Cold Iron

by Stina Leicht

  “Sit still.” Anja finished with the bandage, tying it off with a firm jerk, and then faced the hedge keeping them hidden from the hospital.

  The wound was already stinging something awful. Ilta pressed the bandage with her fingertips in an attempt to smooth out the pain.

  “The Royal Army closed the city by the king’s order this morning,” Anja said. “Goods are allowed in and out. Other than that, no one but royal messengers are allowed to enter or leave.”

  “A quarantine makes no sense. Variola is already here.”

  Anja whispered, “Sickness has nothing to do with it. It’s to prevent the common folk from protesting at the palace gates.”

  “What?”

  “People do stupid things when frightened, girl. I’ve seen this before.”

  “You’re saying the king is afraid?”

  Anja seemed to be holding her breath. With the mask on, it was impossible to see her expression, but Ilta had a feeling that she was unsettled, maybe even terrified. “We should get back to work.”

  Gathering up the quill and the tray holding the bandages and the knife, Ilta said, “I suppose we should.” The ache in her arm was now bone-deep. She wondered how bad the pain was going to get and if she would need to numb it in order to prevent anyone from discovering what she’d done to herself.

  It will be bad, no doubt, but I can handle it, she thought and followed Anja inside.

  TWO

  Ilta woke from her nap to an empty room, muffled cries of anger, and the smell of smoke. Outside, glass shattered. An orange glow filtered through the drawn white curtains, casting chaotic patterns that danced on the walls of the hospital’s records room. She sat up with a shiver. She’d been sleeping on one of the camp cots prepared for those unable to go home due to the overwhelming numbers of patients. Scheduled naps were practical. All healers were required to catch small amounts of sleep throughout their shifts. She told herself that her reasons for the break had nothing to do with the steady ache in her arm.

  The fire in the hearth had gone out, and the cramped room was freezing. Ilta checked the mantel clock above the tiny brick fireplace. It was just past three in the morning. Anja had let her sleep for more than three hours. Ilta frowned.

  The quarantine had caused a panic and thus a flood of new patients and concerned relatives. The waiting area had been filled to overflowing with those in need of help. A line had formed in the street, wrapping around the building. The sick were far less of a problem than the healthy. Some came to the hospital to request preemptive treatments and were turned away. Rumors that medical supplies were running short had begun to circulate, and the Royal Army had arrived to restore order. She’d caught a glimpse of Nels dressed in his uniform, talking to several worried town folk in the street. In the crush, she’d only had enough time to catch his eye and give him a wave and a smile. The situation hadn’t stabilized until dusk. By then, there was no way she could leave. There was simply too much to do. She’d sent him a message saying that she’d stay the night at the hospital and that she wouldn’t be joining him until the next day. She’d then channeled her disappointment into her work.

  There wasn’t another opportunity for a break until midnight. By the time she’d left for her nap, the frightened crowds had reluctantly surrendered the streets to the army.

  I wonder where Gran is.

  A loud crash from the other side of the window sent Ilta hunting for her boots. She’d slept fully clothed, only intending to lie down for an hour or so. Slipping her stockinged feet into their snug warmth, she didn’t bother with the laces and shuffled over to the window. A mob swelled in the streets below. The manic scene was lit with torches and the bakery across the street’s funeral pyre. A Royal Horse regiment battled to control the crowd. She looked on in horror as one of the soldiers drew his sword. It descended in a deadly arc. Someone screamed. The mob let out a roar. Ilta squeezed her eyes shut with a gasp.

  Is Nels still out there?

  The door behind her flew open with a bang. She whirled around to see who it was. To her relief, it was only Anja. A jumble of bottles, bandages, and other medical supplies filled her arms.

  “Get dressed, girl. We’re leaving.”

  “What of the patients?”

  Anja rushed across the room, set her burdens down on the writing desk, and then snatched a carpetbag from the floor next to it. She set about filling the bag with the supplies. “Get moving. There’s no time for questions. The King’s Army have forced the rioters away from the palace. It’s only angered the people more. They’ve started looting. The army are keeping them away from the hospital for now. But that’s not going to last.”

