Cold Iron

by Stina Leicht

  A tremor of icy dread rippled up the nape of Nels’s neck. “What do you mean?”

  “Ah, polite. Good.” Pesola set his tin cup on the ground next to the leg of the camp chair. Then he stood and approached Nels. Pesola didn’t stop until he was close—too close as far as Nels was concerned. Pesola reached up and ran a finger along Nels’s cheek. “I like that,” Pesola said.

  Nels fought to keep from showing revulsion. He knew this game. He’d seen it played. Any sign of weakness would make everything so much worse. “What do you know about my mother?”

  Pesola’s smile was now inches away. Nels could smell the coffee on his breath.

  “Let me tell you a story,” Pesola said. “It’s somewhat senti­mental for my tastes, but as it happens, the ending is quite … gripping.” He grabbed a fistful of Nels’s hair and yanked.

  The sudden sharp pain brought tears to Nels’s eyes.

  “It begins with a young gentleman who lost something important. And in his despair, he fell in with the wrong crowd. That part, in and of itself, isn’t what’s significant,” Pesola said, releasing the fistful of hair. Nels’s head rocked.

  “It’s boringly common, I’m afraid,” Pesola said. “No, what’s signi­ficant is that this young gentleman enjoyed risks.”

  Nels aimed his forehead for Pesola’s nose, but Pesola stepped back and the chains brought Nels up short. Agony in Nels’s shoulder reminded him to be more careful.

  Pesola began a leisurely walk around the iron frame. “What kind of risks, you ask? Mainly, gambling. It seems he was good at it—that is, until his luck ran out. Again, not the most original of stories. Unfortunately, our … hero didn’t have the sense to quit when he should’ve. He got in rather …”

  Something gouged into Nels’s bruised back. The unexpected pain was excruciating, and a scream burst free from his mouth.

  “Deep,” Pesola said. “However, here’s where the story gets interesting. You see, his mother took care of the matter for him. The trouble is, she was forced to rescue her son from his creditors—not once but multiple times. And in spite of her lofty title, she didn’t always have the funds on hand.” He took two steps. “However, she loved her son very much. Very much indeed. Enough to do things—even make agreements with people she probably shouldn’t have.” Two more steps, and Pesola appeared again to the right. He breathed in, and his teeth flashed a threat on the edge of Nels’s vision. “Soon, she might discover that her friends aren’t as generous as she thinks. Nor are her secrets as safe from your uncle. Sadly, it seems she used much of her power securing her unfortunate son’s safety.”

  A chill ran through Nels’s body. Oh, Hasta. Why didn’t I just die in Onni that day?

  “Permit me to be so bold as to provide an up-to-date summary of the balance of power in Eledore and your place within it, Captain,” Pesola said. “Your father favors your uncle. Your mother has no legal means of presenting an opposition, and your sister, your sole means of support, left for the Waterborne kingdoms a month ago and hasn’t been heard from since.”

  “What has any of that to do with you?” Has something happened to Suvi?

  “Very little. It does, however, factor into our relationship. I own you, bone, muscle, soul, and skin,” Pesola said. “Your uncle sends his condolences, by the way.”

  Nels took two breaths. His heart thundered in his ears loud enough to blot out all else. He swallowed. If Uncle intended Pesola to kill me, he’d have done it already. “What do you want?”

  Pesola settled back into the camp chair and stretched out his legs. “Ah. Everything is so much more pleasant when we understand our place, isn’t it?” He picked up the Acrasian book and opened it again. “Enjoy learning from your enemies, do you?”

  Remaining silent, Nels waited to hear what was next. Pesola closed the book and placed it on the table. Then he got up from the camp chair.

  “I believe it’s time for your first lesson,” Pesola said.

  With the rapid grace of a snake, Pesola drew up close again. This time, he punched Nels in the guts with three quick jabs. Air was forced out of Nels’s lungs in an instant, and he lost his footing. His full weight was abruptly brought down on his wrists. He would have screamed if he could. As it was, he hung limp on the chain and gasped like a beached fish. Pesola didn’t wait for him to recover. Once again he battered Nels’s stomach. Nels struggled with all his might not to throw up.

