“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.”