Cold Iron

by Stina Leicht

Smoky campfires dotted the hills as Nels staggered toward his tent. He couldn’t have been more thankful for Master Sergeant Tane Jarvi. As it turned out, Jarvi was not only an excellent gunnery officer but a pyrotechnic. Dry stockings and warm food went a long way when it came to troop morale. As a result, Nels had ordered Jarvi to visit three other companies and ensure that the troops were warm. Nels hoped it might engender a sense of cooperation in an otherwise contentious environment. Comprised as the Royal Army was for the most part of criminals and misfits, an almost total lack of coordination was its biggest failing.

  Well, one of them, anyway, Nels thought.

  A loud thump in the trees to his left jarred him out of his reverie. It was followed by a muttered curse. He wondered how long Suvi’s spy planned to lurk in the brush. Whoever he was, he was no korva. Nels didn’t think anyone beside himself could be that noisy while sneaking. He got as far as gripping the tent flap when a joyous shout echoed from across the camp. The chorus of hoots, jeers, and clapping brought him up short. Turning on his heel with a sigh, he headed for the commotion. He didn’t need Viktor’s ears to find the source—a lean-to constructed of rough logs and a drape. Judging by the shadows cast against the canvas, at least fifteen to twenty soldiers were crammed inside. Lifting the drape, he was met with the smell of unwashed bodies, damp wool, and whiskey. Several faces turned toward him an instant before a number of quick-thinkers made their escape. Corporal Kallela was the first.

  Trapped in the center of the group, one of the doomed privates—Private Paiva, in fact—straightened and yelled, “Attention!”

  Those not fast enough or sober enough to duck out froze in place. Nels wedged past the cluster of privates and discovered Underlieutenant Larsson at the center. She had the distinct air of someone who was hiding something. An uneasy silence pressed against the canvas walls.

  Nels slowly tugged his watch from his coat pocket by its watch chain. “Half past eleven, I see. Underlieutenant Larsson, is there any explanation as to why these troops aren’t asleep?”

  Larsson looked like she’d swallowed a lemon whole. “Ah, sir. It isn’t what you think.” She’d positioned herself in front of a barrel, which appeared to have been the group’s previous focus.

  Nels pushed Larsson aside and spied the dice on top of the water barrel. “Interesting. Do you mind telling me what it is I’m not thinking?”

  “We’re not gambling, sir.” Larsson paused, opened her mouth, and then closed it.

  “And why aren’t you gambling, Underlieutenant?”

  “Because it’s against regulations?”

  Nels picked up the dice before Larsson could grab them. On a hunch, he tossed them on the barrel three times. They came up seven twice and eleven once. I’m not the only one in the company who uses tricks, it seems, he thought as the color in Larsson’s face went slightly gray. He turned to the privates. “It’s late. And I’d rather be in my bunk, but I pride myself in accommodating my officers. Therefore, I think I shall play for a while.”

  Larsson dropped her shoulders in obvious relief. “Yes, sir. Just let me get you a fresh set of dice.” She reached for the top of the water barrel.

  Nels snatched the dice again before she could touch them. “I believe I’ll use these.”

  “What?”

  “What’s good enough for my officers is good enough for me.”

  Larsson blinked. He watched the subtle changes in her face as the meaning behind his words sank in.

  “Ah. Unenthused,” Nels said. “I can’t say as I blame you under the circumstances. Tell you what: To make it more interesting, I’ll bet double whatever you do.”

  The privates cheered and clapped Larsson on the back.

  “Go on! Give him what for!”

  Larsson balanced on a camp cot with the attitude of a condemned prisoner.

  “I’ll roll first,” Nels said. “What will you bet?”

  The lean-to filled with excited jeers, and the others exchanged paper notes in a flurry. The audience regained a number of its members as it became apparent that punishment wasn’t being dealt out. Larsson brought out a small bundle of folded money and peeled off two paper notes.

  “As little as that with these stakes?” Nels asked. “What are you afraid of?” He tossed a ten-falcon note onto the trunk.

  There was a gasp.

