by Stina Leicht
“Is there a reason so much of your company survived?” Pesola asked. His voice was calm, but it carried a razor’s edge.
Nels recognized it for the warning sign it was. My troops lived because I didn’t allow them to die in order to save your swiving baggage. Is that what you want to know? “I don’t understand the question, sir.”
“I’ll make an exception regarding my policy of not repeating myself. Just this once, Captain. Out of respect. For your father,” Pesola said. His voice honed its edge. “How is it that so much of the Seventh perished at Merta, and yet so few of your company were among them?”
The answer was born from Nels’s throat before he had time to stop it. “Perhaps because I didn’t command them to fight to the death with magic in order to cover my cowardice. Like you.”
Someone gasped.
Pain exploded in Nels’s jaw and nose. The blow was so violent that he staggered to keep his feet. Tears blurred his vision. The pain was huge before it finally abated. Still, he somehow managed to keep from crying out. Older wounds joined in his body’s list of complaints. His face heated, and he wiped his eyes. Sniffing, he swallowed the taste of blood and shame.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” Nels asked, staring down at the grass. He remained stooped. He didn’t want to look up. Pesola’s face would confirm what Nels already knew, and he didn’t know what he’d do. Not yet. Wait. He blinked, clearing his vision. It took a moment to register the gore dripping into the grass. Then he daubed at his nose and slowly straightened, resuming attention position. His jaw ached almost as much as his nose did. His lip was swelling. Warm fluid oozed down his chin, but he didn’t touch it. He breathed through his mouth. “You gave that order, didn’t you? You magicked them. You didn’t even let them do it on their own terms.”
“Soldiers die,” Pesola said. “It’s what they do.”
“Not like that,” Nels said, tilting his chin up. “You sent them to be slaughtered. You used them like animals. All of them. I saw. They were compelled, not influenced or motivated. Compelled. With magic.”
Pesola’s face was so red, it could’ve been classified as purple. “Deserter!”
“Not me,” Nels said. But the verbal blow had hit home. It was hard not to wince. “I got here as soon as I received word of where to regroup.”
In truth, he hadn’t been pleased when Viktor had told him it was Pesola camped outside of Herraskariano. Nels had hoped it would be Major Lindström, General Laine, or General Kauranen, but no, it’d been Pesola. The others had died to the last, defending Merta and Eledore.
“Is it true, sir?” The question came from one of the others in the tent.
Pesola ignored the question. “You left your post!”
The shame of the truth hit Nels almost as hard as the blow. He had left the battlefield. He did leave the others to die. But I didn’t use the lives of thousands to cover my retreat. It salved the sting somewhat. “My post left me. That was the idea, after all,” Nels said. “You ordered me to blow up those bridg—”
“Don’t play games with me!”
“Yes, sir.” Nels focused on the canvas ceiling just above Pesola’s head.
“Is it true?” The question originated from a different corner of the tent—the voice deeper and ever so slightly bolder.
Murmurs filtered through canvas from outside as word was passed from soldier to soldier. The first questioner gathered even more courage. “What the captain said? Is it true?”
“It is,” Viktor said. “Captain Hännenen isn’t the only one who saw. I did too. As did Master Sergeant Jarvi. Hännenen’s entire company, in fact. Ask any of them.”
“Who would do such a thing?” someone asked in a low voice.
“Silence!” Pesola’s command magic–laced order snapped the air like a whip.
Nels held his breath, dreading what would happen next. He could see the word forming in each soldier’s skull as clear as if it had been written in bright crimson ink.
Mutiny.
Nels had to stop it. It was his duty. There had been enough suffering and death through Pesola’s actions as it was. Nels couldn’t stand by and let what few lives remained be destroyed. He couldn’t allow Pesola the excuse.
Pesola turned once more and faced him. “Captain Hännenen, I’m going to ask you a question, and you’re going to answer it.” The air cracked with the force placed behind the statement. “You will tell the truth. Do you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
Nels swallowed another mouthful of blood, mucus, and rage. He felt he might choke on it. “Yes, sir.”
“Did you order your company to abandon their posts?” Pesola asked.
