by Stina Leicht
“What’s the problem this time?” Nels pushed the brim of his tricorne up with an index finger and leaned forward in the saddle. The heavy weight of the sodden hat shifted. He felt rainwater pour out of the back of his hat and runnel down the shoulders of his foul-weather coat.
“Damned wheel is stuck, sir!” Corporal Kallela said.
Nels searched for Viktor in the bustle of activity and didn’t find him. He did, however, notice the dour overlieutenant who always seemed to be watching. One of Suvi’s spies, no doubt. Or would he be one of Uncle Sakari’s? “Underlieutenant Larsson! We need a lever and some brush,” Nels said. “Get it under that wheel.”
“And where am I to find a lever, sir?” Larsson asked. “We’re a bit far from the royal carpentry.”
Nels didn’t show the jab had hit home. “We’re surrounded by an entire forest. Surely a tree will suffice? We’ve axes aplenty. Now get to it.”
“Yes, sir.” Larsson’s salute could’ve been replaced with a rude gesture. It carried the same level of respect. She snarled for the carpentry tools to be retrieved from the supply wagons and stomped away in the mud. Moments later, she disappeared behind the tree line with an annoyed flip of soggy brown curls.
Hasta, give me patience, Nels thought.
Extracting draft horses from mud was difficult enough—each cannon and its accompanying materials and gear required the services of thirty-four of the beasts—but excavating a six-thousand-pound howitzer was going to be quite another matter. They didn’t have enough troops as it was, with one third of the army deathly ill.
At least my company is safe, Nels thought. From variola, anyway. It seemed unreasonable that Pesola could hold it against him. “Private Hanski, inform Colonel Pesola we are delayed. Again.”
A variola-scarred private saluted and ran.
Nels hopped off Loimuta, landing in ankle-deep muck. He’d been seven the last time he had actually watched a coachman lever a wheel out of a hole. Such lapses in experience still ambushed him from time to time, giving the troops under his command more ammunition for their contempt. He was all too aware that the fortuitous event at the Commons Hospital had saved him more than any Acrasian illusion ever could. He’d tried over and over to repeat that instance of command magic, to no avail. So it was that he continued to live under the threat of discovery. To his surprise, the pressure was every bit as bad as if he were at court, if not more so. It didn’t matter that most of the troops had no useful magical skills themselves, only what his uncle would’ve referred to as “peasant magic.” Nels found it baffling how those who’d suffered so much at the hands of those with unlimited power reinforced the abuse without thought.
A stocky artillery master sergeant named Jarvi forced his way through the chaos and took over managing the placement of the brush. His face was square and obstinate, and his orders came in short barks.
“Can we lighten the load, do you think?” Nels asked.
Master Sergeant Jarvi stomped foliage into the muddy hole and scowled. Mud splashed up on the master sergeant’s uniform. “No. And get the swiving hells out of the damned way.” He glanced up. “Ah, sorry, Captain.”
Nels stepped back, allowing Jarvi the space needed to do his job.
The master sergeant left the wheel and then grabbed a horse’s headstall. “Don’t just stand there, push, damn you!”
With his career riding on getting the cannon moving, Nels joined the others and wedged himself against the wheel. His body tensed against the weight. Mud sucked at his boots. Cold rainwater oozed down the back of his neck and into his eyes. The gun crept forward, but the wheel slipped, churning leaves and bark into the mud. By the third attempt, Nels’s arms felt weak and the muscles in his legs twitched with fatigue. Underlieutenant Larsson and her carpentry detail arrived. Jarvi rammed the makeshift lever into place with expert precision and then ordered everyone back into place. Nels shoved as hard as he could. The cannon inched clear of the mud-filled hole but rocked backward with a splash.
Jarvi’s frustrated growl beat against the rain. “Put your backs into it, you Abigails!”
Nels heard a loud squelch, and the howitzer once again came free of the hole. The slimy spokes jerked out of his hands. Six tons of iron gouged the mud, narrowly missing his left boot. He jerked out of the way in time, but in his rush he stumbled backward. Slipping, he landed flat on his backside. Larsson’s laugh was abruptly cut off with a grunt.
