by Stina Leicht
The situation here is bound to smooth out eventually—at least long enough for me to see you for a few hours.
I must put out the candle now. It’s late, and tomorrow will be another long day. Know that as I lay down to sleep I’ll stare at the ceiling and think of you. Where are you now? What are you doing? Do you think of me as I do you?
With all my love,
Nels
TWO
“Are you sure you want to go in there, sir? Acrasians stink like dead pigs in high summer. And they use the piss bucket for their drinking water.” The private guarding the Acrasian prisoners wrinkled her nose in disgust before glancing over her shoulder. She lowered her voice. “They’re animals.”
Nels peered through the splintered nine-foot-tall fenced enclosure built for the Acrasian prisoners with a mix of curiosity and dread. In truth, his biggest reasons for studying Acrasians had originated from fear. It wasn’t as if he’d not met Acrasians since Onni. However, all but one—Private Ketola’s wife, Annaliesa—had been the subjects of command magic. This would mark the first time he’d interacted with an uncontrolled Acrasian over an extended period of time.
They’re no different than we are.
In spite of the inclement weather, there was no shelter inside the enclosure other than a four-foot-by-four-foot square of tattered canvas. One end was tied to the fence with rags. The opposite end was stretched out at an angle and anchored to the ground with rocks, forming a rough lean-to tent hardly large enough for one person. He spied a pair of unmoving booted feet sticking out from beneath the canvas shelter and assumed that was the officer. There didn’t appear to be any women among them. It struck him as odd. He wasn’t sure if that was normal or merely a chance of who’d survived the battle and the journey to Gardemeister. He could smell the prisoners from where he stood. Unable to shave, their faces were covered in unkempt beard growth. Many were ill. Frequent coughing punctuated fetid air. Their uniforms were filthy and their wet hair matted. They huddled in a listless clump on the ground. Nels decided they looked more like starving, beaten dogs than soldiers from the self-proclaimed most feared army in the world. He clamped down on an unwanted flash of empathy.
Captain Karpanen wouldn’t be dead but for the Acrasians, Nels thought. Still, he reminded himself that it’d been robbers, not soldiers, who’d killed Karpanen. There is a distinction. “When was the last time any of the prisoners ate?”
The private shrugged. “They’ve been trading with Corporal Ekstrom.”
“With what?” Nels asked, noting that she hadn’t answered his previous question.
“Acrasian coins, clothes, whatever they have in their packs.”
Thunder echoed through the valley. A fresh breeze brought relief from the enclosure’s stench. Nels glanced at the sky. Storm clouds bunched in dark and angry knots. It wasn’t raining now but would be soon. He turned his attention back to the prisoners. Peering through the splintered wooden poles, he didn’t see evidence of any baggage. “They have packs?”
“I don’t trade with them, sir. They don’t attempt to communicate with me other than to make rude gestures.” Again she shrugged. “Corporal Ekstrom says the bald one with the moustache carves things with a chunk of sharpened flint. I hear he’s quite good at it.”
Nels moved closer to the gate. It’d rained earlier that morning, and the ground was muddy. Inside the enclosure, flies swarmed in clouds. “Open the gate, Private Vangr.”
“Yes, sir.” Vangr unhooked the keys from her belt and worked the lock. Chains rattled against wood and then she shoved at the gate. It protested with a soggy creak and a clank of chain.
Nels stepped through. A handful of prisoners struggled to their feet. Most stayed as they were in the mud and gave him wary looks. Some appeared too weak to stand. The stench inside the enclosure was a stomach-churning combination of bad cheese, sewage, and a foul sweetness. He could taste it in the back of his throat. Worse, the overpowering stink seemed to penetrate his skull through his nose and mouth, making his eyes water. He was familiar enough with battlefields to know what it meant without seeing the corpse. At his side, Viktor choked and covered his face with a handkerchief. Nels’s stomach did a slow roll, and he spat in an effort to clear his mouth. He decided not to venture farther inside—more due to the smell than any possible danger of attack.
