City of Blades

by Robert Jackson Bennett

  He smiles weakly. “No, General. You’re not. I’m Captain Sakthi. I’m here from the fortress.”

  There’s a crash and then a rumbling from somewhere behind them.

  “What’s going on?” asks Mulaghesh.

  “CTO Harkvaldsson sent word up to the fortress of a possible attack….And it seems that the attack is, ah, still ongoing.”

  Mulaghesh slowly sits up. Her arms and side scream in anguish. No doubt she got banged up by the raining stones—her nose is broken, for the umpteenth time in her life—but she seems to be in one piece. She appears to be in some sort of temporary housing structure, one that no one ever got around to living in. Fourteen other Saypuri soldiers stand at the windows, riflings ready, though they’re obviously terrified. She also sees Lem, Signe’s security man, sitting at the door, staring out. His face is wildly bruised, and from the feel of it hers isn’t much better.

  “How long was I out?” she asks.

  “I’m not sure, ma’am. You were carried here by Mr. Lem, who flagged us down. We have not attempted to engage the, ah…the enemy. He seems remarkably difficult to engage at all, as you’ll see.”

  He helps her stand and walk to the door. He points out, but he doesn’t need to.

  Voortyashtan is under siege. It’s as though it’s been through a day’s worth of shelling. Fires dance and caper in the tattered ruins of countless yurts and tents. She watches as a slate-roofed house collapses in on itself and goes tumbling down the slopes, raining debris on the homes below.

  It takes no time to spot the source of all this damage: Saint Zhurgut stands on the corner of a tall, ragged home, hurling his sword out at the city again and again, carving huge swaths through the buildings and people and structures with each toss. The air seems to vibrate with the constant om of his blade’s progress, and she watches, horrified, as he successfully levels most of a city block in barely half a minute.

  By all the seas, she thinks. It’s like someone’s anchored a dreadnought in the bay and it’s raining death on us!

  It takes a moment for her ears to discern it, but she realizes Zhurgut is singing, chanting through the sword as he flings it across the city:

  I who gave my life and mind

  To be beaten smooth and hard

  And shorn of all distraction

  I who gave the hand of my son

  I am Her weapon, I am Her blade

  And I shall rend creation asunder

  She watches as the sword slices through one of the malformed statues standing along the Solda. The stone figure—which looks like it was carved to resemble a man drawing the string of an arrow—buckles at the waist and tumbles down the slopes, crushing houses and buildings as if they were no more than toothpicks.

  “By the fucking seas,” she whispers. “He means to slaughter every last one of us!”

  “And it looks like he can do it, too,” says Lem.

  “I’ve called up to the fortress for reinforcements,” says Sakthi. He pats an enormous lead-acid-battery-powered radio on the floor beside him. It must weigh forty pounds, at least. “They’re sending down an entire battalion as fast as they can. Everyone and everything’s on full alert.”

  “And what are they supposed to do?” asks Lem. “He shrugged off our fire like it was nothing!”

  “I haven’t exactly heard any other options!” says Sakthi.

  Mulaghesh spits a mouthful of blood out on the floor. “Divine creatures are tough,” she says. “But they’re not invincible. Do we have anything heavier than riflings?”

  “We’ve got the rock guns up in the truck,” says Sakthi. “Could that make any difference?”

  “Ponjas?” says Mulaghesh, surprised. “You brought those?”

  “Per the general’s orders, it’s SOP for any squadron exiting the fortress,” says Sakthi.

  Of course it would be, she thinks. A Ponja rifling would be a pretty standard weapon for this region: firing a half-inch-caliber round, a Ponja can punch through most walls, most light armors, as well as plenty of other obstructions—including stones, which makes it useful when fighting highland insurgents in the upper ranges. After being put to this use by caravans traversing the mountain passes, the Ponja rifling met with great success, earning the nickname “rock gun.” So of course Biswal would make sure his soldiers used them.

  Now it’s just a question of whether a Ponja can punch a hole in Divine armor as well as it can stone.

  Another om, another rattling crash as a Voortyashtani structure collapses.

  “Fuck,” says Mulaghesh. “He’ll tear through this place like tissue paper if we let him!”