  It occurred to Ilta that she had no way of knowing whether Nels had gotten her message. She didn’t even know where he was. May the Great Mother help him and keep him safe. Ilta knotted her boot laces and then grabbed her coat. The arm she’d pox-proofed ached even more than ever before. She didn’t dare check the inoculation site in front of Anja. Ilta asked, “Where’s Gran?”

  “She’s out back, helping get the patients who can be moved into the wagons. We’re heading to the barracks district.”

  “The Narrows?”

  Anja nodded. “We’ll be safer there until this is over.”

  Ilta followed her into the hallway. It was overwhelmed with a confusion of people carrying supplies, books, papers, and patients. Volunteers shoved past in a hurry to gather necessities and flee. Their expressions set in determination, worry, and fear. It all seemed so unreal.

  “They’re leaving patients behind?” Ilta had to shout to be heard.

  “Only the more serious cases. The ones who can’t be moved. The whole critical wing.”

  “We can’t do that!”

  “There’s no time to get them out. Even if there were, moving them would risk killing them.”

  “Is anyone staying?”

  “A few soldiers, maybe. I don’t know.”

  “No healers?” Ilta slowed. The new Commons Hospital was housed in a repurposed old church building that had been designed in the shape of a small letter t. She and Anja were leaving the left wing. As they entered the main building, the congestion became almost impossible to navigate.

  “No civilian healers,” Anja said. “Soldiers and army healers will suffice until this is over. They can handle it. More so than we can. Come on!”

  Ilta stopped where she was. “I’m not leaving.”

  “Have you gone mad?” Anja turned and tugged at her sleeve. “That mob will rip apart everything and everyone who stands in their way.”

  “They’d taint themselves with blood?”

  “They’re frightened. Don’t count on such things mattering until long after the fact.”

  “I won’t leave those patients to die! Not when they came to us for help!” Ilta jerked free and made her way toward the ward where the more seriously ill patients were kept.

  Anja’s ineffective protests were lost in the chaos. Pushing through the crowd while attempting to protect her sore arm, she made her way to the tall double doors separating the critical ward from the rest of the hospital. Outside of a few badly placed bumps and crushed toes, she made the journey in one piece. Gazing through the floor-to-ceiling rows of small glass panes, she saw the ward had been already abandoned. Cabinets and bookcases hung open, their contents having been raided. Sickroom stench was thick in the long, narrow chamber with its two rows of beds shoved against opposite walls. Each bed was occupied as well as all available floor space adequate for sleeping pallets. Locking the doors behind her, she took inventory of the situation. Smoke from the bakery fire had begun to pour in through the open windows. Nearby, Commons Church bells clanged a panicked alert. She rushed to close the sashes and pull the shades, carefully stepping around unconscious and semiconscious patients as she went. Looking out into the night, she spied bucket lines forming in the maelstrom.

  “What’s happening?” a woman asked. Her voice was weak. It was obvious she could hardly mov
e her mouth to speak due to the pain. The sores usually started in the mouth, making speech difficult. Some healers considered it a blessing. The woman’s face was a mass of oozing sores that caked her eyes. Ilta knew at a glance that the poor woman would be blind for the rest of her life.

  Ilta threw a window sash with a quick slam. Unsure, she paused. She didn’t want to frighten the woman further. What would be the use in that? But she didn’t want to lie, either. “You aren’t alone. Don’t be afraid. I won’t leave you—not any of you.”

  “Is that smoke I smell?” the woman’s voice gained an edge of hysteria.

  “There’s a fire across the street. In the bakery. They’ve already started the bucket lines. We’ll be fine.” It suddenly occurred to Ilta that the mob wasn’t the only problem. What if the flames reach the hospital? What if the mob sets the building on fire? She took a deep breath to calm her nerves. They wouldn’t burn down a hospital. Surely, no one would be that cruel. Suddenly, Anja’s remarks came to mind. People do stupid things when frightened. A more cynical part of herself filled in the rest. And people frightened of illness don’t risk themselves by entering a hospital.