He forced himself to ignore the stench and addressed the prisoners in formal Acrasian. “Good morning.” He’d parroted the greeting without giving thought to the irony until too late. “My name is Captain Hännenen. Is there one among you who is in charge?”
The prisoners stared back with dull, changeless eyes. None responded, in spite of being addressed in their own language. Finally, an Acrasian corporal with short, greasy light brown hair and dark brown beard stubble looked to the canvas shelter. Nels did the same. From the new angle, it was easy to see that the officer resting beneath it was dead. Black flies crawled all over the open eyes and face unmolested. A dirty, bloodstained bandage was wrapped around his swollen waist.
Gut wound, Nels thought. That’s a slow, painful way to die. Why did they bother transporting him with the others?
The human corporal got to his feet reluctantly, glanced down at himself, and tugged his loose, dirty uniform coat in a futile attempt to tidy it. If Nels didn’t know any better, he’d think the man was readying himself for an execution. Nels felt another twinge of sympathy.
“Since the lieutenant has seen fit to depart this mortal coil … I-I suppose that leaves me in charge,” the corporal said in an equally formal manner. Unfamiliar with his accent’s slow drawl, Nels had to take a moment to translate.
“And your name?” Nels asked.
“Corporal Dayvid Petron.” The corporal’s voice was steady and low, but he was visibly trembling.
Nels paused again. He’s afraid of magic, of course. “Thank you, Corporal,” he said. “I need a comprehensive list of prisoners so that it may be relayed to your superiors. I will provide you with paper and ink.” Education wasn’t as common among Acrasians as it was among Eledoreans. “Can you write?”
Corporal Petron’s expression grew cold. “My men need water and food. Not a head count.”
“I require names in order make arrangements for your care with your leaders. In turn, they will inform your loved ones of your status.”
“I understood you the first time, Captain.” Corporal Petron lowered his head and shook it. “Don’t waste your time. None of us are members of a wealthy gens.” He gave a sideways nod toward the body under the makeshift shelter. “Lieutenant Lucrosa was our only chance of getting help. Every one of us was recruited off the streets of Novus Salernum and Archiron. Some by force.”
“Oh. I see.” Nels swallowed. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Petron what they both now knew.
“We can work.”
Nels scanned the sorry state of the prisoners. “Work? Corporal, your men can’t stand.”
Petron straightened. “My father was a farmer. I worked the land from the time I could walk. I’ve seen your fields. And I observed your people as we marched in. This town doesn’t have enough men to work the farms. The coming winter will be a bad one if something isn’t done. You need us. Give us food, medical care, clothes, and better shelter. In exchange, we’ll work your crops.”
He doesn’t speak like a farmer. Acrasians placed a great deal of importance on personal wealth, more so than on anything else. Nels wondered how Petron had acquired his education. He grudgingly admired Petron’s intelligence and determination. What if our roles were reversed? What would I do in his place? “You’ll give your parole?”
“Speaking for myself? Yes,” Corporal Petron said. “Doubly so, if it means those who can’t work will be taken care of. I can’t order the men to do the same, but I will ask for volunteers.”
Nels examined the other prisoners a bit closer. They were dressed in a mix of uniforms and insignia. He isn’t even from the same unit, and yet he’s acting in their behal
f. It went against everything Nels knew about Acrasians. He felt something loosen in his chest. They’ve been abandoned to their fate by those in charge, and they know it. “I’ll return with the paperwork.”
“How soon?” Petron asked. “Private Landry needs a physician to see to his leg. If something isn’t done quickly, he’ll die. We need fresh water. We’ve collected what we can from the rain, but it isn’t enough. None of us has eaten in days. We need shelter and blankets. And … well … the lieutenant is rather ripe.”
“I’ll be back within an hour,” Nels said. “You’ve my word.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
Moving toward the gate, Nels heard Petron clear his throat.
“Captain?”
“Yes?” Nels turned.
The dirt didn’t hide the open desperation and fear in the corporal’s face. “Don’t forget us.”
