Cold Iron

by Stina Leicht

  “The Acrasians have us cut off,” Nels said.

  Dylan said, “So I understand.”

  “I’ll be blunt,” Nels said. “I was wondering if you could conjure up a snowstorm.”

  “A blizzard?” Darius asked, outraged.

  Placing a hand on Darius’s knee, Dylan gestured for Darius to be quiet. “When?”

  “Do you think you can?” Nels asked.

  “It’s not a matter of whether I can,” Dylan said. “The question is whether you actually want me to. You do understand what such a thing might do to the city? There’s a chance of avalanche this close to the mountains.”

  “I’m mainly concerned with what it’ll do to the Acrasians,” Nels said. “We can’t let them get too comfortable out there.”

  “Ah.” Dylan smiled as understanding dawned. “I see.”

  Darius said, “You don’t know what it’ll do to—”

  “Stop worrying so much, Dar,” Dylan said. “I’ve you to help. Don’t I?”

  “Who said I would help?” Darius asked. “They’re asking you to do this, not me.”

  Dylan said, “It’s entirely up to you.”

  “You haven’t asked me, either,” Darius said.

  “All right,” Dylan said, “I’m asking you now.”

  The two of them stared at one another for a few seconds before Darius laughed.

  Dylan said, “We’ll do it.”

  “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Suvi said.

  “We’re trapped here too. Remember?” Dylan asked. “It’s not like it’ll make Kask’s relationship with the Acrasians any worse. And if it means you’ll be more likely to deliver the water steel you’re offering to Clan Kask … well, Father would want me to do this.”

  “You’ll be sick afterward,” Darius said.

  “As long as I have you to caring for me, it won’t be so bad,” Dylan said.

  “Charmer,” Darius said. He spoke to everyone else, “All right. If he’s mad enough to agree, I’m in too.”

  “Thank you,” Nels said. “What will you need?”

  SIX

  “Whose intensely stupid idea was this?” Nels asked in a hushed tone. His breath came out in clouds. The stones under his fingers and toes were slick and icy. He jerked in reflex when a sharp pain in his left hand informed him that he’d cut himself again. The mud below smelled of rotting sewage. Subsequently, broken glass was but one of the hazards of climbing this section of the west wall.

  “I believe it was Colonel Hännenen’s idea, sir,” Viktor whispered, and handed him the fuse cord.

  “Ahh. Right,” Nels said. “Remind me to tell the colonel that he’s an evil swiving bastard.”

  “Isn’t that the definition of ‘colonel’?” Viktor asked.

  “That explains a few things about Pesola.”

  “And for the record, you’re doing an excellent job.”

  “As a colonel or with this damned wall?” Nels secured the fuse cord.

  “I’ll leave that up to you to interpret,” Viktor said.

  “Thank y— Shit!” Nels resisted the urge to stick the injured digit in his mouth.

  “Of course, I’m not certain how well the fuse will light if you soak it in a gallon of blood.”

  “If Jarvi can set fire to a bridge in a rainstorm while standing in a river, I’m fairly certain a little blood isn’t going to be a challenge.”

  The weather was rapidly getting worse. While it had tempo­rarily stopped raining, the temperature had plummeted the instant the sun had gone down. Dylan and Darius at their work, thank Hasta, Nels thought. At this rate, the snows will hit before the Acrasians are in place. That’s what you wanted, right? His unease was growing rather than fading with the approaching storm. The Acrasians were taking too long, and he didn’t like it one bit. Viktor had reported there were only a few companies in place. Either Marcellus had thought to frighten him into surrendering prematurely, or the general was getting overconfident. It seemed Marcellus under­estimated him, and Nels was just fine with that. The longer they wait, the more time we have to prepare a welcome.

  In truth, the Acrasian general’s note hadn’t revealed much beyond the obvious. The western wall was the only one to which the Acrasian army had access. Jalokivi’s eastern side backed against jagged mountains, to the north there was King Einar’s Lake, which was said to be bottomless, and the Greater Sininen river hugged the southern wall. Naturally, the western side would be where the Acrasians would look for a flaw in the defenses, and they had found one.

  Or whoever had told them of it.

