by Stina Leicht
So much for the road. His wounds ached with the cold. Shivering only made it worse.
He hoped to regroup with the rest of the Eledorean army at Herraskariano before the Acrasians reached it. Unfortunately, the Acrasian scouts below—and he prayed they were only scouts—were camped directly in the center of a bottleneck. The Selkäranka mountains flanked the road to the west, and a steep incline carpeted with a thick ironwood forest crowded the passage to the east. If he had twenty-seven healthy troops, he could— But I don’t. I have twenty-five wounded. Viktor and Westola were the only two who’d fled Merta unscathed. If they could afford to wait a few days, the scouts would move on, and Westola could get a few more of the troops more solidly on their feet with Sergeant Wiberg’s help. But they didn’t have any supplies, and winter was on its way.
Time is running out.
Nels could smell the Acrasian campfires from where he was. The scent of roasting meat and baking bread was torture. His mouth watered, and his stomach reminded him that his last meal had been the night before. It’d consisted of raw rabbit and a few nuts Private Ilola had dared to harvest in the woods as they’d fled.
Nels scratched his itching scalp. I’d give anything for hot food, a healer, a bit of alcohol, a bath, and a soft bed, he thought. His hand drifted to the bandage strapped around his belly. He suspected the cut was becoming infected. “All right. How bad is the bad news?”
Peering through a collapsible spyglass, Viktor frowned. “It’s pretty bad.” He handed the glass to Nels and lay down with a disgusted grunt. “I’m beginning to think you’re cursed.”
Nels looked for himself and felt his guts clench in a cold knot. He winced. About a hundred Acrasians crowded the road. “Shit. Is it the main vanguard, do you think?”
“Cavalry scouts, by the insignia. A lot of them, though. Acrasians don’t do anything in half measures, it seems.”
“Smaller groups are too easily controlled with command magic,” Nels said, remembering Lucrosia Marcellus’s notes. “We taught them that.”
An Acrasian was playing a violin and singing. The sorrowful strains of a ballad drifted up the hill along with the scent of dinner. Nels mentally translated the lyrics without effort. I left my love on a hill far away and came to a distant shore. Silver’s song kept her tears from my heart, and here I lie buried, ever more.
He moved the glass to the horse pickets. If only we could steal a few horses, he thought. A flash of long pale mane along with an ill-tempered horse scream drew his eye to the far left. He looked closer. It can’t be. A stubborn smile drifted onto his lips. Surely, they’d have shot him and put him in a pot by now. Nels checked twice to be sure.
Loimuta!
“There’s no going the long way around,” Viktor said. “If that was your thought. We’ll never make it with Corporal Lumme in the shape he’s in.”
“All right,” Nels said, rolling onto his back and scooting downhill a few feet. His stomach and side were hurting so bad, it was hard to move without flinching. The bandages were filthy. He should have Westola see to his wounds again. However, the others were in dire need of her skills, and although she was teaching Wiberg all she could, Westola was the only real healer they had. She could only be pushed so far. He would do anything to keep the troops on their feet. If that meant he had to do without, he did without. “We need a diversion.”
“Any ideas?”
“I’m thinking,” Nels said, staring up at the darkening sky. “Got the positions memorized?”
“I do.”
“Let’s get out of here before I trip over a mountain lion,” Nels said.
Viktor turned, as if searching for the obstacle in question. “I don’t think there’s a mountain lion within miles.”
“Leave it to me to find a pride,” Nels whispered. “And then bring the entire Acrasian camp down on our heads.”
Silent and graceful, Viktor slipped down to the foot of the hillside. “You overestimate your talent for noise.”
Nels followed, taking extra care to be as quiet as possible. Naturally, it did little to no good. “All right. What do you want?”
Viktor looked hurt. “What kind of a question is that?”
“You just passed up an opportunity to mock me. You want something. Out with it.”
“All right. Fine. We need the horses.”
Among other things, Nels thought and glanced over at Viktor in the dark.
Moonlight cast silver on Viktor’s shadowy form. Still, it was hard to focus on him—hard not to let his image blend in with the background. Again, Nels swallowed no small amount of envy. What if I can’t get them to Herraskariano in time?