  “But the second we open up on him, he’ll be on us like a buzz saw,” says Lem.

  “The Divine warriors you fought in the Battle of Bulikov…,” says Sakthi.

  “What about them?” says Mulaghesh.

  “They couldn’t survive artillery fire, could they?”

  “No. That they couldn’t. What are you getting at?”

  Sakthi glances down at the radio in his hand, then up at Fort Thinadeshi and its countless cannons pointed at them.

  “Hold on,” says Mulaghesh. “Are you seriously suggesting we shell the city? With us in it?”

  “We could evacuate,” says Sakthi. “Try and keep him contained. Then pound away at him.”

  “That would incur the losses of thousands of civilians!” says Mulaghesh angrily. “Not to mention the likely destruction of the harbor, which we’ve spent billions to build!”

  “And if the Ponjas don’t work on him?” says Sakthi, with more backbone than she expected. “What then, General?”

  Mulaghesh starts thinking. She’ll be damned if she sheds more civilian blood in her lifetime without even trying another way.

  She remembers, suddenly, Shara’s face, suspended in the pane of glass at the SDC headquarters: You have a military fortress at your disposal, as well as a massive construction fleet. Though they may be unwilling, they are still potential resources.

  An idea starts forming in her mind. The harbor’s basically a factory, she thinks. And what’s more dangerous than getting stuck in the machinery?

  “Where’s Sigrud and Signe?” she asks.

  “The dauvkind and his daughter?” says Sakthi. “I think they’re holed up in the harbor yards. Just down that way.” He points down the street.

  “And do we have anyone here who’s a damned good shot with a Ponja?”

  “I would say Sergeant Burdar is a capable shot,” says Sakthi, pointing to a short little man with a huge mustache, who gives her a curt nod.

  “All right,” she says. “I think…I think I have another option.”

  “You do, ma’am?” asks Sakthi.

  “Yeah.” Then she thinks and adds, “Maybe.”

  ***

  Mulaghesh sprints through the streets of Voortyashtan, struggling with the weight of the Ponja gun in her arms. Sergeant Burdar runs alongside her, carrying two Ponja guns as well, one under each arm. When she explained her overall idea to him he seemed to treat the idea of using such a weapon on a saint as no more troubling than dove hunting: “A dancer he isn’t,” the sergeant said. “He hops about a bit, but he’s a slow one. I can plug him pretty ably, marm, if I get a clear shot.”

  A clear shot, thinks Mulaghesh as they run up to the harbor yard gates. And the right timing.

  She hears an om on her right, up north into the city, and a smattering of screams. The sounds of gunfire are near constant. She keeps waiting for a pause, for Saint Zhurgut to take a breather, but he doesn’t: he is an engine of destruction, and he’s doing what he knows.

  “Sigrud, Signe!” Mulaghesh shouts to the harbor gates. “Are you in there? It’s me!”

  The gate falls open and she walks in. She sees Signe standing along the wall, pointing a pistol at her. Then Sigrud’s face emerges from behind the gate. He jerks his head impatiently, as if to say, Well, come on.

  “Good,” says Mulaghesh. “You’re all alive.”

 
“He’s paying more attention to the homes and residences,” says Sigrud. “He seems to have forgotten the harbor altogether. So we’re safe, for now.”

  “We are, but he’s destroying the city!” says Signe. “He’s killing everyone he can! He’s a damned monster! Where did he come from?”

  “From the sword, I suppose,” says Mulaghesh. “You said that in the old days departed sentinels could possess the bodies of the living, yeah? I guess picking up that damned sword was the trick.”

  “How the hells could a Voortyashtani sword still be…be, well, active?” asks Signe.

  “Beats me,” says Mulaghesh. “But someone meant for me to pick it up. If it’d worked, that’d be me standing on top of that chimney, trying to kill everyone within a mile.”

  “Can we stop him?” says Sigrud.

  “I have some options,” says Mulaghesh. “And we can stop him. It’s just a matter of simplicity, provided we’re all healthy and willing.” She looks at Signe. “That PK-512 of yours—is it operational?”

  “The what?”

