by Stina Leicht
“Well, I didn’t exactly volunteer.”
“Neither did I. But it’s marginally better than dealing with my father. And the pay is better.”
Nels felt a smile spread across his lips. “Why did you think I was from the south?”
“You speak Acrasian,” Petron said. “That’s unusual for an Eledorean, even those who live along the border. What made you decide to learn?”
Nels lied. “It seemed a good idea.”
Petron gave him a long, judging look that told Nels the corporal knew he was lying. “I see.” He made a motion toward the letter in his hand. “I assume you read Acrasian as well as you speak it?”
Nels looked away. We’re at war. What else would he expect? “Better, actually.”
“Do you have a family?”
“I don’t.” Nels resisted an urge to ask the corporal questions whose answers he already knew. In an effort to even out the conversation, he offered up some personal information. “Not yet. I’ve a …” He stopped himself because wasn’t sure what to call Ilta in Acrasian. He shrugged. “She doesn’t live far from here. But I haven’t seen her in months.”
“She hasn’t visited the bustling metropolis of Gardemeister? Is something wrong with her?”
“Actually, yes. She’s under a quarantine. Variola. I think you call it small pox. Everyone else who caught it died. She’s living alone up on a mountain, and I can’t do anything about it.”
“Oh.” Petron winced a little.
Suddenly ashamed for having said too much, Nels added, “It’s not your fault.”
Petron nodded. He seemed to be holding his breath. “I understand you don’t have to answer my questions, but I thought I’d ask nonetheless.”
“Go on.” Nels braced himself for another personal inquiry.
“You’ve no curfew?” Petron asked.
“We don’t. The Eledorean people are happy.” Or would be, but for the war. Although Nels had ventured as far as the Acrasian border, he’d never been to one of the larger cities. He understood a curfew was imposed in some areas, but hadn’t experienced one. He assumed the smaller towns weren’t as strictly controlled.
“Have you no malorum?”
“Malorum” was a word that Nels had encountered before, but since the literal translation was “of evil,” he’d assumed it meant only that. “We have a few malcontents. Every nation does. But that’s what prisons and the army are for.”
Confusion sketched a line between Petron’s brows. “It’s true then? You don’t have malorum.”
“I don’t think I’m understanding your question correctly,” Nels said. “Can you try a different word?”
“Malorum are creatures born of nightmares. Demons that live in the darkness and take on different forms. They feed off the living,” Petron said. He tugged at a silver chain around his neck. The medal hung off of it had been fashioned from an old Acrasian coin and had clearly spent most of its existence on that chain.
Nels considered what it meant that in spite of nearly starving, the corporal hadn’t used it for trade.
“They have one weakness. It’s silver.”
Oh, Nels thought. “Nothing like that lives in Eledore. Well, not any longer. Not for centuries.”
Petron moved closer, apparently eager to hear more. “You found a way to drive away the malorum?”
Uncomfortable with discussing soldier lore that he couldn’t even share with Ilta or his sister, Nels hesitated. No one else speaks Acrasian. Who will know? “I don’t think they were the same creatures. They must not be.” He pulled up a blade of grass and picked at it. If he stopped now, he wouldn’t know more about Acrasia, and he got the feeling this was important. “I don’t know what they are—or were. No one does. No one has seen one in a very long time. We call them the Old Ones. You understand that in Eledore, only soldiers bury the dead?”
Petron said, “I thought that was only a rumor.”
“It’s the truth,” Nels said. “There’s a reason for that. The Old Ones are attracted to blood. They’re also known to accompany the dead.”
“Accompany the dead?” Petron let out a short laugh. “You Eledoreans do have an interesting interpretation of evil.”
“The Old Ones cause the dead to rise from their graves. Soldiers must assure the dead are properly buried. It’s part of our sacred duty.”
“And what constitutes ‘properly buried’?”
“We have our traditions. Rituals.” Nels hoped that was answer enough. “Surely, you do too?”