Pausing, Nels considered exactly how he would answer. He wants the truth, he thought. Let him have the truth. “No, sir.” He paused. “Not specifically.”
Pesola frowned. “What were your orders? Exactly?”
“I ordered them to defend Merta to the best of their ability,” Nels said, and saw Pesola’s frown deepen. “However, when the third Acrasian brigade arrived from the west and it became clear that we were overwhelmed, they were to engage in a fighting retreat. They were to leave Merta and head northwest. I told them we would regroup at the coaching inn two miles south of Herraskariano. Then we would proceed to Jalokivi to defend the king. And that was my plan until I heard you were here.”
Letting out a victorious hiss, Pesola leaned forward. “You. Deserted. You left the Seventh Regiment to die.”
“No, sir. I made a decision based on information others did not have.”
“Do not argue with me!” More magic weighed down the air.
Nels felt a muscle in his jaw cramp. He’s right, you know. You did.
“What’s worse is you incited your company to desert as well,” Pesola said, making another circle around both Nels and Viktor. “Reini, what do you have to say for yourself?”
Viktor choked. Nels glimpsed his pale expression at the edge of his vision. He hadn’t seen raw fear on Viktor’s face before.
“Sir?”
“You were with Hännenen, were you not?” Pesola said.
Viktor said, “Yes, sir.”
“Why didn’t you stop him?” Pesola asked.
“It wasn’t my place to question an order, s—”
“Don’t lie, Reini! You aren’t under Hännenen’s command!” Pesola shouted in Viktor’s ear. Pesola took a breath as if to calm himself. “I assume you knew about Hännenen’s order previous to its execution?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why didn’t you report it to me? It is your duty, isn’t it?” Pesola again infused his words with command magic. “Answer me, Reini.”
Viktor fought against the urge to comply. A doomed expression crossed his face before he opened his mouth to speak.
Nels spoke loud enough to cover Viktor’s agonized reply. “He didn’t tell you because I compelled him not to tell you, sir.”
The response had the desired effect. Pesola changed targets, stepping to Nels’s side. Pesola spoke in Nels’s ear. “You commanded him not to tell me.” His voice was quiet, flat. “I had understood you despised command magic. That you refuse to use it.”
Better me than Viktor, Nels thought. “Yes, sir.”
“And yet you used it in this instance.
“I did.”
“And why is that?” Pesola asked.
Once again, Nels lied. “Because I didn’t think it’d be necessary, sir.”
“You didn’t think it’d be necessary to tell me?”
“I didn’t think the retreat would be necessary, sir,” Nels said. “Therefore, there was no need to make the report.” The logic was weak, but what did it matter? He’d redirected Pesola’s wrath from Viktor.
Pesola went to the camp table, picked up the stained linen napkin resting there, and used it to wipe his hands. “Captain Hännenen, you will follow me outside.”
“Yes, sir.” What is he going to do? The next thought shamed N
els with the rapidity of its appearance. Was the cat lost with the rest of his baggage? He attempted to come up with anything he could say or do that wouldn’t result in the troops being punished for mutiny and/or treason and came up blank. He followed Pesola outside. Dread formed an icy knot in Nels’s belly.
Viktor was two steps behind him. “Be careful,” he whispered.
Bit late for that, Nels thought.
Pesola’s tent emptied. Sensing something important was about to happen, Nels’s troops halted whatever it was they’d been doing and gathered, watching.
Having reached a place he deemed appropriate, Pesola stopped in the center of the crowd where all could get a good view. He turned slowly as if taking in the witnesses. He placed a hand on his saber hilt. “Hännenen, I want you to kneel. There.” He pointed at the ground inches from the toe of his own boot.
Nels stayed where he was. “Why?”
“I’m executing you for the deserter you are. Now.”
“You’re going to cut off my head?” Nels asked. Rage still shielded him from all other emotions except the need to stall. Think, damn you.
“That’s the idea. In fact, I’ll be generous. I’ll give you a choice. Granted, it’s more than you’re owed. But I’ll gift you the choice nonetheless due to your station,” Pesola said, drawing his sword. “Will you kneel on your own? Or do I make you?”
