The Winds of Khalakovo loa-1 Page 34

  “Take us around the island,” he said to Jahalan and Udra. “I would have a look before we see what Ashan has in store.”

  Jahalan nodded and moved toward the mainmast, but before he could reach it he reeled and doubled over, grabbing his gut as he fell to the deck. The same thing happened to Udra.

  Nikandr kneeled and helped Udra onto her back. “What is it?”

  Jahalan was shaking his head back and forth violently, and it was then that Nikandr realized: the alabaster gem within the circlet of white gold no longer held any of the luster it had only moments ago. Somehow the bond they held with their hezhan had been cut off from them.

  “My heart,” Udra said, “it’s been ripped from my chest.”

  “Worse than that,” Jahalan added.

  The ship began to drift downward, twisting in the wind. They were completely at the mercy of Ghayavand.

  Nikandr shifted along the gunwale, keeping the island in sight.

  Udra uttered a keening, a sad and empty sound in the silence of the sky. She dropped to the deck, her hands patting the surface gently. “ Neh!” she moaned.

  Nikandr didn’t understand, but moments later he felt a tickle, as if insects were crawling beneath his fingers. The railing before him, its surface puckered and grayed. Small cracks ran along its length. The same was happening to the deck, to the masts, to the spars and the hull.

  A cracking sound became audible. It was soft at first but soon the entire ship was alive with it. It became deafening.

  An almighty snap-as if the bones of Erahm itself had just been broken-resounded through the ship. Nikandr could feel it through his boots and in his chest. Another snap came, this one just wide of his position. The masts were being sundered.

  What in the name of the ancients was happening to his ship?

  Another crack, louder than the others, was followed by the scream of a crewman. A sliver the size of a spearhead had pierced his chest. He fell, grasping it hopelessly and wailing from the pain. As something deep within the bowels of the ship gave way, sending a shudder through the ship, the man’s eyes rolled up into his head and he fell unconscious.

  Like a blooding, the very life of the ship was being drawn from it. It remained afloat, but it would not last. At any moment it would plummet into the waves to become lost forever among the ceaseless currents of the oceans. Even if they could somehow safely reach the shores of the island, the Gorovna would never fly again.

  Before Nikandr could even attempt to understand what was happening, the sounds around him fell away. His breath was drawn from him as if it were his last. His heart fluttered, and his eyelids drooped.

  Somewhere far ahead, the skiff they’d been chasing for over a week has touched down.

  Nasim stands upon a stone perch, an eyrie crafted in the style of the ancients. He paces its length, moving onto the rocky cliff to which it is affixed and then the wide field of grass beyond. He runs his fingers over the tips of the stalks, allowing them to tickle the palms of his hands. He can feel in that moment every part of the island, every blade of grass, every chittering insect, every breath of wind, every turn of soil. It feels as though he is looking through a window that reveals the land as it was before the Grand Duchy, before the first settlers, before even the Aramahn. It feels pristine.

  And still, there is imbalance. Ghayavand is one of many islands, isolated on a shelf in the sea but connected by the water, by the roots of the earth, by the ceaseless currents of the wind. It stands out in its perfection. It has withstood the blight, but the pressure is growing. In time, it too will succumb, and he finds himself saddened.

  He pulls back into himself, unable to withstand the pain, but as he does, he senses the prince, the one to whom he was bonded on Hathshava, the island the Landed call Uyadensk. This connection had felt foreign then, wrong, but now it feels right, like a warm fire after days in the cold.

  There is something else, as well, a feeling that he has been here before. He is of this place, though he knows not how. The memories are at the very edges of his mind, so close but still out of reach.

  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.

  Th
e 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, hoping he could distance them enough that they could clear the sails.

  His lungs burned. His legs and arms and chest screamed from the struggle to gain distance. But he kept going.

  His breath finally gave, and he had no choice but to surface. More rigging blocked his path, but here it was sparse, and he managed to drag Jahalan through it.

  He broke the surface, but not before taking in a lungful of salty water. He released long, wracking coughs. While supporting Jahalan’s head to his chest, he leaned back into the water and kicked away from the ship.

  “Jahalan?”

  The only reply was the high wind whipping the tips of the cold white waves against his face.