“If they are the same, why do the malorum have so much presence in Acrasia and not here? What’s different?”
“That’s a good question. Unfortunately, we’ve spent centuries burying the past. Particularly the notion of death and anyone associated with it,” Nels said. “I can’t give you an answer.”
“Interesting.”
“I’ve traveled into your lands as far as Greenleaf. There was no curfew there, but that was years ago. Has there been a recent change? Are the malorum more frequent than before?”
Surprise flitted across Petron’s features before it vanished, leaving no trace. “Eight years ago, the malorum population grew large enough that the emperor declared an emergency. It tore the Regnum apart in ways no one could foresee. Everything nonessential stopped. The people lived in terror. We didn’t have enough silver to circulate as currency. The emperor wisely imposed certain mandatory changes. You’ve seen Acrasian sterling notes?”
Nels nodded.
“The curfew was established, and the Brotherhood of Wardens were charged to hunt the malorum. Let me assure you, our cities are not defenseless at night. Any attacking army would have the city guard, the Watch, and the Brotherhood to contend with as well as the malorum.”
“But the malorum roam free after dark?”
“In some areas. They seem to prefer the more-populated places. In any case, they don’t venture much farther north than the Kylmapuro River.” Petron gave him a sideways glance. “Some have said this is due to a natural aversion of elpharmaceutria. Your kind. Others claim that you’re in league with them.”
Nels stifled a laugh at the implied question. It wasn’t until he noticed Petron was serious that he answered. “I’d venture to say that Eledoreans have a tough time being in league with their neighbors, let alone creatures from outside the world of the living.” He got to his feet and dusted off his uniform. “I should get back. Oh, I almost forgot.” He reached inside his pocket for the tobacco pouch. “I won this in a card game. I don’t smoke, but I thought maybe you or your men might like it.”
“Yes, thank you.” Petron stood and accepted the pouch. “Thank you for the letter.”
He seems less concerned about the message’s contents than I’d expect, Nels thought. According to the letter, his pregnant wife has been ill for a long time. Maybe he doesn’t know? Letter delivery was often unreliable. Still, Nels thought it suspicious.
“And, Captain?”
Turning, Nels asked, “Yes?”
“I’d be careful of how much of Lucrosia Marcellus Domitia’s philosophy I’d take to heart.”
Nels tried not to show his surprise.
Petron said, “Particularly ‘Know your enemy.’ Knowledge humanizes them. You aren’t human, but I assume you have a similar term. Humanity isn’t the easiest concept for soldiers during a war.”
TWO
The trumpet had sounded the day’s end hours before. Nels rolled over in his bed for what must have been the fiftieth time. He’d retired early because he was exhausted. Regardless, he couldn’t get comfortable, and his mind wouldn’t rest. Something about Corporal Petron bothered him. What was the name of the dead Acrasian Lieutenant? Was it Lucrosia?
He got up, relit the lamp with a long piece of tinder from the banked fire. Then he went to his writing desk and located a copy of the report he’d written a few weeks before, listing the prisoners’ names and ranks. When he got to the name of the dead lieutenant, he stopped.
Lucrosia is a common name among Acrasian soldiers, officers in particular. That doesn’t mean anything. However, the lieutenant’s full name was Lucrosia Marcellus Petreius, and the name Lucrosia Marcellus was significant. It meant that the dead lieutenant did in fact have a connection with the general. If nothing else, it indicated that the lieutenant in question was wealthy enough to purchase a specific relationship with the general’s gens. Or it means what I suspect—that the lieutenant was a relative.
Petreius. Petron, Nels thought.
More and more, Petron’s behavior began to form an image Nels wasn’t sure he liked. His gaze drifted to the small library of books he’d been able to keep with him in his footlocker. He considered what he knew of Lucrosia Marcellus Domitia’s personal life, but the truth was, he didn’t know much. How old is he? Does he have a son?