That’s it, Nels thought. Thank Hasta. “I think you’re forgetting something.”
“Am I?” Pesola used his sleeve to polish an imaginary stain from the gleaming blade. Seemingly bored, he didn’t look up.
“I’m royalty,” Nels said, his voice was calm.
“Even royalty aren’t exempt from execution for acts of treason. What of it?”
“I’ve a right to a trial.”
“Call it a field court martial, if you wish,” Pesola said. “It’s been done before.” He pointed to one of the others and waved him forward.
Nels recognized the sergeant as he moved into position.
“Sergeant Holdon, disarm Hännenen if he doesn’t hand over his sword at once. Then I want you to strip him of his rank. He needs to be made an example. For the others.”
Viktor’s mouth dropped open.
Nels said, “I’ve a right to trial by combat.”
Pesola paused. “In time of war?”
“The Acrasians aren’t here,” Nels said. “Not yet. There’s time. It’s my right.”
“I’m afraid he’s correct, sir,” Holdon said. Nels spied something in his expression. He wasn’t sure if it was relief or pity.
“I don’t know what you think you’ll gain with this,” Pesola said. “You’re still going to die.”
“I’ll have my dignity,” Nels said. “Unlike the troops you murdered.” When he had first fallen to the rank of soldier, his mother had risked scandal and paid a fencing master to train him. She’d said it would help him survive. In the beginning, he hadn’t understood her reasoning, but she’d been right after all. He could almost hear his fencing instructor’s voice.
Never allow strong emotion to accompany you into a duel, Your Grace. It will kill you just as assuredly as your enemy’s blade.
A cold breeze made its way through the clearing. The trees seemed to hiss recriminations among themselves. None of the troops moved. They didn’t even breathe. In the distance, an angry falcon shrieked a challenge at an interloper.
Once more Pesola opened his mouth and then closed it. Sheathing his saber with a fierce jerk, he then began unbuttoning his uniform coat. Either his fingers or the coat didn’t cooperate. The coat didn’t come undone. He yanked at the fabric in frustration, ripping off three buttons. Pop. Pop. Pop. “Very well.” He threw the coat at Sergeant Holdon as if it had offended him.
It hit Holdon in the face. Holdon scrambled to keep from dropping it.
“Holdon, I’ll see to stripping Hännenen of his rank once this farce is complete.”
In deliberate contrast to Pesola, Nels took his time. It annoyed Pesola further. Looking down at his hands, Nels was shocked to discover no tremor. He felt more at peace now than he had at any other time.
I’ve dueled before. This is no different. But it was different. The lives of his troops relied on the outcome, and not only theirs but his father’s and his sister’s as well. He knew it in his bones, just as he’d known Pesola was responsible for the slaughter of the Seventh.
Viktor reached out for Nels’s coat. “You don’t have to do this,” he whispered.
You would rather I were executed? But Nels knew what Viktor had in mind. The others were poised to rebel. All Nels had to do was to shout the order. You don’t have to do this. “Actually, I do,” Nels whispered back, and fished out two dog-eared letters from his pocket before surrendering the coat to Viktor. With that, Nels handed off the envelopes. “One is for my sister. And if I don’t … win, will you go to Ilta Korpela, give her the second, and tell her what happened? I suspect she’ll know anyway, but—”
“I will,” Viktor said.
Nodding, Nels unbuttoned his sleeves. He drew his saber and secured the silver tassel around his wrist.
“You’re only delaying the inevitable, you know,” Pesola said through clenched teeth. “Are you afraid?”
Nels gave Viktor a confident smile. Keeping his back to Pesola, Nels said, “I confess I am a bit at that. No matter. I’m making you look the fool. I’ll take what I can get.”
Both Viktor’s reaction and Pesola’s growl of rage gave Nels the warning he needed to dodge Pesola’s charge. Private Johansson wasn’t that lucky, however. Pesola slammed into him, stabbing him in the chest in the process. Nels saw Westola run from her place at the campfire to help. Pesola struggled to get his blade free of Johansson. Nels didn’t see a means of attacking without risking Westola, Johansson, and a few others besides. Therefore, he waited.
