether, leaving behind a raging fire that had burned away a healthy portion of the mainmast and eaten a wagon-sized hole through the decking.
The boom of a cannon shook Atiana’s entire body. They had been aiming at the hezhan, but the creature was now gone and the shot clipped the weakened mainmast. The