Viktor didn’t look at him. “Corporal Lumme isn’t going to make it if we don’t get to Herraskariano. Soon. That will make five dead.” His voice was flat, matter-of-fact.
“What if”? There is no “what if.” I’m a defective. And they’re going to die because of it—shit, they have died because of it.
“You have to do something. One more night in the open without food or a fire, and Corporal Lumme won’t be the only one. You damned well know it.”
Nels couldn’t bring himself to face Viktor. It was then that a plan began to form in Nels’s brain. Taking a deep breath, he asked, “Do we have any powder at all?”
“If we did, do you think I’d—”
“Jarvi,” Nels said. The plan solidified. “We’ve Master Sergeant Jarvi.”
“Private Kulmala is a pyrotechnic too. But that gets us nothing if we’ve no powder or coal or fire. For that matter, we’ve only the three guns and no ammunition.”
“We won’t need guns or powder,” Nels said with a broadening smile. “Not if the Acrasians have them.”
Viktor halted. “Are you suggesting that Jarvi walks into the middle of their camp and then sets fire to their powder stores? That’s suicide.”
Nels said, “I’m suggesting that I walk into the middle of their camp and then Jarvi sets fire to their powder stores when they’re focused on me.”
Viktor blinked. “You’re mad.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Nels paused. “Well, not entirely.” And then he explained why.
TWO
Nels searched for fist-sized stones in the moonlight. Thanks to the forced delay, they’d taken the time to eat. Still, hunger gnawed at his insides in spite of the acorns and walnuts. At least we have plenty of water. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm his nerves. The scab on his belly pulled tight. The smell of road dust mixed with sweat and dirt. He was exhausted and uncomfortable. His beard and hair itched. A sharp pain told him his wound had reopened. He told himself again that it wasn’t important. Gritting his teeth, he bent and selected a few good-sized stones. He stuffed them in his pockets. A stone wasn’t much defense against a musket ball, but since he wasn’t planning on getting that close, it beat a saber or an empty gun. When his pockets were full, he made his way to the Acrasian camp. He found a good spot to wait for Viktor’s signal. Peering through the underbrush, Nels spied two sentries sitting in the road. They were playing cards with their guns strapped to their backs.
They’re not expecting anyone. I don’t know whether to be happy or insulted.
A nightingale’s song ripped through the quiet. Nels’s empty stomach fluttered. Reaching inside his shirt front, he touched the medal there and said a quick prayer for luck. With that, he whistled loud for Loimuta. The gelding’s answering call came at once. With that, Nels straightened to his full height and stepped into the middle of the road.
The two Acrasian sentries gaped.
Nels asked in Acrasian, “Care to deal me in?” He whistled again for Loimuta. Chaos erupted in the direction of the horse pickets.
One sentry dropped his cards, scrambled to his feet, and shouted the alarm. His companion stared a moment longer before scrabbling to bring his musket to bear.
Nels aimed the first stone, hitting the shouting sentry on the forehead. “I’ll assume that means no?” Then he fis
hed another stone from his pocket and launched it at the second sentry.
The rest of the stones followed the second, keeping the sentries off balance. Nels worked at emptying his pockets until Loimuta arrived. Both sentries were knocked off their feet as the gelding forced his way between them at a canter, stopped, and then reared. Nels grabbed reins and a fistful of mane and then vaulted onto Loimuta’s bare back. Behind him, he could hear the sentries struggling to get up. A shot went off, clouding the night air with smoke. He felt the wind of a musket ball’s passing against his cheek. Nels gave Loimuta his head and urged him to run. The horse obliged with a full gallop. They’d sprinted a good distance down the road when Nels sensed pursuit. Risking a glance over his shoulder, he counted five or six Acrasian riders. They weren’t far behind. Loimuta took the chase as a challenge and answered with a renewed burst of speed.