Pesola shouted at Westola. “Leave him, damn you!” Free of Johansson at last, he whirled and faced Nels.
Nels settled into a crouching attack stance—left hand up to his face, palm down, and sword ready in a high guard. His senses were sharp. He felt ready. Pesola mirrored his actions and then shuffled closer before striking. Nels slashed down. His parry caught Pesola’s blade. Steel on steel chimed. Pesola pressed his attack with a series of thrusts. Nels gave ground again and again until he was certain of Pesola’s overconfidence. At that moment, Nels led in with a swift feint to the belly with a shout. Pesola took the bait. Nels’s blade circled around for a strike at Pesola’s sword arm. Fabric parted beneath steel. At the same time, Nels felt a dull blow on the shin. He stumbled backward. Getting his footing, he resumed the crouch and waited for signs of another strike.
Pesola’s spectacle-framed eyes stared back. “This is pointless.”
“Is that so?” Nels asked. “Is that why you’re the one who is bleeding?”
Pesola lunged. Again, Nels answered with a parry and a riposte. Pesola ran his blade up against Nels’s, and they locked hilts. Nels’s knuckles stung. He noticed that Pesola was breathing in gasps.
“Tiring, old man?” Nels asked.
Pesola spat and shoved. Saliva oozing down the side of his face, Nels staggered, but not before getting in a wild slash. It caught Pesola on the cheek.
Halting, Pesola touched the wound. “I’ve had enough of this.”
“You concede the fight?” Viktor asked.
The others seemed poised to join the fray.
“Hännenen, drop your sword,” Pesola said. The order prickled the air with power.
“No!” Viktor’s protest was joined with the crowd’s gasp.
Nels lowered his saber. Pesola didn’t wait for more. He charged in. Nels brought up his blade, knocking the threat away with a beat and then a thrust. He knew at that moment that he’d killed Pesola. Nels’s mind was flooded with images as details from Pesola’s life passed through magicked steel. There were memories of home and family—his father had doted on him while his mother had not. Neither mattered. Pes
ola genuinely didn’t comprehend the existence of others and never truly had. He was what mattered and nothing else. Others were a means of getting what he wanted. Nels also sensed darker thoughts twisting around blood and pain, power and sex. Pesola had murdered women for the pleasure of it. Flashes of agonized screams became confused with more intimate moments.
He had flayed them and then—
Scrambling backward, Nels shuddered in horror and revulsion. He turned his head in case he was going to be sick. He’s a monster. Oh, Hasta, I don’t want to know any of that. He told himself it was no different than the rumors he’d heard at court. That Pesola wasn’t an anomaly, but it was one thing to know and another to have seen.
“I commanded you,” Pesola said. Shock masked his face.
Nels blinked himself to the present. The blood. The screams. He released the breath he’d been holding. His stomach rolled. Stop this. Now. Wake up. He’ll kill you. Nels focused on the point of Pesola’s blade and not—the blood—the memories. He forced himself to think only of the duel.
Pesola choked. Nels started at the sound. Pesola dropped his sword and put both hands to the gaping wound in his abdomen. He fell, gasping.
What does it matter? It’s time to end it. Still, Nels couldn’t stand the thought of what he’d have to endure in the process—the knowledge of a creature like Pesola sullying Captain Karpanen’s blade. An unwanted thought sprang to mind. It would take a long time to die from a gut wound. Pesola likes pain. Then let him enjoy agony. That is, provided Westola didn’t intervene. Nels prayed she wouldn’t. Did she know what Pesola was?
Searching for Westola, Nels saw she was still at Corporal Johansson’s side. She fussed with the bandage as if it took all her attention.
“How?” It was Pesola.
“You know how, swive you,” Nels said. “I won.”
Pesola clamped his teeth together—this time in pain, not rage. His teeth were stained crimson. Blood formed bubbles between his teeth. He closed his eyes. “I—I compelled you. How?” He was lying on his side; his face had gone pale. The grass around him was soaked black with gore.
