Cold Iron

by Stina Leicht

  “Enough!” I am a fraud. Angry with himself, Nels slammed the mattock into the earth with all his might. The same old fears cropped up. What if I fail them? It was then that he spied the trust in Private Hanski’s face. And it suddenly occurred to Nels how very different it must be to serve under a normal commander, one who wasn’t a—changeling. “All right. I’ll tell you.” He tried to come up with any reason that might make sense to them. He focused on what was different.

  “Half of my company were behind the Acrasian lines at Virens. Did the others tell you that? We survived,” Nels said. That was something he hadn’t allowed himself to take credit for before, and he wasn’t so sure he was doing it now. “Do you know why? It’s because I didn’t use magic to motivate my troops. Not once. Instead, I trusted them to do their best as I knew they would. And they did. Because no matter what the other officers have told you, you aren’t trash. You’ve lived through experiences someone like me can only imagine. You have knowledge and understanding that, as your captain, I need to access in order for us all to survive. That means accessing your emotions because you need to be able to think for yourselves. Each of us must depend upon the other, and without your full faculties, you can’t access your unique abilities and knowledge. That information might make the difference between the company surviving and the company dying. Simply put, magicked troops are less effective.” The moment the words came out of his mouth, he knew them for truth.

  He blinked. Where in the hells did that come from? Never mind that. Finish it. “I don’t know about you, Gusstafson,” Nels said. “But I’m in favor of living.”

  Gusstafson gave him a shocked nod.

  “There’s another reason. Officers who depend upon magic to motivate their troops end up exhausting themselves. I don’t want to have to divide my energies between you and the enemy. You need me to pay attention to what the enemy is doing.” Nels returned his blistered hands to the mattock’s wooden handle. “Now get back to your work. We’ve a great deal of digging to finish.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gusstafson said.

  The mattock stayed where it was. Nels inwardly cursed. They were watching. But the bastard had buried itself too deep to budge, and so, he had to kick the thing free. He was surprised when none of the others laughed.

  Once again, you’ve managed to fool them. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or disgusted. He’d been lucky, and he knew it. Gusstafson hadn’t asked the one question he couldn’t have answered. Pretending in order to keep myself alive and out of trouble is one thing. What if I need to command an enemy officer to surrender? I haven’t the power. Just because it hadn’t come up yet didn’t mean it wouldn’t do so in the future. He attacked the ground again and again. I’m worse than a fraud.

  Images from the past had haunted his dreams. Please. Make them stop.

  He was tired from digging. The dust was thick in the air. He tasted grit and spat. The sun bore down on him enough to make the nearby spring-fed river inviting. The steady thud of iron against earth was almost soporific. The other men were shirtless in the heat. However, Nels had opted to keep his shirt on. Placing a filthy, blistered hand to his chest where the medal his mother had given him hung from its chain, he attempted to compose a prayer to Hasta. In the short time that he’d owned the medal, he’d found only one small book of formal prayers to the Horse Goddess. Nothing in the text had seemed appropriate. So, he silently made up something.

  Please, Hasta. Don’t let me fail them. I’ll do anything.

  He’d had the same fear before every battle and every skirmish. Viktor said everyone with any sense did, but this was different.

  He stared at the mountains.

  Either Laine would make the final leg of the retreat across the river and up the mountain slope, or he wouldn’t. Based upon what Nels had heard from Viktor, they were expecting to be ­outnumbered two to one. Reports had the Acrasians marching up from the south, the shorter route to Merta from Virens. If Nels still gambled, his money wouldn’t be on the Eledorean army holding off the Acrasians if anyone but Kauranen were in charge. She was a wily soul, and Nels believed in her. As bad as everything seemed, if there were a means of living through this mess, Kauranen would be the one to devise it.

  But Virens tormented him as much as it did the others—maybe even more so. He’d been behind the lines. He’d seen. They murdered all Eledoreans, even civilians, on sight.

