City of Blades (54 page)

Sakthi glances around at the other officers. Some stare at the general in naked horror, others in teary-eyed admiration.

“Now, go,” says Biswal. “Go and man the walls, prepare our defenses, and ready your troops. By morning, we will be legends.”

Seventy miles south of the city of Voortyashtan, the cargo ship
Heggelund
makes its final leg of the trip to the newborn harbor. Captain Skjelstad has made this trip several times in his career, shipping raw goods back and forth between Voortyashtan and Ahanashtan, but this is the largest shipment he's piloted yet: ten thousand tons of Ahanashtani cement, to be used in the overhaul of the Solda River. By his calculations the
Heggelund
is set to arrive before 0200, just in time for SDC to begin its work.

At least, that's what his calculations say. But tonight, something…is not right. As he stands in the bridge, consulting his countless nautical maps and timetables, he tries to prove that the impossible has not happened, even though all of his metrics and equipment says it most definitely has.

He checks the maps again.

Then he checks the barometer and the speed gauges and the fuel supply.

He pushes his hat back and scratches his head. “What in all the
hells
…”

They're consuming fuel at an incredibly high rate, but they
shouldn't
be—they should be on the Great Western Current, the oceanic current that not only keeps Voortyashtan's bay warm, but also moves along the coast at a great speed, making it an excellent channel for shipping, meaning they'd use less fuel.

But they aren't. Over the past two hours they've used an absurd amount of fuel,
and
have been going well under speed.

In fact, given the measurements he's looking at, it's almost as if the Great Western Current has completely
vanished,
or at the very least is in a considerable state of disruption.

His first mate runs in, breathless. “I checked again, sir—six knots.”

“All right?” says Skjelstad, suspicious. “Then why are we going so damnably slow?”

“You didn't let me finish, sir,” says his first mate. “Six knots
south-southeast
.”

“Six knots
south
?” says Skjelstad, boggled. “That can't be! I…I mean, it simply shitting
can't
! They call it the damned Great Western because it runs west, you know!”

“I know, sir,” says the first mate. “I don't know how it's possible. But it…it seems like it is. It's like…”

“Like what?” says Skjelstad.

“Like it's…been diverted, sir.”

“Diverted?”

“Yes, sir.
Blocked,
sir. The whole of the Great Western. Like it's hitting something.”

“Hitting
what
?” says Skjelstad, furious.

“I've checked the horizon, sir, but I haven't seen an—”

The first mate's answer is never heard, for at that moment the ship is shook from prow to stern as if they've just plowed into another vessel. Captain Skjelstad and his first mate are knocked off their feet and sent rolling over the floor of the bridge. Skjelstad can feel the ship moving under him, tipping to one side at a speed that should never, ever be achievable on even the roughest of waters. It's like they've run ashore—but there
is
no shore around here, of course, out in the middle of the seas.

The juddering and rocking doesn't stop, but it slows enough for Skjelstad to clamber over to the window and lift himself up to see.

At first glance it appears that the
Heggelund
has plowed into a white shard sticking out of the sea, one protruding about a hundred feet above the water line. “An iceberg?” he wonders aloud. “This far south?”

But as he watches, the shard is
growing:
it's like some giant aquatic spear being shoved up through the surface of the ocean, rising into the air at an astonishing speed.

“What in all the
worlds,
” whispers his first mate.

As Skjelstad watches the shard he realizes that it is actually some kind of white
tower,
for a bit farther down on the far side he sees, impossibly, a window and balcony. As it rises the tower also widens, grating up against the port bow of the
Heggelund
with a roaring screech and doing enough damage that the ship will soon be unsailable. Skjelstad is initially terrified that the tower will saw right into the hull and the deck, but then a great bubble of water rises up and shoves the
Heggelund
back, just as the rest of the towers—and there are more, Skjelstad sees,
many
more—penetrate the waters around them.

“What in all the hells is that?” cries the first mate.

The ship groans, moans, bangs, and clangs, miserably protesting this turn of events.

“I am guessing,” Skjelstad shouts, “that
that
is what was blocking the Great Western!”

Then there's a discomfiting crunch and the entire ship is shoved
up
. This blow is far more violent than when they struck the tower, so much so that Skjelstad and his mate fly up into the air high enough that they nearly strike the ceiling. Then they slam back down, Skjelstad cracking his head so hard he briefly passes out.

When the world obligingly congeals back into a comprehensible series of sights and sounds, Skjelstad blinks and sees his first mate is staring out the window, pale-faced. “Uh, Captain…You'll want to take a look at this.”

Captain Skjelstad, groaning, slowly rises to his feet. Then he looks out the window and stares.

An island has appeared in the center of the ocean. Its beaches are bone white, and in its center is an ivory-colored citadel large enough to be a small city, with a tall ivory tower in its middle. The ocean is rushing back from it, the waters drawing back like curtains from a stage, and as they withdraw he sees things standing on the white shores….

Thousands upon thousands of…men? People?
Are
they people? To Skjelstad's eyes they look more like monsters, swaying amalgamations of horns and teeth, with enormous blades in their hands, staring out at the moonlit sea….And there in the waters are thousands upon thousands of long, thin ships with pale, silvery sails. They glow very faintly, like a massive school of gigantic jellyfish, manifested here on the ocean waves as if they've always been here.

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 realizes 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 neighbors. 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 civilized 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.