  No. They’d simply burn it down, wouldn’t they? In the confusion, who would know the responsible parties? She swallowed a fresh bout of terror and settled on telling the woman a half-truth. “They’ll have everything under control very soon.” She counted herself lucky that most of those in the room were too ill to hear, let alone understand that anything was wrong.

  She quickly made the rounds to the remaining windows, soothing those she could with quick words as she went. Then she returned to the double doors and peered out of the rows of small glass panes for some sign of what to expect. The hall had emptied but for a few abandoned items lost in the crush in the time it’d taken her to shut the windows. She started with a yelp when she heard a door splinter somewhere in the front of the building. Angry shouts and screams echoed beyond the glass. The harsh command of ­soldiers punctuated the chaos. Her heart galloped inside her chest.

  What if the soldiers can’t stop them? She considered her options. Maybe I can talk to them? What if they don’t listen? She was a sworn healer. It would be against the oath to kill, but she could make someone lose consciousness. She’d done it before, but never as a weapon. The thought made her uncomfortable.

  Do I stay here and wait? Or do I go see what can be done before they reach the patients? Won’t it be too late if they get this far? I’m only one person. All of the commotion was in the front of the building, not the back. So, she headed for the front door. Oil paintings, curtains, and tapestries had been removed from the entry, and the wooden furniture had been moved away from easy reach of the windows. It was a lucky thing that someone had thought to do so. The front doors were broken and splintered. Smoke and the sound of chaos poured through the gaping doorway. A small group of soldiers in the dooryard fought to keep an angry crowd from entering.

  “Stay calm! Everything will be fine if you would only go to your homes!” The army lieutenant’s formal court speech was laced with command magic. It was helping some. The mob in the hospital dooryard wasn’t as frantic as those in the street, but the woman didn’t have enough power to do much more than exert mild influence. Under normal circumstances, that would’ve been enough.

  Briefly, Ilta wondered how many times the lieutenant had used her powers and how much longer she would last. Terror gripped Ilta’s chest, squeezing everything from her but cold knowledge. Smoke filled her nose, and screams crowded her ears. People on the other side of the black iron fence fled from a slow-trotting cavalry unit. The bucket lines struggling to contain the fire broke in the confusion. Sparks from the flames landed on the roof of a tailor’s shop next door. A lone kainen, presumably the tailor in question, splashed water onto the smoking shingles.

  I shouldn’t be here. I should’ve evacuated with the others.

  But I couldn’t abandon the patients. And I won’t now. It isn’t right. She concentrated on not fleeing to the critical wing. She’d come out to help, and help she would. A handful of soldiers couldn’t hold back the mob forever. She didn’t know how much use she’d be. She didn’t have command magic and therefore couldn’t help influence anyone. She was a healer, but she could be one more person to stand in the path of the mob and thus protect the sick. She tasted ash. Panic threatened to take her breath away. It was hard to think beyond the idea that she might die. For a brief instant, she wondered if this was the kind of thing Nels had to deal with every day. She shuddered and wiped slick hands on her skirts. If he can do it, I can too. With that, she pushed through the broken doors and into the dooryard. Splinters caught at her skirts, and she tugged them free without care of ripping fabric.

  “Please! Do as they say,” she said. “Leave this place in peace. You have relatives here. Brothers. Sisters. Parents. Friends. Do not endanger them further. Please! We’re doing everything we can. You have to let us!”

  “Ilta?! What are you still doing here?”

  She heard Nels, but couldn’t find him. At that moment, the frightened horde shoved the soldiers several steps backward, and Ilta with them. Overwhelming terror slammed into her, and she slipped under the crush of others’ emotions. Thoughts invaded in a mass so dense that she couldn’t separate them into anything coherent. Her perceptions were reduced to an avalanche of feelings. Panic. Anger. Sorrow. Powerlessness. Frustration. Pain cut through the confusion and brought her to herself again. The jagged splinters of the broken door clawed at her back and pierced her shoulder. Still, she attempted to throw herself against the crowd. Hands clawed at her, tearing at her sleeves. She was kicked. She tripped and fell. A soldier’s boot landed in her side. Agony shot through her body. She screamed.