  He remembered Corporal Petron and couldn’t reconcile the two disparate experiences. There were other things that didn’t match up, of course. Petron had said the Brotherhood of Wardens existed to protect Acrasians from malorum. And yet, Viktor had reported seeing them hunting kainen on Angel’s Thumb. Had Petron lied about their purpose? Nels didn’t get the feeling he had. Nels’s hunch was that he was missing something. However, there was no chance of finding out what that something was.

  Still, he couldn’t help hoping that the corporal and his men had made it back home. Nels didn’t know why. Chances were Petron would be part of that vast army marching in from the south.

  And here he, Nels, was. Digging and waiting. Would he kill the corporal if he saw him again?

  If I have to. Nels raised the mattock and let it slam into the dirt. Let’s just hope I don’t have to.

  I’d be careful of how much of Lucrosia Marcellus Domitia’s philo­sophy I’d take to heart.

  Ultimately, Petron had been right.

  “Hännenen! Where in the swiving hells are you?”

  Nels flinched before he could stop himself, and the knot of unease in his stomach turned to ice. It’s all right. He’s not that angry. Colonel Pesola’s voice hadn’t acquired the cold edge that indicated real danger.

  “There you are, you lazy, bottle-headed, cocksure bastard! Come here, damned you!”

  “Yes, sir.” Nels shouldered the mattock and made his way toward Pesola. Nels should’ve left the thing behind, and if it’d been any other officer, he would have, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He also made sure to keep his back to the stream and the emerging earthworks. Coward.

  I’m only being smart.

  Pesola stomped through freshly turned dirt while Nels’s company labored. He eyed Nels’s filthy, sweat-stained shirt. Nels looked away.

  “I’ve a new assignment for you, Captain.” Pesola’s teeth showed through a nasty smile.

  By then, it had to be obvious to the troops Nels wasn’t in Pesola’s good graces. It’d been apparent that the colonel had hoped Nels and his two platoons had been butchered in the cornfields of Virens. Pesola didn’t cope with disappointment well. Unwilling to kill him outright for reasons Nels was unclear on, Pesola had settled for expressing his displeasure in other ways. Thus, Nels had suffered through every shit detail the colonel could devise without complaint. There were moments when Nels wished Pesola would find a new target, but as the captain, Nels felt it was his duty to shield his company. So, he’d weathered the abuse as best he could and kept his anger to himself.

  “Yes, sir?” Nels’s tone as neutral as he could make it.

  “You, Reini, and that artillery master sergeant—whatever his name is. The one with the pyrotechnics—”

  “Jarvi, sir. Master Sergeant Jarvi.”

  The steady, pounding rhythm of iron against earth faltered as a number of soldiers halted their digging.

  Pesola glared. He seemed to be in a particularly foul mood after all. “Do not interrupt me, Hännenen. Do so again, and I’ll give you another fifty strokes to go with the fifty I already gave you.”

  The rest of the earthworks crew stopped and gaped.

  Nels felt his face heat and his teeth clench. “I apologize, sir.”

  Pesola sniffed and then made a face as if he’d smelled something unpleasant. “Report to Major Lindström at once.”

  “Yes, sir.” Still, Nels didn’t move. The heat in his face didn’t dissi­pate, and neither did the cold rage. “Should I locate Lieutenant Reini and Master Sergeant Jarvi before I do so?”

&nbs
p; “Do I need to explain everything to you, Hännenen? Are you that stupid? Or are you drunk?” Pesola waved a hand in front of his face to shoo away a fly. “The rest of you! Get back to work. Or I’ll have you entertaining the cat.” And then he spun on his heel and left.

  Most of the men resumed digging, but someone to Nels’s left muttered, “Bastard son of a poxed—”

  “Careful, Private Hanski,” Nels whispered. He watched Pesola’s back until the officer vanished behind a crowd of sweating artillery­men. “You really don’t want him to hear you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hanski said. “No one would be sorry if he ended up with a sword in the back in the middle of battle.”

  “A stray musket ball is more likely,” another private added. His tone contained no humor whatsoever. “Acrasian’s aren’t known for shooting straight. Things get chaotic in battle. You never know.”

  “Hanski, Koppola,” Nels said. “I never want to hear that kind of talk again. You hear me?”

