It’s a fleet, he sees. A war fleet, the biggest of its kind he’s ever seen.
‘Where did it come from, sir?’ says his first mate. ‘Surely all this wasn’t sitting on the bottom of the sea?’
The monstrous figures begin to wade into the sea, moving to board their spectral vessels and rigging them up to disembark.
Well, most of the figures do. Some of them are turning to face the Heggelund.
There is a quiet, low sound, like many voices exhaling at once: a sustained om.
The figures on the beach all move, and it appears as if a flock of birds rises up from them, only the birds are glittery and strange . . .
No, thinks Skjelstad as the shapes hurtle toward him. Not birds. Swords.
Then there is a crash and everything goes dark.
*
‘Peace,’ says a voice, ‘is but the absence of war.’
Mulaghesh jumps, sniffs, and realises she’s passed out sitting up against the wall of the jail cell. She looks around. The lights in the prison ward are dim and low, casting coffee-stain luminescence over the grim, dark walls. A figure stands on the other side of the bars of her cell, lost in the shadows of the doorway. She can catch only a glimpse of a craggy forehead and the suggestion of thick, broad shoulders.
‘Lalith?’ she says groggily.
‘The shtanis believe that,’ he says. Biswal’s voice is low and husky. ‘Here in this polis they preached that for hundreds of years. I read it. “War and conflict form the sea through which nation-states swim,” or so Saint Petrenko said. “Some who have had the fortune to find clear, calm waters believe otherwise. They have forgotten that war is momentum. War is natural. And war makes one strong.” ’
‘Lalith . . . What the hells are you doing? Why did you kill Rada? Did you listen to anything I said?’
‘I did,’ says Biswal quietly. ‘I listened. I believe you.’
‘And the swords? Did you destroy them?’
He shakes his head. The dull light catches a strange gleam in his eye. Mulaghesh is reminded of a ferocious animal watching sulkily from the shadows of its pen. ‘I’ve had them moved up to the fortress for protection.’
‘You’ve what?’
‘You say that if these swords exist then war is coming, Turyin,’ says Biswal. ‘And I believe you. But I believe that war has always been coming. Saypur has benefited from a substantial imbalance of power over the past seventy years. Its power and hegemony have been uncontested. But that has made it soft and weak.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You’ve seen the people here,’ says Biswal. ‘You don’t think they’d fight us eventually? They fight us now, with sticks and rocks. Imagine if they ever progress. We haven’t fought a real war in forty years, Turyin, and the last one, the one you and I fought and bled in, our country tries to forget. To discuss the reality of our global position is considered impolite. Sooner or later, Saypur will have to awaken to reality. We will have to fight again. It can no longer allow other states to simply do as they wish. It can no longer be passive, and it certainly can no longer be giving.’ He bows his head. ‘And if I must be the one to wake Saypur from its slumber, then so be it.’
Mulaghesh stares at him in horror. ‘You want to . . . to use the Night of the Sea of Swords to start a world war?’
‘There already is a world war, Turyin,’ says Biswal. ‘But now it’s a quiet one. The Continent is growing more powerful. It struggles against us. It’s poor now, but it won’t always be that way. We can either act now or pay the price later. I prefer the former option.’
‘But . . . But . . . This is barking fucking madness!’
‘It’s the truth,’ he says calmly. ‘To be a power is to make constant war upon one’s neighbours. We must accept that truth or fail. And tonight will force our nation to make the decision.’
‘This is madness!’ says Mulaghesh, furious. ‘And more so, it’s stupid! This will be a fucking slaughter, Lalith, and we’ll be the ones getting slaughtered! They outnumber us a thousand to one, and each of their soldiers is worth a hundred of ours!’
‘You doubt us,’ says Biswal, with infuriating serenity. ‘Of course you would. You’ve been living in the shadow of Komayd, and she’s never had much love for the armed services. We have advanced weaponry here, Turyin, and tremendous destructive powers. We have advanced notice. The Voortyashtani army will be drawn to here, where their swords lie, and we will annihilate them. I’ve already ordered the coastal batteries to prepare. And then after this battle Saypuri attitudes concerning this ruined land will change.’