  Nels picked up the dice and threw them onto the makeshift table. They made a hollow thump against the wood. Five white dots came up on the first die, paired with three on the second. “An eight. I wonder if I can do that again.” He played the game straight for a few rounds to avoid tipping off the others, but within an hour, he’d taken her for more than two weeks’ pay. To Larsson’s disgust, he handed out his winnings to those watching.

  “I must say, I like these dice,” Nels said. “Mind if I keep them?”

  Larsson sighed. “No, sir.”

  “Very generous of you. It seems I’ve misjudged you, Larsson.” Nels stood up. “Walk with me.”

  Larsson gave him a questioning look but stepped under the canvas flap. It fell back into place behind her. The candles flickered.

  “The rest of you, get to your bunks.” He exited the tent. Larsson stood waiting for him next to a large oak, a shadow among shadows. There was a worried look on her face.

  “It was only a bit of harmless—”

  “Don’t even start.” Nels counted to ten, squeezed a fist in order to gain some control of his temper, and then asked, “Do you know anything of human magic?”

  Larsson hesitated, and he thought he detected a flash of guilty unease in her eyes. “Everyone knows humans don’t have magic, sir.” Her tone was flat.

  “It isn’t magic as you and I know it. It’s trickery, really. Illusion. Fraud,” he said, and then paused to let that word and its implications add weight to the conversation. He kept his voice low. “The interesting thing is, when a kainen uses magic, it leaves a certain feeling in the air. I can sense it.” That much was true, as much good as it did him. “Human magic, on the other hand …” He let his voice trail off. The terrified expression on her face said he had her, all right. When they were far enough from the lean-to, he stopped. “I never want to see that again.”

  “No, sir. I mean, yes, sir.”

  “Cheating your platoon? Do you have any idea what they would do if they found out? Do you know what I could do to you?” I could have you hanged, Larsson. And that’s the very least of what I could do. “We haven’t reached the front, not yet. You’re new. I assume you’ve never been in so much as a skirmish?”

  Larsson swallowed. “Ah, no, sir.”

  “I didn’t think so. You see, Larsson, soon your life will depend upon your platoon and theirs upon you. I suggest you give the matter long thought,” he said. He could see he’d made his point when she glanced at the troops shuffling off to their tents and swallowed.

  “In the meantime, you’ll do exactly as I tell you,” Nels said. “Without question.”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “I think you should show more concern for others. We’ll start with Loimuta,” Nels said. “I want him curried and his hooves cleaned every night. He gets an apple or a carrot once it’s done. It comes out of your pay.” He paused. “Well, next week’s pay.”

  “Oh, gods, that horse is evil.”

  He gave her a knowing smile. “That horse is your best friend for the next two weeks. If you can’t see to the needs of a damned horse, I’m not trusting you with my troops. I don’t care what you paid for those bars. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go on. Get to your cot.”

  He returned her salute and watched her walk away, hoping against hope she’d stay out of trouble. When he reached his tent, he was more exhausted than he’d thought possible. Still, he planned to make more progress through the book on Acrasian infantry tactics before sleeping. It was his third time through it, and he’d already memorized half of the text. He knew it wouldn’t resolve his questions or lessen his an
xiety, but he pored over it anyway on the off chance that he’d find something in it that would stop the nightmares. After two years in the King’s Army, he knew wasn’t afraid of dying. He lived in a near-constant terror of letting down his troops.

  His tent was dark when he reached it. Apparently, Corporal Mustonen had neglected to leave a light for him before retiring. Nels unbuttoned his filthy coat and entered the tent. Sweeping a hand through the air in front of him, he searched for the lamp hanging off the center tentpole. He didn’t find it. His skin itched from dried mud and sweat, and he stank. I’d kill for a bath. But he was far too tired to bother, and in any case, he didn’t want to roust Mustonen out of his well-deserved sleep to fetch and heat water. It’d be cruel.

  “Where are my cannon?” The voice was low and hardened with quiet malice.

  Nels barked his shin against the end of his cot. Colonel Pesola. Icy fingers of fear raked his heart. There were two kinds of people who volunteered for the King’s Army. The first group did so because they had little other choice—a short life in the army was a little better than the prospects of starvation or prison. Over the past few weeks, Nels had come to realize that Colonel Pesola fell into the second group. Ultimately, Pesola didn’t enjoy killing people as much as he enjoyed hurting them.