  Both men answered in unison, “Yes, sir.”

  Not that every damned one of us isn’t thinking it, Nels thought. “Where’s Jarvi?”

  Hanski pointed to the abandoned manor house where General Kauranen had set up temporary headquarters. “Last I saw him, he was there.”

  “Thank you, Hanski.” Nels set down the mattock. “Watch that for me, will you? And if I don’t return in an hour, make sure it gets stored where it belongs.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tracking down Jarvi would be easy. Discovering where Viktor had hidden himself was another matter. Tired as Nels was, he started off at a run. It wouldn’t do to give Pesola fresh ammunition—especially not now. Pesola wasn’t the only one who could end with a convenient musket ball in the back. What if Pesola decides to pay another call? That question turned Nels’s guts to ice. He told himself that he had his own reasons for rushing, and that Pesola couldn’t do anything to him, not now—not with the Acrasians so close. However, the lie was too thin to cover the bigger truth, and in that moment, Nels didn’t believe it was possible to hate anyone as much as he hated Pesola.

  “Where is Master Sergeant Jarvi?” Nels asked an overwhelmed-­looking duty sergeant. Eventually he was directed to a barn where the powder and ammunition were being stored. Nels then left a message for Viktor to report to Major Lindström as soon as possible.

  Entering the barn in question, Nels located Jarvi in mid artillery supply inspection. Sunlight filtered through the planks forming the left side of the barn, casting gold dust over stacks of crates, barrels, extra cart wheels, cannon parts, ammunition, and a crew of twenty-­four artillery lieutenants. All were performing necessary checks in preparation for the morning’s battle.

  “Master Sergeant?” Nels asked.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You must come with me,” Nels said, cutting off Jarvi’s protests before they could manifest beyond the frown. “We’re both to report to Major Lindström at once per the colonel’s order. You’ll have to assign the inspection to someone else for now.”

  Jarvi’s mouth opened and closed once, and his bushy gray eyebrows briefly made an angry line before his brain made the connection. “Sergeant Nyman! Take over.”

  Major Lindström was headquartered in the small library on the first floor of the manor house. When Nels and Jarvi arrived, the major was stooping over a series of hastily drawn maps. He seemed lost in thought and didn’t look up at the sound of the closing door. His staff continued to go about their business, making adjustments to the wooden pieces resting on the maps as more information arrived.

  Stepping closer with Master Sergeant Jarvi in tow, Nels gave the major a proper salute. “Captain Hännenen reporting, sir.”

  Major Lindström looked up from his maps and then returned the salute. “Relax, Captain. Has Pesola told you what you’re in for?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I thought not.” Lindström looked away. A miserable expression flashed across his face.

  Nels could only imagine what working directly with the likes of Pesola must cost Lindström on a daily basis.

  Major Lindström pointed to the bridges south of Merta on the map. “We’ve a few problems to resolve before the Acrasians get here.”

  Beginning to understand, Nels nodded and swallowed. I can’t swim. Of course, Pesola doesn’t know that. Or does he? But then, what does it matter? Nels had given dying a lot of thought since becoming a soldier. He didn’t mind the idea of being shot or stabbed—at least, he didn’t think so. The prospect of drowning, on the other hand—

  “Both bridges must blow at the appropriate time,” Lindström said, confirming Nels’s hunch.

  How deep is the water? Nels had seen the river before, of course, but he hadn’t studied it. Artillery batteries didn’t tend to move much during a battle, once they were in place, and currently, the cannon were positioned away from the river. This is another of Pesola’s special jobs. “Yes, sir?” The previous bad feeling in his gut tightened into an even more uncomfortable knot. This isn’t going to be good.

  “The Acrasians don’t know we’re here, you understand,” Lindström said. “The plan is to set the charges off after part of the Acrasian army crosses the bridge. We must cut their larger forces into more manageable pieces. Once they are trapped, our artillery will open fire on them. Do you understand?”