  It’d taken most of the night to finish digging, and this was the last of the traps he’d planned. The largest part of the crack was located at the base of the wall. Assuming he’d followed Jarvi’s instructions correctly, the explosion at the top would drop rocks and years of the city’s garbage on anyone attempting to enter, and fill the breach at the same time. The wall would be shorter, of course. However, that was why he’d borrowed a couple of cannon from Suvi’s ship, the Otter. They would provide a nice surprise. It wasn’t a bad trap as traps went. He’d designed several over the past few weeks. If the Acrasians entered Jalokivi, his intent was to slow them down enough to give the people a chance at evacuating. Not much of one but more of a chance than they would’ve had.

  “That should make Marcellus think twice.” Nels replaced the stone and made sure the final loop of fuse cord was hidden and secure. “Are Jarvi and Sirola finished?” His fingers and toes—the ones that hadn’t been shredded on broken glass—were going numb.

  Viktor turned and signaled to where the pair were working on filling in the trench. After a few seconds, Viktor nodded. “Looks like it.”

  “Good,” Nels said, keeping his voice low. “I’m damned well ready for tea, a fire, and dry feet. My toes are frozen. Do you remember where I left my boots?” His toes weren’t the only parts of him that were numb, but as the officer in charge, he was reluctant to bring up the subject.

  “You shouldn’t be doing this, you know,” Viktor said, holding up the boots in question.

  “I seem to recall having this conversation before,” Nels said. “Anyway, isn’t it a bit late to express objections? I’m done.” He climbed down, taking care not to cut himself all over again. He got to the bottom without further injury and found a rock to sit on while he stuffed cold feet into warm boots.

  “You’re not a foot soldier anymore,” Viktor said.

  “I wasn’t in the first place, was I?” Nels checked the cuts on his hands. “Do you think the healer will have time to see me? I don’t think I’ll be able to write like this.”

  “You have to be more careful.”

  “When did you become such a nursemaid?” Nels asked.

  Sirola and Jarvi arrived. Jarvi was out of breath.

  “Everything is in place, sir,” Jarvi said.

  “Let’s get back inside. I need a beer. The Broken Drum should still have a few barrels left, right, Jarvi?” Nels asked.

  Jarvi said, “Maybe?”

  “Viktor, make sure the way is clear,” Nels said.

  “Yes, sir.” Viktor headed into the fog.

  “How long will this fog last, sir?” Sirola asked.

  “As long as we need it to last. For now, until morning,” Nels said. “Is something wrong, Sirola?”

  “I don’t trust Waterborne,” Sirola said.

  “Why not?” Jarvi asked. “You trust me.”

  “You’re not Waterborne, Sarge,” Sirola said.

  “My grandmother was,” Jarvi said. “On my mother’s side.”

  “Oh,” Sirola said.

  “Do you have any other opinions about Waterborne you’d like to share?” Jarvi asked.

  Nels heard an owl hoot. “Come on. We don’t have all night.”

  “I thought we did, sir,” Sirola said.

  “Shut up, Private,” Jarvi said.

  Nels felt something cold brush against his right cheek. Thinking it was an insect—the
re certainly were enough of them around, due to the sewer at the foot of the west wall—he brushed it away. His hand came away wet. Another big white flake floated past his face, this time to the right. It was followed by three more. Staring up into the night sky, he smiled.

  It’s snowing, he thought. Thank the gods.

  SEVEN

  Nels was forcefully shaken from bad dreams. He leapt to his feet with a scream.

  “Swiving hells!”

  Breathing in gulps, Nels recognized the shadowy form and tossed the saber back onto the empty bedstead. Ilta had left for the Commons Hospital sometime in the night. “Viktor? What is it? Why are you here?” The barracks house was very chilly. His bare feet were cold on the floorboards. The coals were still banked for the night. Apparently, Mrs. Nimonen had yet to arrive and stoke the hearth fires for the day.

  Viktor said, “You scared the piss out of me.”

  Nels slumped backward, sitting on the edge of the feather bed, and then rubbed his face. Beard bristle abraded his newly healed palms. At that moment, it occurred to him that the windows were too dark and that Viktor was carrying a lantern. Nels had slept at a bad angle in the night.

  Massaging the back of his sore neck with one hand, he asked, “What time is it?”

  “Half past two in the morning.”