“I won’t,” Nels said. He captured Corporal Petron’s gaze in an effort to convey his sincerity. “You’re the entire reason I’m here.” Then he exited the enclosure.
“You speak their lingo?” Private Vangr asked.
Nels waited for Vangr to secure the gate. “I want that dead officer cleared out of there at once. And those doing so will show the body respect, do you hear me?”
Chastised, Vangr kept her mouth closed and nodded.
“I didn’t hear your answer, Private,” Nels said.
Vangr snapped to attention. “Yes, sir!”
Nels said, “There will be fresh canteens issued to those prisoners. And from now on, they are to have all the water they need. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir!”
It isn’t much, but it’s something. Nels turned his back on her and headed for the inn where the medical corps was headquartered. Their accommodations were located on the farthest, opposite edge of the barracks compound. Gardemeister’s military living quarter was small, consisting of a two-block walled-in area. As he passed by the arched gate that signaled the access point between the town and the barracks houses, he couldn’t help noticing what Corporal Petron had seen. Nels slowed to a stop. Gardemeister wasn’t the thriving town it had been a year or two before. A number of buildings were deserted. The surviving population was composed of old men and women, orphan children, and a few young mothers. He recalled the size of the graveyard between the barracks houses and the enclosure where the Acrasians were being kept. The plague had hit Gardemeister hard, but so had the war.
“What’s wrong?” Viktor asked.
Two thunderclaps in quick succession echoed through the mountains, and with that, the rain was released. Nels pulled the collar of his all-weather coat tighter around his neck and angled his tricorne to keep water out of his eyes. “Did you see?” Nels asked.
Viktor glanced over his shoulder and shrugged. “It isn’t anything new. Why are you so angry?”
Nels wasn’t sure he could explain. “Their own commanders have abandoned them because they lack money. They have no one to care for them.”
“They have you.”
“I have enough on my hands with Kauranen’s Fourth Infantry company.”
Viktor gave him a sidelong glance. “I hesitate to bring up a painful subject. But you don’t command the Fourth any longer.”
Nels sighed and felt his shoulders drop a little.
“I’m sorry.”
Turning to gaze back toward the pen where Corporal Petron and his men were being kept, Nels said, “I don’t want to care about what happens to them. In a few weeks, we’ll be killing men just like them.”
“That’s war,” Viktor said and shrugged. “The only difference is that they are not kainen.”
Nels resumed walking. When he reached the Fallen Crow, he threw both hands against painted oak door and shoved. The square bull’s-eye panes set in the top half of it rattled in their frames. Entering, he and Viktor were met with hostile stares. The inn’s patrons went back to their quiet conversations after a short silence. Nels took a deep breath to calm himself. He spotted the medical corps underlieutenant smoking a clay pipe in the corner and crossed the room with a tightened jaw.
“I need to speak to the medical officer in charge,” Nels said.
The underlieutenant reached inside his unbuttoned jacket and produced a pocket watch. “Normally, that would be me. However, I’m not on duty.”
“Then who is?”
“It’s midday. No one, at the moment.”
Nels glanced down at the table. The plate resting on its surface was empty. So was the tea mug next to it. He sat across from the underlieutenant and handed the dirty dishes to Viktor. “You’re on duty now.”
The underlieutenant opened his mouth to protest. However, after noting Nels’s expression and his rank, he swallowed his objection.
“What am I to do with these?” Viktor asked.
“Take them to the kitchen,” Nels said, speaking to Viktor while staring at the medical officer.
“Do I look like a barmaid?” Viktor asked.
“Overlieutenant Reini, take the dishes away.”
With a barely audible sigh, Viktor left.
“The Acrasian prisoners need a healer to attend them,” Nels said.
“Acrasians?” The underlieutenant made a disgusted face. “How much are they paying?”
“They aren’t,” Nels said. “I’m giving you an order. What is your name?”
“Underlieutenant Olveson.”
“Underlieutenant Olveson, would you like to be on report?”
“No, sir.”
“Then I suggest you get yourself to the prisoner enclosure,” Nels said. “Now.”