Nels had to acknowledge that the general’s age had very little to do with whether or not there was a connection. In addition to the buying and selling of family names, Acrasians were known to adopt children—even adults, if it suited them. He told himself that even if Petron was General Lucrosia Marcellus Domitia’s son, the coincidence would be unbelievable. In addition, what reason would he have to lie about his identity? If he were a famous general’s son, he could use that status to return home. The Eledorean army would be more than happy to execute an exchange of prisoners. It makes no sense.
The others would treat him with more respect than they do. Petron is a farmer, a peasant. Let it go.
He doesn’t speak like a peasant. He doesn’t have the hands of a farmer, either.
Or he didn’t until now.
Wouldn’t Lucrosia Marcellus Domitia’s estate have farms on it? Most estates do, don’t they? Even Acrasian estates?
You’re being ridiculous. Impossible. Major Suorsa will laugh you out of his—
Someone knocked on his door. “Captain Hännenen? Are you awake, sir? Colonel Vinter wishes to see you.”
At this hour? Nels checked his pocket watch. It was only nine.
“Captain Hännenen?”
“I hear you,” Nels said. “Stop your hammering. I hear you!” He answered the door in his nightshirt.
It was raining. A big, ugly, middle-aged male corporal huddled on the narrow stoop. He saluted. “Corporal Ekstrom, sir. The colonel would meet with you now. Her barracks house.”
He returned his salute. “No need to wait. Tell the colonel I’ll be there shortly.”
“Yes, sir.”
The highest-ranking officer in Gardemeister, Colonel Vinter lived in the biggest barracks house in the military compound. The exterior construction was more like that of a noble’s than a military officer’s. The furnishings inside bordered on opulent. Having resided in Jalokivi’s Narrows for the majority of his service, Nels found that odd. He didn’t know why Vinter had brought so much with her during a war. Eventually, she would have to travel to the front like all the rest. Vinter must have a great deal of money to waste, Nels thought. Of course, there were other possibilities—possibilities that brought Pesola to mind.
He was shown to the colonel’s study by Corporal Ekstrom. The large room was made smaller by the shelves and shelves of books that lined the walls. He thought of his own scant library and decided that Vinter couldn’t have traveled much in her military career. The house and everything in it spoke of years of residence. Nels had only met the colonel briefly upon his arrival, not long enough to form much of an impression. She was older than his mother and younger than General Kauranen. Her smooth hair was a snowy gray and restricted to a soldier’s queue. Her features were square and mannish, and her voice was deep and somehow pleasantly scratchy. Papers were neatly stacked all over the top of her writing desk. She was still dressed in her dark blue and black infantry uniform. The gold braid was spotless. It occurred to him that her uniform had never seen a battlefield. He didn’t know why he was surprised.
“Ah, Captain Hännenen. Sit.” She returned his salute and motioned to a chair. “We have something important to discuss.”
Feeling uneasy, he settled into one of the heavy red velvet upholstered chairs.
“How are the Acrasian prisoners?”
“Well enough, I suppose.”
“That was very smart, putting them to work.”
“It wasn’t my idea,” Nels said. “It was Corporal Petron’s.”
Colonel Vinter didn’t appear to listen. She was searching for something. “I sent a report to your colonel, informing him of your excellent performance.”
I’ll bet he thoroughly loved that. “Thank you.”
“He had a suggestion and I’ve opted to implement it.” She retrieved a note from the stacks positioned on the writing desk and scanned it. When she was done, she got up and handed it to him. “These translations need to be completed by tomorrow.”
He read the note and blinked. Cold anxiety knotted his guts. “These are infantry commands.”
“I know. They’re to be translated into Acrasian.”
“May I ask why?”
“Your colonel said you dislike authority.”
Nels bit down on a reply. Not all authority. Mainly his.
“Such attitudes aren’t suitable in an officer of the lower ranks. Why isn’t relevant to you, Captain. I gave an order.”