  “Jahalan, can you hear me?”

  He wasn’t breathing.

  A goodly portion of a mast lay nearby. Nikandr reached it, and although it was cracking and brittle, it held well enough for him to lay Jahalan over it. He squeezed Jahalan’s chest and forced the water from his lungs while trying to prevent him from slipping back beneath the waves.

  “Jahalan, wake up!”

  When no more water came up, he slapped Jahalan’s back, slapped his cheeks, while continuing to call to him.

  Suddenly Jahalan coughed and shook his head violently, then sucked in a rasping lungful of air.

  Nikandr held him tight to the wood lest he take in more water. “Calm down,” Nikandr said, “you’re fine.”

  “I am”-he coughed for a long minute-“anything but fine.”

  Nikandr could have laughed. It felt good, even among all this madness, to have his friend with him, alive. He guided Jahalan toward shore. The majority of the ship still lay on the surface behind them, but it was breaking apart from the action of the waves and the brittle nature of the wood.

  What in the name of the ancients were they going to do now? Were Ashan and Nasim-

  Suddenly Jahalan was pulled beneath the water. When he resurfaced, he let out an excited shout, and Nikandr felt something cold slide along his left leg. Nikandr kicked violently, hoping to scare the serpent away, at least for a time.

  “My leg!” Jahalan screamed.

  “I know.” Nikandr pulled his kindjal again and watched the water closely. “Just keep moving.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Keep moving or these waters will see the death of us.”

  Jahalan moaned and grit his teeth, but he kicked, and with Nikandr’s help, they made progress against the incessant waves.

  The head of the serpent glided through the water toward them. He dove below and stabbed, but the serpent broke off and swam away.

  When he came up, however, the image in his mind made his breath come doubly fast.

  “What?” Jahalan’s eyes were wide and frightened.

  “Nothing,” Nikandr lied. In that brief moment, he’d seen three other serpents gliding through the water, waiting for their chance to come for blood.

  CHAPTER 44

  “Just keep moving,” Nikandr said.

  They swam, Nikandr spending more time under the water than above. Jahalan knew what was happening-it was impossible not to-but he did not understand the full extent of it. There were no less than eight of them, Nikandr realized after a short while.

  The waters around them were for the time being blessedly free of the serpents. He found out why only a short while later. He heard a panicked shout. Using his legs to kick as he crested a wave, he saw nearly a dozen survivors swimming together. A straggler was yanked downward. He didn’t even have time to scream, but a moment later he resurfaced and his shrieks rent the air. He was tugged downward two more times, and he screamed for help the entire time. Two crewmen swam toward him, but before they could come close the man who’d been singled out by the serpents was dragged under. He was not seen again.

  They moved a few hundred yards, the spray from the waves pelting their faces, when the bone-white serpents returned. Two of them shot in toward Jahalan. Nikandr dove beneath the surface and stabbed one of them, but the other slithered to one side and lunged for his arm. He tried to pull it away, but wasn’t fast enough. He managed to avoid getting caught in the grips of the serpent’s jaws, but the small, sharp teeth grazed his forearm, leaving bloody gashes in its wake.

  “Faster!” Nikandr shouted.

  Jahalan tried, but his endurance was nearly at its limit. The same was true for Nikandr, but the soul-wracking fear of seeing the creatures face-to-face was enough to keep him going a while longer.

  The group ahead had reached the shallows, and many of them had already stood and begun wading toward shore when Udra screamed and was pulled under. The men shot toward her, looking down through the water, but they could not find her.

  Nikandr and Jahalan reached them soon after. The serpents tried to attack them again, but there were enough now that had knives, and they stayed between the rest of the group and the serpents, protecting them when the vicious creatures came close.

  Everyone dragged themselves onto the black beach, which was blessedly warm after the frigid waves. Nikandr pulled off his shirt, cut it into strips, and had one of the crewmen wrap his arm as best he could. Then he moved to Jahalan, who lay on the beach, his face nearly as pale as the serpents.

  Jahalan’s right leg was bleeding heavily, and Nikandr wondered how much he had lost in the water. Nikandr moved to his side, and held his arm while Pietr and Ervan worked diligently on his leg.

  “It will be fine,” Nikandr said.