  “It’s not time for my turn at watch,” Nels said. He crawled back under the covers and pulled the pillow over his head. “Go away.” It’d been a rough night. The dreams had been worse than ever, and he was worried he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep. Now that he was awake, the anxiety nesting in the back of his skull had grown to the size of Keeper Mountain.

  “Get up,” Viktor said. “We’ve got trouble.”

  Nels sat up at once. “What is it?”

  “Something isn’t right in the palace.”

  Jumping to his feet for the second time, Nels snatched his breeches from the hook on the wall. Suddenly, sleep didn’t matter. “What something? Tell me!”

  “Private Kurri spied a bright red flash. Over the palace,” Viktor said. “There was an answering flash above the Acrasian encampment. I sent Kurri along with the rest of his squad to check the palace. No one’s reported back yet. Thought you’d want to know. I’ve a bad feeling about this.”

  You aren’t the only one. Nels tucked in his nightshirt and then dealt with stockings and boots in a rush. “Signal rockets?”

  “Signal rockets.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “More than a quarter of an hour ago. I ordered Corporal Kallela to send word the instant he entered the palace grounds.” Viktor’s pale, worried face was cast in orange, yellow, and gray. “Sergeant Gusstafson says the Acrasians are moving into position. Is this it?”

  “Let’s hope not,” Nels said. “Roust the regiment. Check the gates. I’ll tend to the palace.”

  “Take Overlieutenant Moller with you. He’s waiting outside. For that matter, take a platoon, too. We can spare them for now.”

  Pausing mid-button, Nels gave Viktor a look. “I think I can manage a walk to the palace on my own.”

  “And what if the Acrasians have found a way to infiltrate it?”

  Nels paused. “All right. Tell Larsson and her platoon to meet us on the corner of Anders Street and Royal.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Viktor?”

  “Yes?”

  “If I don’t come back, you’re to focus on holding Jalokivi. Got it? I can take care of myself.” Nels jammed his arms into his jacket and then his coat.

  “I know.”

  “How’s the weather?”

  Viktor opened the front door. Overlieutenant Sebastian Moller ceased stomping his feet for warmth and saluted. A thick layer of white carpeted the dooryard and more was pouring from the sky. If the wind were blowing in another direction, there’d have been a two-foot drift blocking the door.

  “Your sister’s friends really know how to throw a snowstorm,” Viktor said.

  Nels stepped outside. Between the snow and the darkness, he had trouble seeing the street. “Kurri must have sharp eyes. How did he see anything in all this?”

  “The storm intensified while I made my way here,” Viktor said.

  “Right,” Nels said, finishing with the buttons on his coat. “I’ll join you at the wall when I’m done. You’re in charge until I get there.”

  “All right,” Viktor said.

  “The Mother go with you.”

  “And you, too.” And with that, Viktor saluted and vanished into the swirling darkness.

  Already shivering, Nels grabbed his hat and then pulled his neck scarf tighter. “Come on, Moller. Let’s visit my sister’s uninvited guest.” Then he set about wading down the street toward the palace with the overlieutenant close behind.

  The snow was more than a foot deep in places. The snowdrifts were much higher. Wind gusts burst down the street with enough strength to force Nels to lean into them to keep his balance. He and Moller passed soldiers rousting out for duty while others cleared the street for horses and wagons. Nels was glad of the time he’d had to prepare. He hadn’t expected the summoned storm to be quite so powerful. If what they needed hadn’t been already in place, the storm would’ve made things difficult. And this is only the start. Dylan said it wouldn’t reach its peak until tomorrow. Nels almost felt sorry for the Acrasians. Almost.

  By the time they’d reached the designated corner, Larsson’s platoon was already waiting. Nels’s hat was already heavy from accumulated snow. Tilting his head back, he was reassured by the glimpse of a Royal Guardsman’s uniform at the top of the palace wall. They’re still at their posts, at least. Maybe Corporal Kallela forgot to check in? It wasn’t likely. Dread knotted Nels’s guts as he motioned for the platoon to follow.

  A lone Royal Guard was stationed on the other side of the black iron gate. Her eyes darted to the left and then back to him and his accompanying platoon. She bit her lip. Her concerned expression transformed into resolve and resignation.

  Viktor was right. Taking off his tricorne, Nels casually beat the snow off of it. “Colonel Hännenen requesting admittance.”