  “It may be dark in here, but I don’t believe that will have affected your hearing. I’m not one to repeat myself, understand,” Pesola said. “But given the lateness of the hour, I’ll make an exception.” He paused as if to give Nels time to focus. “Where are my cannon?” The question was laced with command magic.

  “They’re here, sir.”

  “We’re one gun short. I counted.”

  “There was an accident. A mudslide. We were unable to get the howitzer out of the ravine. We spent the whole day—”

  Nels was interrupted by three slow, liquid pops in the dark. He hadn’t seen Pesola do anything as base as crack his knuckles—except once. During a formal officers’ dinner, a clumsy corporal had spilled a glass of Pesola’s best port. The corporal had been whipped until she bled. Pesola had an evil reputation among those who served beneath him, which he had earned in every way possible, from Nels’s recent observations. Regardless, he often found himself pressing his luck as far as Pesola was concerned. There wasn’t a good explanation for it. To do so was dangerous and stupid any way you looked at it, but there it was nonetheless.

  Pesola said, “You abandoned your post.” Pop. Pause. Pop.

  “Private Hanski was injured. I left Overlieutenant Reini in charge of—”

  “Your orders were ‘Get the cannon safely to the front.’ ” Pop. Pause. Pop. Pause. Pop. “Does anything about that sound like ‘Escort a foot soldier to a surgeon’? My surgeon, I might add.”

  “Hanski’s leg was broken.”

  “Then he should’ve been put down. Like the horse.” Pesola took in a deep breath. Nels tried not to think of it as a hiss. “Oh, yes, I heard about the horse. Not much gets past me. I’ve many pairs of eyes. It seems you’re an individual that merits a great deal of … observation.”

  Nels thought of the spy. Not Suvi’s. Not mother’s. Nor Uncle Sakari’s.

  I’m a fool.

  “Fine animal, that was. Worth far more than a private too stupid to run from a stampede.” Pop. Pause. Pop.

  Nels’s hands formed fists. For the hundredth time since they’d started their journey to the front, he reminded himself that hitting the colonel wasn’t worth being hung. As always, it was a close debate. “May I light the lamp, sir?”

  “Indulge the captain, Holdon.”

  A hooded lamp hinge creaked open. Light flooded the tent. Nels held up a hand, blinking against the brightness. Pesola was sitting on the camp cot, and two enlisted soldiers stood at the ready in front of the stacked wooden crates Nels used as both bookshelf and writing desk. Pesola’s teeth showed in a bright row like a hungry animal preparing to bite. His eyes were shielded behind spectacles as usual. The glass lenses reflected the lamplight in cold round voids, blank of all emotion save menace.

  “Make no mistake, my fine young cock. You’ve gone too far this time,” Pesola said.

  Nels swallowed. “Transfer me to another unit.”

  “Oh, no. I think not.” Pesola gave him a predatory smile. “Do you think for one instant I won’t put a lash to you?”

  The words were out of Nels’s mouth before he could stop them. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Pesola drew in a breath, seeming to savor a particularly fine perfume. “It seems I know a few things you don’t. Or is it possible that you haven’t quite thought the matter through? You see, I’ve done some checking. The precariousness of your … position wasn’t difficult to discover.”

  Nels bit down a retort that would only make matters worse.

  “You appear to be unaware that you and your company are entirely mine to dispose of as I wish,” Pesola said. He motioned to the men in front of the bookcase. “Your father wouldn’t save you even if he could.”

  Pesola’s men closed on Nels.

  “We’ll have the irons, Sergeant Holdon. I won’t waste the energy compelling him. We’ll save that for later. Shall we? Our Captain Hännenen needs a few lessons in humility. As it happens, I’m a fine teacher.”

  THREE

  Disarmed, Nels was led through sleeping troops to an isolated tent on the outermost edge of camp. It stank of old blood and piss. An iron frame had been assembled in the center. The only furnishings other than the iron scaffold were a long folding table with several items arranged on top and a large bucket.