  Jahalan’s eyes shut tight as the men used a belt to cut off the blood flow just below his knee. When he opened his eyes again, he was frightened, though much less than Nikandr would have been in his place. Seeming to overcome some of the pain and fear, he smiled. “My time may have come.”

  Nikandr shook his head. “ Nyet. Not here, my friend. Not now.”

  He fell unconscious moments later.

  Ervan, a thin man with curly brown hair, held the belt in place and nodded toward Jahalan’s ankle. “We won’t be able to staunch this wound, Kapitan. He’ll die tonight if it isn’t cut and sewn properly.”

  Nikandr swallowed. “We don’t have the equipment to amputate.”

  “ Da. We have nothing proper, but we can get thread easy enough, and Pietr can fashion a needle from a buckle.”

  “What good is a needle that large going to do him? He’ll be bleeding as badly from the puncture wounds as he is right now.”

  Ervan shook his head violently. “ Nyet, Kapitan. We’ll need to bind it tightly for a time, but it will hold. Against this”-he tipped his head toward Jahalan’s ankle-“we have no chance.”

  Pietr and Ervan watched him expectantly. The other men were nearby, waiting for his decision. “Do it quickly,” he said finally, “and by the ancients be careful.”

  Nikandr was good at starting a fire without flint, but Pietr, a hard man with several deep scars running along the left side of his face, was even better. From the rough bark of the tall fern trees near the shore, he fashioned tinder and then made a bow drill from some branches and twine they liberated from some of the canvas that had washed ashore. Other men collected fresh water in huge conch shells from a tidal pool and placed it over the fire to boil. Soon they had purified water that they used to sterilize the thread and needle.

  The surgery was not quick, at least not by Nikandr’s recollection. He stopped by from time to time, but it was difficult seeing Jahalan losing a limb like this. He didn’t know how he would tell him when he finally woke, but he knew he would be the one to do it. He owed him that much-to look at him in the face and tell him what this journey had done to him.

  If only he could do the same for Udra and Viggen and the other men… But he could not, and he would have to live with the knowledge that their deaths lay at his feet.

  At last the surgery was complete. Jahalan’s leg was bound with strips they had boiled and let dry in the strong wind. They would make more, and h
opefully in a day or two the worst would be over-for Jahalan, at least.

  Nikandr and Pietr sat near the fire late that night, neither of them able to sleep. Pietr had been second mate in his haphazardly chosen crew, but he’d proven himself to be a good man. Nikandr had sailed with him several times before, but they’d never had a chance to speak at any length.

  Jahalan was sleeping soundly, and though his heart seemed weak, the quick work that Ervan had made of the wound had probably saved his life.

  “What are we to do?” Pietr asked while staring off toward the horizon-eastward, toward home.

  Nikandr poked the fire, causing the logs to shift and sparks to drift on the brisk night wind. “Take stock of our surroundings. Build shelter.”

  “Forgive me, my Prince, but that is not what I meant. How will we return home? No one knows where we’ve gone. Even your mother, may the ancients watch over her, will not be able to find us.”

  “I know what you meant, but we have the men to consider first. We make shelter, we prepare defenses, and we take what the ancients provide for us.”

  “But with no ship…”

  “I know. The man we were chasing, it seems, is now our sole source of hope. We will search for him as well. He will be headed for Alayazhr, and so shall we.”

  “With his ship, he’ll already be there.”

  “Don’t be so sure. This place-if legend is to be believed-is wild, untamable. Greater men than Ashan have tried over the centuries.”

  Pietr nodded. “If we come across his trail, Lord, I’ll be able to lead you to him. Have no doubt of that.”

  In the morning, Nikandr waited as long as he could, hoping that Jahalan would wake so that he could speak with him, even if only for a short time, but the need to find Ashan was more pressing by far than comforting his old friend, and so he left with Pietr and two other men: Kirilai and Oleg.

  They forged their way through dense growth near the shore, but this soon gave way to an ancient forest with a tall canopy high above them. The temperature soon forced them to remove their shirts. The smell of rotting wood filled the oppressive air. Small, biting insects plagued them as Pietr led the way, using a short but serviceable sword to hack a path through the undergrowth.