  “It’s late, sir,” the guard said. “Ah. No one in the palace is awake at this hour.”

  “Are you refusing entry?” Nels asked. I’ve never been stopped at the gate before. Not like this.

  “Ah, no,” the guard said. Again, her eyes flitted to the left.

  “Well, open the damned gates, Lieutenant,” Nels said. “Now.”

  The guardsman’s hands were shaking as she moved closer and reached through the bars to hand him something. She whispered, “Sir, there are Acr—”

  An explosion ended her reply. Several things happened all at once. The side of her head burst open. Deafened, Nels felt warm gobs of flesh splash his face. He tasted blood and sulfur-laden grit. He felt a second musket ball pass too close. In reflex, he dropped to his hands and knees. The troops ducked and drew their ­weapons. A powder cloud obscured Nels’s vision and filled his nose. Spying the dead guard’s hand, he scrabbled to retrieve whatever it was she’d been trying to give him. Two of his troops threw themselves at the locked gate to no avail. More shots blossomed orange and yellow. Powder smoke shrouded everything at waist height. However, from the ground he could see the bottom half of Acrasian uniformed soldiers moving toward him and the gate. Again, he gazed at the dead guard’s twitching hand. Her palm had fallen open. It took a moment for him to register what he was seeing.

  The gate key. May the Great Mother bless her. Nels grabbed it.

  One of his troops pulled at his left shoulder. “Sir, we can’t get in! We have to get out of here!”

  Drawing a pistol, Nels shook off Lieutenant Larsson and fired upward through the bars at the closest Acrasian. The Acrasian dropped. Nels used the key, keeping his head down as much as he could in the process. Then he shoved the gate with all his might. It met resistance in the form of another Acrasian. The Acrasian staggered, caught by the momentum of
swinging wrought iron. Another gun went off. Nels felt a hard thump in his left shoulder. Focused on getting to the palace, he didn’t check it. There was no time to reload, either. He stuffed the empty pistol back into his belt and got to his feet. “For Eledore!” He didn’t wait for the others to follow. Instead, he drew a second pistol and his saber and charged through the gates.

  The courtyard was choked with smoke and rifle fire. The bodies of the previous Eledorean patrol littered the ground. In the distance, he heard what he assumed was the first of his and Jarvi’s surprises set for the Acrasians. The explosion was huge. It briefly lit up the cloudy courtyard, and he felt the force of it through the soles of his boots. Two Acrasians almost ran into him. Nels killed the first before the Acrasian could shoot him. The second Acrasian missed. One of the other troops took the second Acrasian down while he attempted to reload. Nels kept moving, hoping the powder smoke would provide enough cover. Almost at the palace door, he hoped there wouldn’t be another Acrasian reception waiting. He ­stumbled on the first step and caught himself, slapping his palm against stone. The door’s fine brass knob was dented and bent. Nels made one attempt at the knob before resorting to kicking the door in. The main hall was empty. Risking a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw his platoon and Overlieutenant Moller were close behind.

  Stepping inside the main hall, Nels yelled, “Suvi?! Father?!” There was no way of knowing where either of them were being held, or even if they were prisoners. It was possible that they’d safely hidden themselves away in the castle keep. It was what a castle keep was for, after all. He decided to take the search one floor at a time, starting with the first-floor library and the keep below it.

  Priceless furniture lay overturned in the main hall. The cushions had been gutted. He sneezed. Goose down floated in the air. Valterri wasn’t anywhere in sight. Hiding somewhere safe, I hope, and unhurt, Nels thought. No one on the stairs. Good. He smelled smoke but saw no signs of fire. The immediate danger behind him, his left arm began to throb with dull pain. With his back against the right wall, he provided cover for his troops. They entered the main hall two at a time, each covering their partner. When he was sure it was safe, he took a moment to reload his pistols. Then he edged to the archway leading to the emerald sitting room on the right. He signaled for his platoon to be watchful and to check the room opposite. The last one through the front door was Private Lassila, who then shoved a broken bench against the entrance. Outside, the Acrasians battered the blockage. Lassila placed a pistol muzzle close to the cut lead glass pane and fired, shattering the glass. Flying shards rained down on one and all. Nels was cut, but not too badly, from what he could tell. A cloud of smoke filled the doorway. He shook his head. His ears were ringing.