  Pesola paused, tilting his head. “What did you say?”

  Coughing, Nels fought to reply. “You swiving son of a—” The remainder of his hoarse retort vanished in a fresh and extended burst of pain. The blows rained down on him, and he rapidly lost track of what was happening. Pesola finally stopped. Nels fought to breathe. He tasted blood as it oozed from his nose and mouth. He spit.

  That was when he saw Pesola pick up the whip.

  FOUR

  Nels didn’t understand that he’d passed out until a shocking cold force slapped him to the surface. Water ran down his hair and into his eyes. He blinked back water, blood, and tears.

  “Don’t nap yet,” Pesola said. “The discussion was only getting interesting.”

  Nels’s tongue felt too big inside his mouth. His back was a raw agony that his thoughts couldn’t escape. It was becoming more and more difficult to breathe. The knowledge that everything should’ve been far worse didn’t help—Pesola had uttered several magic-laden commands that would’ve intensified the pain.

  Stupid. Pushed Pesola too far, Nels thought. Quiet now. Say nothing. Or you’ll not get out of this. He let his head drop and told himself it was just another tactic—not cowardice. Save some strength. What there was to save and for what purpose, he couldn’t quite remember.

  “I suppose you’re right. The conversation has been quite vigorous,” Pesola said, dropping the cat-o’-nine-tails on the table. “You have enough to think about for now.” He went to the steel basin, rinsed blood from his hands, and then dried them on a cloth resting next to the bowl. “There are other, more urgent matters to attend to for a little while.” He reached inside his stained waistcoat pocket, pulled out a watch, and checked the time. Then he flipped the hourglass. “I’ll give you an hour to contemplate your situation. I expect you’ll see things more reasonably when I return. Because I can make everything so much worse. And I intend to.” He put away the watch. “Until then.”

  Nels listened to Pesola’s footsteps until they faded away. Nels’s eyelids closed. The urge to sleep was huge. If only he could breathe.

  Pesola is insane.

  There isn’t much time. Do something. Anything.

  Sleeping is something. Must conserve energy for—

  For what?

  He forced his eyes open and scanned the room. Something important. He blinked. When nothing on the table triggered the thought he was hoping for, he glanced up.

  Oh.

  With clumsy movements, he began to work his boots off—one at a time. Toe to heel. As luck would have it, they weren’t as well-­fitted as they should’ve been and never had been, since he’d bought them secondhand. The leather was old and worn, and therefore supple. He’d intended to get new ones before leaving Jalokivi for the front but hadn’t had the funds. Slipping his boots off without the use of his hands took longer than he would’ve liked, but he did eventually work them off. When he looked to the hourglass, it was more than half gone. His heart galloped. An image of all that was ahead made the whole situation seem impossible. His back had begun to quiet, settling into a dull menace that kept time with his heart. The idea of waking that pain was almost unbearable. Don’t think about it. Focus on the task at hand. He’d need his feet and toes. So, he turned his attention to getting his stockings off.

  Please, Hasta. Let me have enough strength.

  Lifting his legs tortured his back, but he converted the pain to anger and used that to supplement the strength he didn’t have. It took several tries, which didn’t do his wrists any good either, but he did eventually manage to
touch his feet on the top bar. Pausing for breath, his back blazed with fresh agony. He muttered another quick prayer, and then pulled himself up using his wrists until he could hook his legs around the bar. Finally, he hung upside down with his weight completely off his wrists for the first time in what seemed like hours. Naturally, this brought on another round of pain, but the rest was simple. With the chain slack, he disconnected the link from the hook and was free. His hands were throbbing, numb, and tingling. He could barely make fists, but he couldn’t wait to recover. Unable to get a good grip on the bar, his hands slipped, and he fell in an agonized heap of clanking chains. He lay on the ground, stunned and shaking with the effort not to scream, praying that Pesola hadn’t left anyone outside.

  No one came to investigate the noise.