  “The minigun. The giant fucking cannon you’ve got set up in front of your yard of statues!”

  “Yes, I think so….My predecessor had it installed, but…but no one really knew how to use it.”

  “Well, I do.” Mulaghesh squats down and starts drawing a map of the harbor in the mud. “Listen. There’s a chance that one of the Ponja guns we’ve brought can maybe penetrate his armor. So there’s a chance there’s literally a one-shot solution to all this.”

  “Then why haven’t you shot him?” says Signe.

  “Because if it doesn’t work he’s going to know where we are and slaughter us like cattle. If that’s the case, we need a backup.”

  “Which is?” asks Sigrud.

  Mulaghesh looks at Signe. “You know how to operate that train of yours?”

  “The supply train?” asks Signe. “Yes, of course.”

  “Good.” Then she looks at Sigrud. “And you—are all your limbs in working order?”

  “More or less.”

  “And you think you can use one of these?” She lifts one of the Ponjas, which is like a small cannon.

  Sigrud shrugs. “I received training on a prototype, long ago.”

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  “It’s a maybe.”

  “Maybe will have to do. This isn’t Bulikov, Sigrud—I don’t think you can get inside Zhurgut’s gut and carve your way out of him, not this time.” She takes a deep, deep breath. I hope this sounds smarter when I say it, she thinks. Because it sounds damned dumb when I think it. Then she begins speaking and drawing out her plan in the mud at her feet.

  ***

  Mulaghesh and Signe sprint northwest toward the SDC loading yards, where the supply train runs. Signe hauls Captain Sakthi’s radio box, and Mulaghesh has thrown a Ponja over her shoulder. They’re not going as fast as Mulaghesh would prefer, because for some damned reason Signe insisted on taking along the damned briefcase she brought to Mulaghesh’s room earlier that night.

  Mulaghesh tries to ignore how much her feet and arms and back hurt. You’re getting old, girl, she says to herself. You can’t put yourself through a fight like this anymore.

  “This,” says Signe, panting, “is maybe one of…of the worst plans I’ve ever…I’ve ever heard of!”

  “Just do your part,” says Mulaghesh, “and we’ll see how it goes.”

  “But…But the timing of it! The sightlines, the…well, the everything!”

  “You spoke your piece back there,” says Mulaghesh, vaulting over a short wall. “Don’t waste your precious breath saying it again now.”

  Finally the supply track appears ahead, along with the watchtower. The spotlight in it is dark, the huge PK-512 beside it crouched and silent. Electric lights run along the track, white and buzzing, giving the area a strangely spectral, antiseptic feeling. The two of them slow to a stop before the track, their breath whistling and chests crackling.

  Signe sets the radio box down with a thump. “The train’s stationed up ahead,” she says, pointing uphill.

  Mulaghesh looks up at the watchtower standing over the train track. “How long will it take you to fire up the train?”

  “I’ll make it work,” says Signe.

  “That wasn’t an answer.”

  “I’ll make it work!”

  “You’d better. Because you have to.” Mulaghesh looks back at the city. Saint Zhurgut stands on his perch, continuing his one-man assault on the entire city. Somewhere, Mulaghesh knows, Captain Sakthi and the other Saypuri troops are escorting all the civilians they can find back up to the fortress.

  “There’s something else,” says Signe, setting down her briefcase and opening it.

  “What?” snaps Mulaghesh. “What now?”

  “I figure now’s the time to give you this….Mostly because I’m not sure if I’ll get another chance.” She turns the case around.

  Inside the case is one of the most intricate creations Mulaghesh has ever seen: a gleaming steel hand, with jointed fingers and a flexible wrist, and some sort of small lock set in the center of the palm. It’s a false hand, but it’s leagues better than the one she’s using now.

  “Wh-Where did you get this?” asks Mulaghesh.

  “I made it. I have been observing the way you’ve been trying to compensate. That thing you’re using now is an ornamental piece of shit.” She lifts the hand out of its case. “Adjustable digits that you can lock into any position. Same goes for the wrist. And there is a latch in the center of the palm. Here’s its mate.” She takes a small steel ring out of the case. It has a clasp at the top, and at the bottom is what must be the male end of the latch. “You can slide this down a rifle barrel and tighten it on. Then you can lock it to the false hand. It won’t be as good as a normal hand supporting it, but it’ll be better than what you’re using.”