Heavy raindrops smacked time against the oiled leather of Nels’s coat. He counted to ten and retrieved his hat, feeling the muddy ooze drop off the skirts of his coat in clumps as he got to his feet. He knew what they expected, and even a year ago, he’d have given it to them, but not now. Slapping his hat against his thigh to dislodge the last of the sludge, he didn’t look up until he was certain of his self-control.
The mountainside behind Larsson had subtly changed. He blinked. Earth and rock slowly shifted. It uprooted a scrubby bush, and he watched it tumble, landing in the road.
“Mudslide!” Nels shoved Larsson from the cannon’s path.
Whether it was the sound of his voice or the moving earth, the result was the same—the draft horses panicked, jerking the gun forward. Loimuta let out an angry scream and bolted for the ridge. Terrified, the draft horses followed, dragging the cannon behind. Troops leapt for safety. The cries of kainen and animals were buried in the rumble of moving earth. Nels chased after horses and artillery gun, a lump of dread in his stomach the size of a boulder. With no way to stop the horses, he expected some part of the harness assembly to snap. He topped the ridge with the sole intention of seeing where the cannon would end up, hopefully no worse for wear. The steep incline flattened after a few yards. However, upon reaching the other side of the ridge, the rock in his stomach melted into ice water.
Private Hanski stood in the center of the path.
The horses abruptly slowed, but the cannon didn’t. It skidded and slammed into the hindquarters of the rearmost mare and flipped. Before Nels could react, Hanski vanished beneath several tons of iron and writhing animals with a terrified scream. Nels ran to help. Pain-choked shrieks flayed the air. Getting closer, he smelled blood. Horses fought for freedom, lashing out at anything to gain desperate purchase against rattling metal fastenings and the broken harness tongue. Three of the ten were dead, and it looked like two more would have to be put down.
“Hanski? Where are you?” Torn between staying out of danger and missing an important sign, his search was complicated by thrashing hooves the size of his head. He spotted a muddy blue jacket cuff protruding from wreckage and snatched it. “Be alive, damn you.” He reached inside the sleeve, and Hanski’s hand convulsed, grabbing at Nels’s fingers. “I’ve got you.” He peered through the wreckage and shoved at sodden dirt one-handed until Hanski’s head was clear.
Hanski moaned. His face was pale against the muck. Dropping the private’s hand, Nels began feeling around the twisted harnesses and broken spars. He found Hanski’s shoulders and arms, but one leg was half buried under one of the dead horses. Its live harness mate was also partially trapped. The horse squirmed from beneath the hulk, and the body slipped, crushing Hanski to the thigh. The private screamed. A large ironshod hoof slammed against a broken spar near Hanski’s head, splintering wood. Checking his pistol first, Nels loaded it and then pressed the barrel against the wounded horse’s head. He hoped the powder would catch.
Someone shouted, “No! Don’t!”
He pulled the trigger. The pistol’s recoil jarred his arm, and burnt gunpowder clouded the air with smoke so heavy, he could taste the grit on his tongue. He felt rather than saw the cannon shift toward the edge.
Can’t get Hanski out. Get the horses free first. Nels shoved the hot pistol into his belt and moved to the next pair of tangled horses. He ripped at their harness fastenings, seeking to separate them from the cannon, but the wet metal and leather slithered through his numbed fingers. The smoke started to clear. The howitzer sped up its relentless jou
rney to the edge. He gave up on the buckles and drew a knife. Other troops arrived. He heard their distant warnings, but at that moment, a horse scrambled to its feet. The cannon skidded two yards all at once, knocking Nels down and carrying him with it. He struggled to get up. Where’s Hanski? A second horse cleared the tangled mess when he spotted the gleam of a harness pin. On instinct, he stretched, reaching for it. The loop at the top felt cold and slick around his finger. He felt gritty mud against his cheek. The cannon tilted.
“It’s going to go!”
He rolled out of the way. The artillery gun flipped, pitching over the ledge. Something hard slammed into his back, knocking the breath out of him. He coughed, tasted mud, didn’t dare move. When it seemed safe enough, he braved inching toward the now-scarred ledge on his belly, feeling strangely blank. The six-ton howitzer had left behind a wide swath of blood stained and splintered trees. How are we going to get the swiving thing out of there?