  He dragged himself to his feet. Swaying, he staggered to the table and caught himself before he fell a second time. His hands were next to useless. He was grateful that he wouldn’t have to attempt anything as complex as picking the manacle locks. Using the key was difficult enough. Dropping it wasn’t an option. The idea of stooping over was horrible, and he didn’t think he’d have the strength to search for the key in the dirt. His awkward fingers finally did what he wanted. The manacles fell away. He allowed himself a small hiss of triumph, then relocked the empty ­manacles and replaced the key in the exact position where he’d found it. He consulted the hourglass and estimated that he had less than a quarter of an hour remaining with which to escape. Provided Pesola didn’t lie.

  It took the very last shred of Nels’s remaining courage to keep from running out of the tent. Instead, he arranged the irons so that they draped over the iron scaffold.

  Let Pesola make of that what he can.

  Giving in to fear, Nels shoved on boots and stockings as fast as he could manage. He took the time to slip on his shirt and then grab his coat as well as the Acrasian infantry manual. He didn’t bother to button the shirt—his fingers wouldn’t have complied if he’d tried. Cold evening air slapped his bare skin. His shirt wouldn’t provide much cover and would be a stained ruin in no time, if it wasn’t already, but he couldn’t bring himself to put on his coat. It’d hurt too much. No time, anyway. Staggering like a drunk, he avoided the main path for fear of encountering Pesola. It seemed to take forever, but Nels finally reached the rows of small tents occupied by pairs of enlisted soldiers. Thanks to the darkness, no one paid special attention to him. Outside of the usual earth-shattering snores erupting from Private Horn’s dog tent, the camp remained dead quiet. He was thankful for the lateness of the hour. Everyone with any sense was sleeping—anyone who wasn’t on sentry duty.

  “There you are.”

  Nels started so violently that Viktor grabbed him by the arm to keep him from falling. Nels let out a short hiss of pain.

  “Shut up, Nyberg! Some of us are trying to sleep, damn you.”

  They both froze in place until the snoring resumed. Nels shuffled onward with Viktor at his side.

  “I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” Nels whispered with swollen lips.

  Viktor whispered, “Sorry.”

  “Shouldn’t you be asleep?” Nels asked.

  “Corporal Mustonen said Pesola was in your tent when he went to see you settled for the night. After Pesola dismissed him, Mustonen came looking for me. Somebody has to keep you out of trouble.” He paused. “You’ve been gone for almost two hours.”

  “That long?” Nels hoped the question sounded casual.

  Viktor gave him a long look. “What happened to you?”

  Nels decided not to expend the energy on an answer. “How did you find me?”

  “It was easy enough,” Viktor said. “I listened for the stampeding herd of elk. When I didn’t hear any, I settled for the drunken ox.”

  It took Nels twenty steps to come up with a response. “Thank you.” The words barely cleared his bruised lips.

  When he didn’t rise to the jab, Viktor paused. “You’re a mess. Seems I was right to worry.”

  “Worrying over the state of my clothes is Corporal Mustonen’s job. I’ll be fine.”

  “I wasn’t talking about your clothes.” Viktor touched his arm. “I think you should come with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re in no shape to argue, for one thing,” Viktor said. “For another, Mustonen and that surly surgeon you’re so fond of are waiting.”

  Nels stopped. The world tilted. Again, Viktor grabbed him.

  “Don’t—” Nels flinched.

  Viktor wedged his shoulder under Nels’s arm. “I’ve got you. Come on.”

  “I can walk, damn it.” The objection didn’t carry much force because he wasn’t all that certain he could.

  “Sure. If we had all night and I was willing to watch you crawl,” Viktor said. “However enjoyable that might be, I think all of us would prefer to get some sleep tonight. In any case, that twice-damned surgeon is probably drinking all of my lovely whiskey and charging me by the hour on top of it all.”

  Nels felt Viktor begin to steer him away from the lower-ranked officers’ area. “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere Pesola isn’t going to think of looking for you.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Shut up and trust me,” Viktor said with a smile. “This will be brilliant.”

  “Why do I have a bad feeling about this?”

  “Have I ever had a bad idea?”

  “I’m too exhausted to make a detailed list,” Nels said. “But we could start with stealing those cattle from Lord Ranta.”