  Nels’s manacles were briefly unlocked, and his coat and shirt were removed. No explanation was given, and questions—no matter how insistent—were ignored. The irons were replaced on his wrists and the chain between the cuffs was looped onto a hook welded to the top of the iron frame. Nels had to stretch as far as he could and tilt up onto his toes in order for Holdon to attach it. Nels soon discovered that standing with his feet flat on the ground was impossible. Any attempt to do so resulted in the manacles biting painfully deep into his wrists. Holden set the manacle key on the table. Meanwhile, Pesola’s corporal filled a steel basin with water and replaced a bloody rag with a fresh cloth. Both moved with the bored air of long-practiced actions. When the preparations were complete, Sergeant Holdon and Pesola’s corporal exited.

  Pesola didn’t show up at any point during the proceedings.

  Well, this isn’t good, Nels thought. Looking up, he studied how the hook was set into the chain. Cool relief washed over him. I can get out of this whenever I need to. It’s a simple enough trick.

  At that moment, he couldn’t have been more thankful for Suvi’s last gift. Not all of the information on illusions and escap­ology had been practical to his situation, but enough of it had been, and he soon discovered that he enjoyed the practice. Before leaving for the front, he’d committed as much as he could to memory and then hid the book in the barracks house. He had a lot to learn yet. Locks and escapology were complicated, but he felt he had enough skill to get free of his current situation. He released the breath he’d been holding, and his heart slowed. I’ll be fine. Another round of pointless saber-rattling from Pesola. That’s all.

  Then he spied the bloody cat-o’-nine-tails on the folding table. The whip was arranged near the steel basin and the manacle key. The rest of the table’s inventory consisted of a bowl of salt and an ornate silver-framed hourglass with black sand. Pesola’s reputation completed the picture. An icy knot formed in Nels’s guts as the implications set in.

  Don’t even think it. I may not have much power or influence, but my father is still the king. Nels hated being afraid. He knew too well the cost of showing fear. He didn’t think of himself as a coward—not any longer. However, no one had ever proposed to torture him for the pleasure of it before. He’d had nightmares of such things, of course, thanks to his father’s tour of the catacombs beneath the palace. Pesola doesn’t know about that. He won’t do it. He wouldn’t
dare go that far.

  Just in case, hold your tongue. Don’t push him. You’ll want to. But you have to save some strength for—

  At that moment, a callused hand shoved the tent flap aside. Pesola’s corporal entered carrying a folded camp chair. Pesola wasn’t far behind.

  Nels nearly jumped out of his own skin, and it was followed by an overwhelming surge of rage. “Gods curse you, let me down!” Forgetting the manacles in his fury, he threw himself against his restraints. Something popped, and sharp agony exploded in his shoulder.

  Neither man reacted as if they’d heard. Pesola’s corporal unfolded the chair, positioned it, and then left. Colonel Pesola sat and then sipped from a steaming cup of what smelled like coffee. He could easily have been in a manor house, enjoying his evening beverage.

  “You swiving son of a pox-ridden street whore! I’ll rip your throat out!” The pain in Nels’s shoulder prevented him from struggling too much. He told himself that the only reason he’d shouted was to make his later acquiescence more believable. It had nothing to do with fear.

  Pesola flipped open the book in his lap, and Nels recognized the brown leather cover of the Acrasian tactics manual. “It seems we have the entire evening with which to amuse ourselves.” Pesola said in a bored tone and gave the book a small smile. “When I say ‘we,’ I actually only mean me.”

  He’s gone through my belongings? “I’m killing you the instant I’m free! Do you hear me?”

  “Hännenen, do remain silent until I give you permission to speak,” Pesola said, using command magic to emphasize his words.

  Nels stopped struggling. There was an advantage to allowing Pesola to think command magic affected him, and Nels needed every advantage he could grab. He swallowed.

  “Better.” Pesola took another slow sip of coffee and again spoke to the open page. “I suspect you have a rather keen interest in my welfare. That is, if you value your mother’s life.”

  Nels narrowed his eyes at Pesola.

  “The queen is in a rather precarious position, it seems,” Pesola said. “You may speak.”