There was a stream ahead, Nels knew. They had destroyed the bridge on the way north. The water was cold, broad, and deep. He’d found out through personal experience. Viktor had pushed him in afterward in a fit of playful revenge. Nonetheless, Nels trusted Loimuta would easily jump across. The Acrasians’ horses would balk—so Nels hoped. All will be well, provided Loimuta can run the remaining distance without being shot—
A bright flash brightened the road. The accompanying explosion pressed against his ears. Again, he turned to look. The Acrasians slowed as they understood that they’d been tricked. The leader signaled to the others. All but two turned back to the camp. Nels spurred Loimuta on. Spying the stream in the moonlight, he prepared himself for the jump. Without a saddle, it wasn’t going to be comfortable for either of them, but Nels had ridden bareback a great deal when he was younger. He felt Loimuta’s muscles bunch beneath him. The horse sailed across in a powerful leap, his hind legs splashing on the muddy bank. Nels heard a shout followed by a loud thump and then a splash. He didn’t wait to see if the last Acrasian attempted the stream or not. Nels signaled to Loimuta to turn left and then headed east along the bank. He rode until he didn’t hear his pursuers any longer. Then he reined Loimuta to a stop among a group of low-hanging trees. He slid from the gelding’s back and, holding his breath, listened. Rushing water signaled the rapids farther downstream.
Loimuta quivered with anticipation and spent energy.
Nels patted his neck and whispered, “You saved us both. I wish I had an apple for you.” His stomach let out a loud noise. “I wish I had an apple for myself. As it is, supper will probably consist of acorns and raw rabbit. Again. If we’re lucky. Most likely it’ll be breakfast before we eat.”
Loimuta made a low sound of disapproval as if he would’ve been happier with the Acrasians.
At least they have food, Nels thought.
Loimuta’s snow-white coat practically glowed in the dappled moonlight under the trees.
We’re sure to be spotted, Realizing his own hair probably blended into the background about as well as Loimuta did, Nels sighed. Then the splashed river mud on the gelding’s flanks suggested a resolution.
Gazing up into the night sky, he listened again. Insects and frogs returned to their chorus over the stream’s susurrus. The Acrasians must have given up. Hasta, I hope so, anyway. He couldn’t afford to wait much longer. The others would be moving camp. He searched for a better place to cross the water and found one. Once on the opposite bank, he applied mud to Loimuta’s coat, mane, and tail. For his part, Loimuta did his best to cover Nels too by pushing up against him or shaking like a wet dog at every opportunity. When Nels was finally finished with Loimuta, he then twisted his own hair into a braid and applied more mud. Then he risked making his way north through the woods where those not directly involved in his mad scheme waited.
It took him three hours to find the former makeshift camp. Instead of hungry troops, he discovered Viktor napping against the trunk of a tree. Nearby, a fettered and saddled Acrasian horse nosed the scattered snow for forage.
“You certainly took your time getting back,” Viktor said, tilting his hat from his face with an index finger.
“I needed to make sure I wasn’t followed.”
“Followed? By whom?”
“Two Acrasians chased me all the way to the stream. One of them fell into the water. The second is around here someplace.”
“Oh, that. There was only one.”
“I counted two.”
“The second was me,” Viktor said. He got up from the grass and dusted off his filthy uniform. “Who do you think knocked that Acrasian out of his saddle before he could catch you?”
“Oh.” Nels paused. “You let me ride on?”
“You seemed very intent on escaping.” Viktor shrugged. “Who am I to argue with royalty?” He smiled. “Nice look. Don’t think it’ll catch on at the palace, though.”
Nels put a hand to his mud-dried hair and face and sighed. “Where is everyone?”
“I sent them ahead,” Viktor said. “Along with the supplies. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear Groop, Kurri, and Lassila had once worked together in an unlawful capacity. They were a bit too familiar with how to efficiently rob a camp. With virtually no direction, I might add.”
Nels wasn’t remotely shocked. “What were you able to get?”
“I suspect we’ll never have an accurate inventory. Not that I think it matters. Let’s just leave it with ‘quite a bit.’ ” Viktor went to his horse. “We should get out of here.”
“You’re right. The Acrasians are sure to be searching for us.”
“Between Jarvi and Kulmala, the Acrasians will be dealing with the fire until tomorrow night. They aren’t going anywhere,” Viktor said, unfettering his horse. “I just don’t want to miss supper.”