Resigned, Olveson tapped out his pipe, gathered the worn leather satchel resting on the floor at his feet, and stomped out with a frown. Returning from his trip to the kitchen, Viktor moved aside to let him pass. The door slammed.
“You’re going to hear from his captain, you know,” Viktor whispered after Olveson was gone.
“I don’t care,” Nels said.
“You use that expression quite a lot these days. Someone might get the impression you were feeling a little reckless.”
“Reckless? Me? When have I ever been reckless?”
“I’d stay healthy during your assignment here if I were you. I don’t think the medical corps is going to be doing you any favors for a while.”
Dear Nels,
Every day I wait for the sound of the mail coach. The coachman doesn’t always stop, but when he does I watch him from under the trees. I tell myself that his brief presence is enough, no matter how lonely I am. I can’t risk talking to him. I’ve no idea how long I’ll be contagious. I burned the last of Gran’s things today. I hated to do it. It felt as if I was destroying the last of Gran, but I had to. Until now, I never understood how frightening and lonely a quarantine could be.
I have her journals at least. I wouldn’t have thought to read them, but she told me to do so. At first it felt like an intrusion, but now … It’s funny how different she was when she was younger—how much like us. It’s almost like having a new friend. It’s difficult to imagine Gran as wild and adventurous. Did you know that she used to go out with quite a few men before Grandfather came along? I can’t hardly believe it. My Gran was a notorious flirt who loved to dance, and debate the Medical Council, and race horses. I miss her. The house is so empty now. Sometimes I think I hear her walking through the kitchen.
I miss you too. I miss the sound of your voice. I love you. Please stop blaming yourself. If there was anything to forgive, it was forgiven long ago.
I can’t tell you how sorry I am to hear about your mother. Oh, Goddess, I’m so very sorry. I’m worried about you. Are you all right? Are you taking care of yourself? No one can make up for such a loss. No one. But for now, please take comfort in knowing that I love you, and I’d be there with you, if I could.
There’s so much I should say, but I just can’t. I’m afraid you’d hate me, and right now I can’t stand the thought. Just please keep writing. Please? Y
our letters are the highlight of my day. You’ve always had the ability to make me laugh when I needed it most. Ultimately, I wish I could return the favor. The idea of seeing you smile is everything, but I can’t. Not now.
I’ve done everything I can to catch some glimpse of your sister. I stared at my tea leaves for an hour this morning. Yes, I know. Pathetic, isn’t it? I’m sorry. I simply don’t have any news. Suvi is someplace I can’t see, but I can’t help thinking that if she were dead I’d know. That isn’t much help, but it’s the best I can do for now. You could try writing to your father. He won’t accept my counsel, but maybe he’ll listen to you? I know you haven’t had the best of relationships, but he needs you now more than ever. He’s lost without your mother. Can you find it within yourself to forgive him? I don’t have to tell you the situation at court isn’t good. Your uncle hasn’t been idle. I wish there were something more helpful I could do for you both. I suppose you and I have to wait until your sister gets back. Do try not to worry about her. I think she’s fine.
I so want to hold you and comfort you. I know the Acrasians say the inoculation is protection enough, but the variola that I had, the one that killed Gran, was different. Promise me you’ll stay away until I say it’s safe? Please? You must not ride up here. It’s simply too dangerous. Please. I can’t stand the thought of what killed her killing you too. It would tear me apart, and I’d never forgive myself. Please promise to stay away until it’s safe. Please. If you love me, do this for me. Please. I’m perfectly safe. Gran’s wards keep dangerous animals away, and the garden is doing quite well. You’ve no need to worry about me. Although, if you can spare the money I could use more writing paper. As you can see, I’m resorting to using the backs of your letters. (I’m sorry.)
I can’t believe Gran is gone. Yesterday, I made her favorite anise tea before I remembered. I hate anise. There is no one here to drink it. It’s funny how life continues on like nothing important happened—like there’s not this gaping hole inside of me. Is that how you feel?