  “Ilta!”

  Someone grabbed her by the sore arm and yanked her up. Lost in the pain, her self-control slipped. Stone. I need stone. Anchorless, the confusion of the crowd’s thoughts slammed into her again. Still, in the turmoil, she understood who had ahold of her. She knew by the steady feel of his thoughts. Instinctually, she fled to Nels—away from chaos and darkness. He was frightened like everyone else, she knew, but he held himself distant from it. She felt ­shipwrecked—washed up on the only beach for miles. She held onto him with all her might. Her vision was a nauseating mix of both his and hers. She slammed her eyes shut.

  Please, she thought. She didn’t trust herself to speak. Make them stop. They have to stop. I can’t—

  “Everyone! Stop now!”

  Still grasping her arm, Nels stumbled into the other soldiers. He made physical contact with the lieutenant. Suddenly, Ilta felt a powerful jolt wrench her stomach. She tasted tin. And then it was as if someone had pulled a substantial amount of magical energy from her to the point of sharp pain. She lost herself and only managed to stay on her feet because Nels held her.

  “I said, stop where you are!” Their words—no, Nels’s—were charged with a huge surge of command magic. Ilta hadn’t felt anything like it before.

  Several things happened all at once. Ilta staggered under the vast weight of discharged power. They all did—all but Nels. The crowd fell into a shocked silence and halted their struggles against the soldiers. Nearby, the lieutenant fainted. Ilta felt her lose consciousness in a blink. It was all Ilta could do to keep from blacking out with her.

  “Now, please. Be calm,” Nels said. His reasoned tone snuffed out the fear and anger. “Let us do what we must. If you’ve no need for healing, return to your homes. If you need to stay, help put out the fire. Everything will be fine. But you must calm down.” He released Ilta’s arm and then motioned for the crowd to go.

  Magical energy faded away like mist. Ilta swayed on her feet. Suddenly, she felt weaker than she had in her life. She fought an urge to sit. The crowd seemed to let go of the breath they’d been holding, and everything returned to normal. The crowd dispersed in uncertain groups. Some drifted across the street to the flaming bakery. Others left altogether. Ilta watched Nels blink a
s what he’d done began to sink in.

  Both concerned for the lieutenant and unable to stand any longer, Ilta dropped to her knees in the grass. She snatched up the lieutenant’s wrist before someone could step on it. The lieutenant’s pulse drummed a steady beat against Ilta’s fingertips. Alive. She’s alive. Ilta heard Nels give orders to the soldiers. She got the impression that they complied with renewed respect.

  She focused on the lieutenant. She appeared to be in a deep sleep. Ilta slapped her cheeks to wake her, but it didn’t have any effect.

  I don’t know what made me think my powers were greater than his, Ilta thought.

  “Are you all right?” Nels asked.

  Ilta paused to give herself a casual check. “A little bruised, a few scratches, but I’m fine. I think.” The inoculation site hurt even more than before. It had bled through the bandage. Her arm felt swollen. She assumed she’d bumped it or scratched it on the broken doors. Did the lieutenant simply faint? Or did Nels do something to her? For that matter, what did he do to me? There were no obvious signs that anything was wrong with the lieutenant. No broken bones. Her breathing was steady as was her heart rate.

  “What happened to Harkola?” Nels asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ilta said with a frown. She noted the variola scars on Harkola cheeks. “I think we can move her. Help me get her inside. She’ll be safe there. I need the smelling salts.”

  “All right.” Nels stooped to pick up Harkola.

  Ilta got to her feet. Swaying, she shoved at the broken door to clear the way for Nels. He draped Harkola over a shoulder and stepped over the battered threshold. Ilta noticed the ease and grace with which he did it. She couldn’t help thinking that the awkward boy she used to know was gone.

  Do I really know him at all?

  The first examination room they came to was a wreck, and so she led him to a second. He gently laid Harkola on the table and stepped back out of the way.