“Sir? Are you hurt? Sir?”
Nels twisted onto his back, and dull pain throbbed under his right shoulder blade. Master Sergeant Jarvi stared down at him.
Underlieutenant Larsson bent closer, extending a hand. “I thought your job was to get us killed,” she said.
Nels watched his hand tremble before it touched Larsson’s. “Never expect anything of others you aren’t willing to do yourself.” Standing at last, he asked, “Hanski?”
“Alive. Not sure, but I think his leg is broken,” Larsson said.
Stretching, Nels tested his back. Nothing felt out of place, but his muscles protested and the blunt ache gained steady strength with each beat of his heart. That’s going to hurt tomorrow. “Private, get the healer. Now. Master Sergeant, I’ll leave you to figuring out how to get that damned gun out of there. Larsson, find Loimuta.”
“Yes, sir!” Larsson said.
Viktor arrived. He was out of breath. “Just what in all the secret names of the Father did you think you were doing?”
“Trying to save us from dragging that cannon to the front ourselves. We may yet, if we lose any more horses,” Nels said. “Where have you been?”
Viktor glanced uphill and rubbed his chin. “Looking after your personal baggage. Someone has to. Corporal Mustonen has better things to do.”
Nels had observed Viktor while playing cards enough to know that Viktor tended to touch his face when bluffing. He’s lying. “I don’t own anything worth the trouble.”
“You can’t imagine how much a clean, dry shirt sells for these days, stolen or otherwise.” Viktor winked. There was definitely something about his smile that wasn’t quite genuine.
“Right, then. We talk about it later,” Nels whispered. Then he asked loud enough for others to hear, “What’s the damage?”
“Five dead horses. One missing. Other than Hanski, no other injuries. Going to have a deuce of a time digging out,” Viktor said. “You sure you’re all right?”
Nels ventured a look down into the ravine. “Would you say that was about a two-hundred-and-fifty-foot drop?” Now that the danger was past, the tremor in his hand had spread through his arms and down to his knees, making the ground unstable. The troops are watching. He tightened a fist, clamping down on any show of weakness. He didn’t want to lose what little regard his fraudulent magic skills had gained. “Other than having a strong need to sit down, I’m fine.” He gave Viktor a confident grin—at least, he hoped it was a confident grin.
“Then come away from there. I’d rather not fish you off a mountainside. I have rules about those sorts of things, you know,” Viktor said.
Nels shuffled a few steps before Viktor grabbed his elbow. “Rules? What are you, my wet nurse?” Nels whispered.
“Just keep Hanski company while I see what’s keeping the healer,” Viktor said.
Thankful for a moment to collect himself, Nels collapsed in the mud. The last of the tremors in his legs passed before he noticed Hanski staring. “You’ll be fine. Healer will be here soon.”
Hanski nodded, wincing. His face was so pale, it was almost blue.
“You swiving bag of glue! Bite me again, and I’ll box your damned ears!” Larsson’s voice echoed off the mountain.
Nels bit down on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing, then did real damage when Victor reappeared in his usual silent and unexpected way.
“Bad news,” Viktor said. “Don’t think anyone else is getting through for at least an hour.”
“Was afraid of that,” Nels said, checking his injured cheek with his tongue. “You’re in charge until I get back. Once the way is clear, get Jarvi what he needs to haul that damned cannon out of there.” Deciding Larsson had had enough of Loimuta, he put two fingers to his lips and let out a loud whistle.
“What?” Viktor said. “Me?”
Nels got to his feet. His legs were already sore and his back was aching. “Someone has to take care of Hanski. The closest healer available on this side of that mess is commissioned to Colonel Pesola. She’s damned well not going to take orders from the likes of you, now, is she?”
Loimuta trotted into view with a ragged-looking Underlieutenant Larsson limping after.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Larsson.” Nels pointed to the ground in front of him. “Loimuta, down.”
The gelding snorted and stamped, clearly not pleased with being ordered but willing to play along as usual for the promise of a carrot. The horse knelt down, front legs first.