‘You’re a damned fool!’ says Mulaghesh. ‘You’re putting the lives of every one of your soldiers in incredible risk due to your own shitting vanity! This isn’t about nation-states, or war, or the balance of power, this is about you!’
Biswal’s huge, gnarled hands grasp the bars of Mulaghesh’s jail cell, but he says nothing.
‘You just want your time in the spotlight,’ says Mulaghesh. ‘You’ve never forgiven Saypur for refusing to admit that the Yellow March even happened. You’ve never forgiven me for being lauded as a damned hero of the Battle of Bulikov. You think yourself a hero, but your superiors act as if you were a monster. And you are, Lalith.’ Then, quieter, ‘We are. We both are, for what we did.’
‘For what we did?’ hisses Biswal. He grips the bars so hard they rattle. ‘For what we did? Winning the war? Is that such a terrible thing? Saving Saypuri lives, ending conflict? Are we fiends for making this possible? Is it at all right that they should forget us, forget what we did?’
Mulaghesh stands up and shouts into his face, ‘We razed towns! Destroyed families! We not only killed civilians, but children, as they slept!’
‘Because our nation asked it of us! They asked it of us and then they forgot. They forgot those of us who’d thrown our lives away for them! They should have been grateful, but they just forgot!’
‘Oh, enough!’ says Mulaghesh. ‘Enough of this! May the seas damn you, Lalith Biswal! May fate damn you a thousand times over for not learning what I’ve learned! We are servants. We serve. We serve as humanely as we can, and we ask nothing of our country. That is what we agree to when we put on the uniform. And all of your posturing and your dreams of conquest don’t belong in this civilised world.’
Biswal stares at her, white with rage. ‘I was going to ask you to join me,’ he says softly. ‘To help us defend against this attack. Will you refuse me, and abandon your fellow soldiers?’
‘I will refuse your foolish war, yes,’ says Mulaghesh. ‘I don’t serve you. I serve my country. Kill me if you wish, just as I did Bansa and Sankhar. Dying nobly is preferable to living savagely.’
He steps back from her cell, breathing hard. He whispers, ‘You aren’t worth the bullet.’ Then he turns around, hands in fists at his sides, and walks away.
*
Sigrud stands in the doorway of the darkened room in the fortress. He stares at the high metal table on the far end, and the figure lying upon it. It was easy to infiltrate – the fortress is in complete turmoil due to some announcement Biswal made – yet now that he’s here he finds he can’t go any farther.
He needs to move – he knows he will move – but he can’t just yet. He can’t bring himself to take a step.
The smell of blood and cigarettes is overpowering. His limbs feel faint; his heart is a hum. Sigrud je Harkvaldsson has never felt he wanted many things in his life, not with the fervent desire that some people wish for things, but right now, more than anything, he wishes to disbelieve reality, to defy what lies before him with such ferocity that the world itself is forced to obey, sending this sight scurrying back into its hole like some creeping vermin.
But he cannot. So he is left alone with the dark, empty room, the smell of cigarettes, and the young woman lying on the table.
He walks across the room to her.
He remembers when he first saw her. He was young, too young to be a father. A child, really, and hi
s wife Hild the same. He crept into the dark bedroom, feeling he was infringing upon matters forbidden to him, for up until then only women had entered this room, an endless chain of old women and young serving girls and, of course, Hild’s mother, who helped her through her labour. So to open the door to the bedroom was like peeking through to some holy temple, barred to filthy commoners such as he. But instead of any rituals or sacred ceremonies there was just Hild lying in the big bed, wan and sweaty but smiling, and her mother sitting on the side of the bed, and the basket on the table beside them. Hild said, ‘Come in,’ her voice creaky and cracked from exhaustion. ‘Come in and look at her.’ And Sigrud did so. And though he had fought for his father and sailed across many dangerous seas, he suddenly felt deeply confused and afraid, perhaps sensing, unconsciously, that his world was about to change.