  “Is that humor I detect? You must be feeling better already,” Viktor said. They stumbled for a few steps. “It was fun watching Pesola explain how those cows got mixed in with his personal provisions. Wasn’t it?”

  Nels set his mind to dragging himself the remaining distance. They staggered together for another hundred feet. He couldn’t help noticing that even when bearing the weight of a clumsy friend, Viktor made no sound.

  “Viktor?”

  “Yes?”

  “Remind me to drop a bell around your neck tomorrow.”

  FIVE

  Kaija Westola waved away a moth that had strayed too close to her face, with a bored expression. “It’s about damned time, Reini,” she said in a hushed voice, and then shut the book she’d been reading. “I don’t care what you’re paying. It won’t make up for lost sleep.”

  She and Corporal Mustonen occupied two camp chairs arranged outside a large, striped tent. Water barrels topped with lanterns were situated next to the chairs, standing in for tables and providing light. The gray-and black-striped tent appeared to be the only one whose occupants weren’t asleep. Perched among the ragtag cluster of wagons, threadbare tents, lean-tos, and baggage that comprised the camp, it also appeared far too merry for its dour neighbors. Nels knew where he was at once. Not all families stayed behind when a soldier went to war. Some of them traveled along with the army. Often considered equally unclean as their soldier family members, military families didn’t have much reason to remain behind.

  “I almost went to bed,” Westola said. “Do you have any idea what time it—”

  At that moment, Nels’s legs decided enough was enough. He tripped and a bolt of searing pain shot through him from neck to toes.

  Viktor said, “Can I get some help here?”

  Corporal Mustonen rushed to the rescue before Nels finally slipped through Viktor’s grip. Nels attempted not to scream his lungs out in the process.

  “Get him inside,” Westola said, holding the tent flap open. She didn’t look remotely shocked when the light within the tent revealed the extent of the damage.

  She’s seen this before, Nels thought. Or perhaps it’s not as bad as it feels?

  A pretty young woman with long black hair, dressed in an altered sergeant’s jacket without the insignia and a pair of tight-­fitting trousers, shut the lid of a trunk and straightened. She caught sight of him and gasped. Then she looked away and fled. />
  On second thought, it is as bad as it feels, Nels bit down on the pain until they finished getting him settled facedown onto a cot.

  Viktor suddenly let out a low whistle. “That’s impressive.”

  Westola set about separating his shirt from the wounds. “Pesola made short work of you. Usually, he takes his time. I wonder why he let you go so fast.”

  Nels ignored Viktor. Laying on his belly, it was easy enough to do. “He didn’t. I took my leave.”

  “You left without his permission?” Westola paused. “How?”

  “I have my ways,” Nels said.

  “He’s not going to be happy about that,” Westola said.

  Unfortunately, that wasn’t an aspect of the situation that Nels had thought through. Icy fear formed yet another cold knot in his gut. He did his best to sound cavalier in spite of it. “Is there a reason I should care?”

  “If there’s anyone else he can blame for your escape,” Westola said. She finished with the shirt and paused again—Nels assumed—to take inventory of the damage. “You damned well should.”

  “He didn’t leave a guard, if that’s what you’re asking.” Nels grimaced when she laid a chilly hand on his shoulder.

  “That’s good,” she said. Her hand warmed and then the pain slowly eased. “You should be careful of telling anyone where you were this evening.”

  Pesola will punish anyone he can. Westola, Viktor, and Mustonen will be first on his list. So will whoever owns this tent. “I should go,” Nels said, and attempted to get up.

  “Lay still, damn you,” Westola said, shoving him back down on the cot. “Or I’ll knock you unconscious. I can do it, you know. And you won’t be able to do a damned thing about it.”

  “Look. You’re the one who brought it up. I’m a danger to everyone here,” Nels said. “I should get back to my own tent.”

  “Only to have Pesola whisk you away again before dawn?” Viktor asked. “Oh no, you don’t. You’re staying right where you are. Do you think for an instant I’d let Westola drink the last of my best whiskey for nothing?”