  Nels glanced at Jarvi to his left. To his credit, Jarvi showed no signs of catching the deeper meaning behind Lindström’s question. If we survive the initial blast, we’ll be blown to bits by our own cannon along with the Acrasians—assuming all goes according to plan. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m sorry, Captain Hännenen. I was … ordered to give you this assignment,” Lindström said.

  This is Pesola’s plan for finally murdering me. And he’s having Lindström do it for him. Nels decided to have some mercy on the major. “It’s all right, sir. I’d have volunteered.” At least Pesola won’t be able to hurt me any more. Nor will Uncle be able to use me against Suvi, wherever she is. Nels clenched a fist. “Was this assignment specifically given to Master Sergeant Jarvi?” He asked the question through a tight jaw. If I’m to die, why should Jarvi go with me?

  “I included the master sergeant because I thought it prudent,” Lindström said. “Jarvi, I understand you’re a pyrotechnic?”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Hännenen has no choice in this. However, you do,” Lindström said.

  Nels turned to Jarvi. “I can do this on my own.”

  “I volunteer,” Jarvi said in the same instant.

  Nels raised an eyebrow at Jarvi. Are you mad? “Why?”

  “Because I can control when the powder goes off. I can rig it to do so from a distance. And I can light the match in the dark without risking exposure,” Jarvi said. “I can make this work in ways that you can’t, sir.”

  “I’m not incompetent,” Nels said with more anger than he’d intended. “You don’t need pyrotechnics to light a damned fuse.”

  “With respect, sir. You do, if the fuse gets wet. And it’s going to be drenched,” Jarvi said.

  Nels shook his head. “This is suicide!”

  “Not if I’m there,” Jarvi said. “I can work with smoke, sir. Make more of it in one place and less in another.”

  “Thank you, Master Sergeant.” Lindström seemed happier.

  There came a long stream of surprised curses from the cor­poral assigned to guard the door.

  “Lieutenant Reini, are you quite finished playing with my security detail?” Lindström asked.

  Viktor entered and gave Lindström a salute. “For now, sir.”

  “Fair enough.” Lindström returned the salute. “Are you prepared for tonight?”

  Viktor nodded. “I’ve never blown up a bridge before. Should be fun.”

  “Sir, did the colonel order Lieutenant Reini on this assignment, too?” Nels asked.

  “He is another of my additions,” Lindström said.

  “May I object to his being s
o assigned?” Nels asked.

  Lindström folded his arms across his chest. “And what is your objection?”

  “He’s my company’s only korva, sir,” Nels said.

  “We have six other korvas serving under General Kauranen. Objection denied,” Lindström said.

  “But sir—”

  Major Lindström said, “You’re dismissed.”

  “Yes, sir,” Nels said.

  “Nice try,” Viktor said under his breath. “But I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  THREE

  “Are you quite finished pouring that gunpowder yet?” Nels asked through chattering teeth. Viktor’s bony heels were digging deep into Nels’s shoulders. Worse, he had to fight to stay upright in the freezing river’s strong current.

  Viktor said, “Keep your pants on.”

  “How is it possible that you’ve gained weight?” Nels asked, holding Viktor’s ankles steady with both hands. “The whole regiment has been on half rations.”

  “Shut up,” Viktor said. “You’re ruining my concentration.” Nels felt Viktor shift, and then Viktor handed the powder barrel down to Jarvi in Nels’s peripheral vision. “Ready for the fuse, Jarvi.”

  Jarvi waded to shore. “Make sure it’s secure and deep inside the hole, sir.”

  “Hurry up, Jarvi. The captain is cold,” Viktor said, and then paused. “On second thought, take your time.”

  “Shut up,” Nels said.

  Jarvi passed the fuse cord up to Viktor.

  “You’re rather noisy for a dead man,” Viktor said.

  It was a quarter to two the last time Nels had been able to check the pocket watch that was now lying on the river bank along with his boots. He estimated it was long past that time now. It had taken hours to get this far, and this was the first of the two bridges they needed to set with explosives.

  Another sharp jab in Nels’s shoulder made him wince.

  A loud and profane objection came from above. “Stand still, will you? If I fall, I’ll bring this whole mess down with me. If I lose the fuse in the water, Pesola will have you shot.”