And that was exactly what happened as he came to stand over the basket and the tiny pink person swaddled at its bottom, her face crinkled in displeasure, as if her birth had been an intolerable inconvenience to her. And he remembers now, as he crosses the dark room in the fortress, how he reached down to her, his hands suddenly so big and rough and unwieldy as he stroked one soft, pink cheek with his knuckle and said her name.
Sigrud stands over the body on the table.
She is dirty and mussed, her collar askew in a manner she never would have tolerated in waking life. Bits of ferns and bracken cling to her clothing, and her glasses are missing and strands of hair fall around her face. Yet despite all this she is as beautiful as he remembers her, cool and calm and utterly collected, a creature blessed or perhaps cursed with unimpeachable confidence. Even in death she appears sure of herself.
‘Signe,’ he whispers.
Her left breast is dark with blood. An exit wound – they shot her in the back.
His hands are shaking.
To fight so long to have a thing, and to grasp it so briefly before it is yet again ripped away . . .
The door of the hospital ward bursts open. Three soldiers move in, riflings ready. ‘Hands up!’ shouts one. ‘Hands up! Now!’
Sigrud stares down at the face of his daughter.
‘We found your damned rope ladder,’ says another soldier. ‘We figured this would be the first place you’d be.’
He strokes her cheek with one big, raw knuckle.
The soldiers draw closer. ‘Hands up, or are you deaf?’
Something falls with a pat pat onto the table beside his daughter. Sigrud looks at it and realises it’s blood.
His nose is bleeding. He holds his left hand out and catches three drops in his palm, the white glove turning dark, the scar below throbbing with pain.
He whispers, ‘I used to chase her through the forest.’
‘What?’ says one of the soldiers. ‘What the hells did you say?’
More blood falls into his open palm. Sigrud makes a fist and begins to move.
*
Mulaghesh is still stewing in her jail cell when she hears the gunshot. It’s muffled by the thick walls of the fortress, but she knows what it is immediately.
‘What in hells?’ She walks to the bars of her door and looks to the guard. ‘Hey – what the hells is going on?’
The guard, disconcerted, draws her sidearm. Mulaghesh sees she has lousy trigger discipline, because she puts her finger on the damn thing immediately. The guard takes a step back, looking through the glass window in the door to the prison hallway.
‘What the fuck is going on?’ says Mulaghesh again.
‘Quiet!’ says the guard.
There’s silence. Then from somewhere nearby comes a bloodcurdling scream, long and loud.
The scream stops short – too short. Then more silence.
‘Shit,’ says Mulaghesh.
‘Quiet!’ shouts the guard.
An enormous crash from outside the hallway door. Someone is screaming, not in threat or assault, but in sheer terror.
Then there’s a face at the door – a young Saypuri soldier, his eyes wide in fright. He pounds on the glass, crying, ‘Open the door! Open the door, you’ve got to let me in! Let me in, let me in!’
‘What?’ says the guard. ‘Pishal, what in hells is happening out there?’
The soldier outside the glass looks over his shoulder at something. ‘By all the fucking seas, Ananth, let me in!’
The guard glances at Mulaghesh. ‘This is probably your doing, isn’t it? Some damn shtanis sent here to rescue you . . .’
‘Do I look like I know what’s going on?’ says Mulaghesh.
The guard hesitates, then raises her pistol and cautiously opens the door. The Saypuri soldier bursts in, terrified. ‘Thank the seas!’ he cries. ‘Thank all the seas! Now shut it and—’
The soldier never finishes his sentence, as something bright red – a hand, perhaps? – reaches through the gap and rips him back through the door with terrifying speed, as if there were a rope tied to his waist with an auto at the other end. The soldier screams in terror, flailing uselessly at the door and the frame, but within a fraction of a second he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind him.
‘Son of a bitch!’ shouts the guard. She pulls the door back open, pistol raised, and leaps through. Once again the door slams shut, its bang echoing down the hallway.
Silence.
Mulaghesh waits. And waits.
There’s a scream from the other side of the door. A fine spray of blood mists over the glass window, and a great banging as someone fumbles with the handle. The door flies open, and the guard comes stumbling back through.