Viktor gave Loimuta a doubtful look. “Planning on finishing the job on Hanski that cannon started?”
“Loimuta has indulged himself enough, I should think. Haven’t you, boy?” Nels gave the horse a soothing pat on the neck before helping Hanski mount.
“If you say so,” Viktor said.
As Loimuta righted himself Hanski nearly fell off, grabbing for the reins that Nels had secured in place when he wasn’t using them.
“Hold on to the saddle,” Nels said, looping his hand through Loimuta’s halter. “I’ve got his head.” He led the gelding through the mud. Loimuta thumped him on the shoulder with his nose. “It’s good to see you, too,” Nels said, and patted Loimuta’s cheek.
Once they had rounded the bend, he climbed into the saddle in front of Hanski. Then he shifted his weight back, squeezed his legs against Loimuta’s sides, and gave him a short command. The stallion responded with a burst of speed. Nels located the correct tent with little trouble. Several supply crates were stacked near the entrance. A short middle-aged woman lay asleep on the cot. Her hands were neatly folded on her abdomen, and weariness etched a determined line between her brows.
“Kaija Westola?” Nels asked.
She didn’t open her eyes or move. Her voice was sharp and pinched at the corners. “What do you want?”
“I’ve a man with a broken leg.”
“The company surgeon is back that way.” She waggled her hand in the air toward the ridge. Her eyelids remained shut. “I imagine he’ll be here in another hour or so.”
“He’ll be delayed. I thought—”
“You thought wrong.” The line between her brows grew more pronounced. “I’m on retainer as Colonel Pesola’s personal healer. I’m not paid to serve the whole damned brigade.”
Short on patience, Nels entered the tent. “You do now.”
She scowled and sat up. “Who do you—”
“I’m Captain Nels Gunnar Ari Ilmari Hännenen.” He assumed the haughty tone he used when faking court speech—yet another trick he’d borrowed from the royal horsemaster. Over the past few weeks, he’d discovered that in some ways, people weren’t much different from horses. They perceived what they expected, and well, he was an Ilmari, after all. “You’ll be paid for your trouble. Get out there.”
Kaija Westola glared back, and Nels held her gaze, uncertain whether or not his bluff was going to succeed. She got to her feet, her day dress wrinkled and stained, and her graying hair bound into a fuzzy knot perched on the crown of her head. She was short, and her arms were thin l
ike the bones of a delicate yet belligerent sea bird. She rested both hands on her hips and took a determined step forward; the tip of her pointed nose almost jabbed his solar plexus.
“I don’t like you,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that important?”
“You worthless, bottle-headed, arrogant son of a—”
“Perhaps you can remind me of my many shortcomings later? Private Hanski is in pain.” Nels stared down at her.
She looked as though she was going to peck him before she grunted and stamped out of the tent into the rain.
This is going to be a very long day, he thought.
While she patched up Hanski, Nels stationed himself on one of the crates stacked outside the tent and watched when she was too busy to notice. Regardless of her attitude, Westola appeared to be good at her work. The moment she touched Hanski’s leg, the lines of pain around his eyes and mouth vanished. She was also stronger than she looked. She set the bone with little trouble and only a small amount of assistance from Nels. When that was done, she gave Hanski a tea to drink. Once the splint was secured in place, Nels paid her two gold falcons.
She stared at the gold in her palm and a strange expression crossed her face. “He should be watched tonight.” When Nels didn’t appear to take the hint, she sighed. “Wait.” She rummaged through a black leather bag. Glass clattered against glass and then she settled on a vial of clear liquid. “If he shows signs of fever, have him drink this and send someone to fetch me.”
Whatever he’d attempted to make her think, he wasn’t made of gold. “I’ve only paid you for the—”
“Just do it. No extra charge. Now the two of you get out of here before I have you thrown out.”
Nels blinked. “Thank you.” Unable to think of anything else to say, he focused on helping Hanski onto Loimuta’s back.
Westola leaned against the tentpole. “Been a while since I’ve dealt with anything more challenging than a headache or gout.” She paused and then pulled the tent flap closed.
TWO