THREE
Pesola’s eyes widened behind flat, round spectacle lenses. The expression lasted only an instant. Then it was replaced with recognition. His gaze narrowed, and he snapped his teeth together like an agitated predator. His aristocratic features acquired a reddish cast.
Someone neglected to inform you of my arrival, Nels thought. Someone is getting sloppy. Or did you lose one of your korvas?
The interior of the tent swelled with the breathless anticipation of forest creatures awaiting the talons of a hawk or the teeth of a wolf. Nels halted a respectful distance from Pesola’s breakfast table. Viktor positioned himself at Nels’s right. Without Viktor’s warning, Nels wouldn’t have recognized Pesola right away. Although his uniform was immaculate, Pesola was wigless—no doubt due to lost baggage.
Well, Nels thought. Isn’t that a swiving shame? No doubt one of the enlisted had paid for that shortcoming with their skin. Nels couldn’t help thinking that wigless officers tended to assume a humble quality. It made them seem more vulnerable. Not Pesola.
Short-clipped, graying hair stood out in bristles on Pesola’s scalp like a bad-tempered wolf’s ruff. He dropped his fork and practically snarled. “What are you doing here?”
Nels executed a precise salute and held it. “Captain Hännenen, reporting for duty, sir.”
“This is intolerable!” Pesola abruptly stood up from his breakfast, upsetting the camp table in the process.
Pesola’s corporal darted in. The table remained upright. However, his reflexes weren’t fast enough to save the china. Plates, saucer, and cup pitched over, crashing against one another and shattering. Cheese, crispbread, and cold meat scattered into the grass. Spilled tea dripped off the edge of the camp table. Steam rose off the carefully brewed puddle sprawling across the table’s surface.
Again, Pesola snapped his teeth together. “You’re a disgrace!”
That much was true, Nels had to admit. He’d finally risked the cold and rinsed the mud from his hair, but his uniform was beyond redemption. “I attempted to clean up as best I could before repor—”
“That’s no excuse!”
“No, sir,” Nels said, conceding the petty victory. Nonetheless, he felt survival mattered more in the midst of a rout. Careful, Captain Hännenen. The Eledorean army
doesn’t admit to anything so base as retreat, let alone defeat. He blinked back an image of magicked troops charging to their deaths against their will.
Others had confirmed Nels’s hunch in bits and pieces during the journey to Herraskariano. The Seventh Regiment had committed suicide. Witnesses confirmed that they’d done so against their will. No one knew how much of the regiment had been affected. Nor did any of the survivors seem to know where the order had originated. They only knew that the magically enforced order had flowed down the chain of command. Was it you, Pesola? Nels’s hand tightened a fist around the burst of sudden rage. He had every intention of finding out. Although, he didn’t know what he’d do when, or if, he did. Take care. There’s more riding on this than your own skin.
Pesola paced a circle around him and Viktor both. “You are the only ones who survived, I suppose,” Pesola said with a sneer.
“The remains of my company are outside, awaiting your orders, sir. Sixty-three total. Although nine are from Laine’s brigade.” Nels’s message to withdraw and regroup had saved his company’s lives. Sixty-one out of eighty had walked away from Merta. He had Viktor to thank for that. Nine had died on the march north. Nels hated the idea of giving them over to the likes of Pesola, but it couldn’t be helped. At least, not right now. Pesola was the highest-ranking officer on the field, at least as far as Nels knew. That’s how it has to be until I report to General Runessen in Jalokivi. After that, we’ll see. “We acquired a few supplies—”
“Shut up!”
“Yes, sir.”
Pesola completed his circle, stopping in front of Nels. The action was meant to be intimidating. It did touch on certain memories. However, the effect was diminished by the fury tightening Nels’s fists and jaw.
“Fifty-two.” Pesola sniffed. “Fifty. Two. That’s quite a large number.”
“Yes, sir.” Twenty-eight total dead. Nels could name each one even if he couldn’t recall a face to match. He’d made a list of the dead and had planned to visit their families, provided there would be time to make such gestures feasible. How many troops did you lose, Pesola? Do you even care? Were you the one to give that order?