All right. Maybe more than his. “I understand, sir. I’m not of sufficient rank to know,” Nels said. Even more dread chilled his blood. You know what she’ll want next, don’t you? He gambled Vinter wouldn’t know enough about Acrasian to understand that what he was about to say was a bold-faced lie. “However, it would help with the translation process if I understood the specific intent. Acrasian is complicated. In Eledorean alone, there are several different verb forms, depending upon intent and status of the speaker in addition to the status of the individual being addressed. In Acrasian, I can think of at least three declarative—”
“Enough,” Vinter said. “These are commands which will be given to Acrasian prisoners. Commands you will be giving to them. With domination magic.”
Nels felt as though the earth had finally been yanked from under him. “What? Why?” I always knew this day would come. How are you going to fake your way out of this? Assuming you want to comply with such an evil—
“Don’t be stupid,” Vinter said. “You’ve demonstrated that the prisoners can be put to good use. They can’t be utilized in a prisoner exchange. The Acrasians won’t pay for their care. Posting guards to watch over them costs the army soldiers who would be best sent to fight. Putting the prisoners on the front line is the best use for them. Better that the Acrasians should die than our own soldiers. Think of the lives you’ll be saving. Eledorean lives.”
Oh, gods, Nels thought. “If that’s the case, why are you asking me to translate these commands? If I’m to do this myself—”
“Do you think these are the only Acrasian prisoners, Captain?” Vinter asked.
“You can’t ask me to—”
“I’m not asking. Your colonel said you’d object—”
“It’s immoral! My mother, the queen, worked to pass laws against using command magic in exactly this manner—”
“Laws that the king did not pass.”
“I won’t do this!”
“Are you refusing an order, Captain? Because if this is the case, I won’t hesitate to have you punished and sent back to your colonel in disgrace.”
Nels closed his mouth.
“You have until noon. That is all. You are dismissed.” She returned her attention to her work, leaving him to make his way out of the study.
THREE
“What’s got your tail tied in a knot now?” Viktor asked over the top of the novel he’d been reading.
Uncertain what to do and unable to think of a way around the situation, Nels had taken the long way home from the meeting with Colonel Vinter. He’d been growing more and more hopeless with each step when he’d spied Viktor relaxing on his own stoop. Viktor sat in the chair with its back tilted agains
t the front of the barracks house. Nels shoved his way through Viktor’s front gate and collapsed on the steps in a frustrated heap.
“Don’t ask,” Nels said.
An open bottle of whiskey rested on the porch at Viktor’s feet. Nels grabbed it and took three long drinks.
“Ohhhh,” Viktor said, and righted his chair with a wood-creaking thump. “This is going to be good. Did you get a bad letter from the little blond?”
Nels didn’t like that Viktor refused to refer to Ilta by her name. Of course, the fact that he hadn’t told Viktor her name probably had a great deal more to do with it. “If only it were that simple.”
“What is it, then?”
Nels stared at Viktor while whiskey burned away the chill in his guts.
Viktor said, “We both know you’ll tell me anyway. I might as well get it out of you while you’re sober. It’ll take less time for me to puzzle out your drunken rambling.”
“The colonel has ordered me to translate some orders into Acrasian.”
“That’s not surprising. You are serving in the capacity of a translator.”
“You don’t understand,” Nels said, taking another swallow. “She wants me to order the prisoners to fight. For us. She intends to send them to the front. And she’s ordered me to use command magic to do it.”
“Oh.” Viktor took the bottle from him and sipped from the neck. “I see. That’s a problem.”
“I can’t do it. It’s—it’s wrong.” Nels tried to focus on the half-truth.
“I’m familiar with your stance on command magic. However, if you don’t—”
“I’ll be stripped of my command.” As bad as that would be, Nels knew it wouldn’t end there. Once again, the catacombs beneath the palace haunted his thoughts. I always knew eventually I’d be caught. I’m lucky to have lasted this long.
“Well, you’re not exactly in command now.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.” Viktor handed him the bottle, stood up, and went to the door. “Bugger it.”
Nels gave him a questioning look.
“I suspect this is going to be a two-bottle night,” Viktor said.