Her left arm is bloody and awkwardly twisted, as if it’s been caught in some kind of monstrous machinery. She’s obviously in shock, but she still has wits enough to slam the door shut with her good shoulder and lock it. She doesn’t quite succeed in this last task, leaving the old iron latch just half closed, but she turns and limps down the hall to Mulaghesh.
‘What the hells is happening out there, Private?’ says Mulaghesh, horrified.
‘Help me,’ whimpers the guard. ‘You’ve . . . You’ve got to help me.’
‘What is going on?’
‘He’s an animal!’ she says, her mouth working to make the words. ‘He’s a monster! Please, you’ve got to help me!’
‘Open the jail cell and I will!’
The guard tries to unclip the ring of keys from her belt, but she’s in too much shock to manage it.
‘Hurry, damn you!’ says Mulaghesh.
There’s a terrific crash from the door as something on the other side slams into it. The guard stops and stares at it in horror. The door shudders again as another enormous blow strikes it. Then another, and another.
The glass window quivers. There’s a tiny creak as the latch she only half closed slowly begins to give way.
‘Oh, no,’ whispers the guard.
With one final crash the door flies open. Mulaghesh can hardly see what’s on the other side before there’s a soft thump and the guard begins screaming, not in terror but in agony. She looks at the guard and realises that a knife has somehow sprouted from the guard’s left side, up under her arm. The knife is huge and thick and black, and is quite familiar to Mulaghesh.
Sigrud je Harkvaldsson walks through the door, his chest heaving with either exertion or wrath. He’s covered from head to toe in blood, his face and chest spattered with fans of gore. His face is bruised and there’s a slash on his left arm, but besides these tokens it is quite clear that he was the decisive victor of whatever fights he’s been in.
‘Sigrud, what are you doing?’ shouts Mulaghesh. Her fury rises as she realises who Sigrud must have been fighting – and likely killing. ‘What have you done, you motherfucker, what have you done!’
Sigrud ignores her and walks to the guard, who is feebly attempting to crawl away. He grasps her by the head and waist and lifts her into the air, and as he does Mulaghesh sees the steady flow of blood pouring from his nose . . .
He’s in a berserk rage, she realises. He’s gone mad.
Though she has no idea what would put him in such a state, she rapidly begins to realise that Sigrud is now likely the most dangerous thing in Fort Thinadeshi.
She watches in horror as Sigrud slams the guard’s head into the bars of the jail cell with so much force that the skin on the young girl’s forehead pops open like a bag packed too tight. The guard goes silent and her eyes blank, unconscious or worse.
‘Stop it!’ screams Mulaghesh. ‘Stop it!’
But he doesn’t. He slams the guard’s head into the bars over and over again, thrusting forward with one arm, and with each blow her face deforms just a little more, splitting along the temple and the cheek. Blood wells up from around the guard’s right eye as Sigrud pounds her head into the bars with a sickening, steady pace.
‘You piece of shit!’ screams Mulaghesh. ‘You stupid bastard!’
When the guard is beaten beyond all recognition, Sigrud tosses her aside and lunges at the bars like a wild animal. Mulaghesh is just barely fast enough to escape the grasp of his fingers, which nearly catch her neck. He screams furiously, straining to reach her, kicking and beating at the bars. Then, growling, he steps back, grasps the bars, and begins to pull.
The jail cell should be too strong for him – it really should. But Mulaghesh knows that Fort Thinadeshi is quite old, so, like the latch on the hallway door, not everything is built to modern engineering standards. This makes her deeply concerned when something in the doorway begins to creak and moan, and puffs of dust come floating down as if the very stone is about to give way.
Sigrud, growling and snarling, digs his heels in and heaves again. The hinges of the door begin to whine.
She knows that if he gets through that door he’ll likely tear her to pieces. Mulaghesh is no slouch at close-quarters combat, but she’s seen Sigrud single-handedly kill half a dozen people in combat, and he’s got an age, weight, and limb advantage. She eyes the guard’s corpse and the knife sticking out of her, which Sigrud has thankfully forgotten, but it’s too far away.
City of Blades (Divine Cities #2) Page 46