  Mulaghesh stares at it, astonished and confused. “I…Um.”

  “I think the words you’re looking for,” says Signe, “are thank you. And also it will make you a better shot, which will be very handy in the next five minutes. Take your shirt off.”

  “What?”

  “Take your shirt off! You obviously have that awful prosthetic strapped to your back using some kind of horrible rig. Get it off!”

  Mulaghesh reluctantly obliges. Signe takes out a small knife, slices through the many straps, and rips the whole thing off her torso. Then she tsks. “It’s been beating you to pieces. I’m surprised you can bear it. Here.” She applies her new prosthetic to Mulaghesh’s arm, does a total of five clasps, and then stands back to admire her work. “There. Much simpler. Much sleeker. And it shouldn’t bruise you quite so badly.”

  Mulaghesh looks at the prosthetic, then prods it with her free hand. It’s light but firm. She adjusts some of the fingers. “Damn, girl. You’re a fucking genius.”

  Signe blows a thread of hair out of her face. “I know. I hope I survive to keep being one.”

  “You listen. The second that train starts moving, you run, okay?”

  “What about you?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she says. “You just get out of the city, as fast as you can. And don’t look back. Now go. Get her started. You know what to do.”

  Signe gives her a hesitant look, then starts backing away. “It was nice knowing you, General.”

  “Likewise.” She watches Signe leave, then stands below the watchtower and pulls out her spyglass. It takes her a moment to find Saint Zhurgut—but he’s still there, of course, straddling the roof of the house like a monstrous rooster crowing at the dawn. She glasses slightly to the right and spies Sergeant Burdar getting into position in the window of a small, leaning cottage about two hundred yards beyond the saint.

  Mulaghesh nods, checks her Ponja gun, and confirms it’s ready. She drags the radio box until it sits below the watchtower. Then she pulls out her carousel, draws a bead on one of the electric lights, and fires.

  There’s a pop! and t
he light dies. Mulaghesh does the same for the remaining lights until the whole area is cloaked in darkness. She trots down the track about fifty yards and starts setting up the Ponja gun, unfolding its bipod. From this angle she has an excellent view down the seawall road running alongside the bay, but she has few other sightlines. Saint Zhurgut is perched atop a roof about two hundred yards north of the seawall road, so she can see him but nothing below him.

  She runs back to the watchtower, where it’s dark. She faces the city, pulls out her lighter, holds it aloft, and flicks it on and off three times.

  She puts the spyglass to her eye and sees Sergeant Burdar peering through a spyglass of his own at her. He takes out his own lighter, flicks it on, and kills it.

  Mulaghesh’s breath is shaking now, but it has nothing to do with the run. Rather, she knows that if she doesn’t call up to the fortress in thirty minutes and tell them that Zhurgut’s been put down, those cannons up there are going to open fire and decimate the city—regardless of whether or not anyone in it happens to be alive.

  Mulaghesh whispers, “Showtime.”

  ***

  She watches as Burdar slowly draws a bead on Saint Zhurgut. She can’t see it, but she imagines the sweat running down his temple, the feel of his hand on the grip, his finger resting along the stock above the trigger.

  The wind rises, falls.

  The om fills the air, a low, dreadful howl as the blade returns from another lethal tour across the city.

  Saint Zhurgut plucks his whirling sword out of the air once more and swivels on his perch, his face craning about as he finds a new target. Then he rears up, his massive shoulders twisting, and hurls the blade forward again.

  She watches as the metal abomination dips forward on one foot like a dancer, putting his whole shoulder and body into the throw.

  I sure hope Sigrud saw that.

  The sword buzzes out over the city. Mulaghesh hears echoes of eruptions and screams. Saint Zhurgut stands back up, tall and straight, every inch the proud soldier, and holds his hand out, waiting for his sword to return like a faithful hound.

  He stands still for one second. Which is when Sergeant Burdar fires.

  The retort of the Ponja gun is a low, deep boom.