Cold Iron

by Stina Leicht

  Peeking into the emerald sitting room, he saw it was empty. He signaled for two of his troops to go in and search. Waiting until the gray room to his left was also clear, he then crossed the main hall. With his back against the wall supporting the grand stairway, he scooted to the pocket doors on the left that led to the first-floor library. The doors were closed. That, in and of itself, wasn’t unusual. He laid a gentle hand on one black walnut panel to slide the first half open a crack when the sound of movement brought him up short. He turned and warned the others with a flat hand signal. Two soldiers remained at the front door to defend it. The rest of the platoon arranged itself on either side of the pocket doors. Nels waited until everyone was in place and ready before calling out.

  “Suvi? Father? It’s Nels. Is that you?”

  “Nels! Don’t—” It was Suvi.

  There was a loud thump. The pocket doors seemed to slam open of their own accord. Careful. The enemy is hiding on either side, just as we are. Nels signaled his troops to stay back.

  “Colonel Hännenen, I presume?” The words were spoken in Eledorean with a deep, cultured tone and an Acrasian accent.

  Formal court speech automatically rolled off Nels’s tongue. “You would appear to have me at a disadvantage.” In more ways than one. “Who are you?”

  “Then permit me to provide an introduction. I am General Lucrosia Marcellus of the Acrasian Regnum. I have your sister and your father prisoner. Are you prepared to surrender? Or must I suffer through another of your crudely charming retorts?”

  It was strange hearing an Acrasian affect Eledorean court speech. Where did you learn it? And more importantly, how did you get inside the palace? Nels thought.

  “Will you stop wasting my time?” Marcellus asked. “Or do I kill your father now?”

  “As I see it, you’re planning on murdering him anyway,” Nels said. “Where is the advantage in surrendering?”

  “How about I don’t kill your sister as well?”

  “That depends; are you planning on shooting me the instant I show myself?”

  “I think I’d like to meet the legendary Ghost face to face,” Marcellus said.

  Nels blinked. “Ghost?”

  “Don’t sound so humiliated,” Marcellus said. “It sounds more formidable in Acrasian.”

  “Who in all the hells came up with that?”

  “My men did. After that skirmish on the road to Herraskariano,” Marcellus said.

  Nels snorted. “Who’d have thought Acrasians were so easy to impress?”

  “Are you coming out or not?” Marcellus asked.

  There really wasn’t much of an option, as Nels saw it. If he showed himself, he had a chance at a delay and perhaps then an opportunity to come up with a solution. At the least, he’d know what he was up against. If he stayed where he was, it’d end when the Acrasians outside rammed their way into the main hall. What if they’re holding the back door, too? I know I would be.

  One step at a time.

  His one advantage was that he knew the palace better than Marcellus did. Nels turned and whispered to Overlieutenant Moller, “There’s a servants’ entrance at the back of the library. It’s a hidden door. They may not have found it. It’s connected to a passage that runs between the dining room and the library and then outside to the kitchen. Send Larsson and a squad to the dining room. Have them go through the passage and wait at the secret door. The rest stay here. I’ll stall Marcellus and signal the Acrasians’ numbers and positions to you, if I can. The instant I step from that doorway, move in. Use smoke grenades for cover. Get in there and take out as many Acrasians as you can. Leave the king and the princess to me. Got it?”

  Moller nodded.

  “Well?” General Marcellus asked.

  “I’m thinking,” Nels said. He put away his saber and checked his pistols while Moller conveyed the orders to the others with whispers and hand signals.

  “This isn’t that difficult a decision,” Marcellus said.

  “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one being asked to trust an Acrasian.”

  Marcellus asked, “Excuse me?”

  Moller indicated he was done with a nod.

  “I would apologize,” Nels said, “but holding my father at gunpoint doesn’t exactly instill positive thoughts. I’m sure you would feel the same were our roles reversed.”

  “Let me assure you, our roles would never be reversed,” Marcellus said.

  “That sounds like a challenge.” Nels drew a pistol and then stepped into the doorway. Hoping the blood soaking his sleeve might account for it, he kept his left hand slack and behind his back and scanned the room. Then he signaled left-handed to Larsson. Fifteen men. Six on the right. Five on the left. Four in the—

  “Oh. Hello, Uncle,” Nels said, doing his best not to show surprise. “Suvi and I thought you might be the source of Marcellus’s information.”

  Uncle Sakari narrowed his eyes. “Don’t speak to me, defect.”

  The troops. They’re listening. Nels swallowed and tried not to consider what they’d think if his uncle revealed the truth. “Tell me, Uncle. What do you get out of this? Didn’t you have enough already? Or was it because you finally understood that Suvi knew what you were doing? Why should the Acrasians trust you? I have to say, it can’t be your taste in entertainment. General Marcellus, I don’t suppose you heard about what my uncle did to your last ambassador?”

  “I’ll see both your hands, Hännenen,” Marcellus said. “Now.”

  Praying Larsson had enough information, Nels raised his left hand with a wince that was only half-faked. Blood pounded in his ears. The pain in his arm gathered strength. New details filtered in. His father’s betrayed expression transforming into hope and defiance. The tears and swelling bruises on his sister’s face. The hastily stuffed gag in her mouth. The blood smeared across her chin. That worried Nels until he spied the Acrasian soldier on her left. The hand he had clamped on her arm had been badly bitten. Nels almost smiled. His father was gagged, too. That’s interesting. Then he noticed that the Acrasian soldiers had cotton wool stuffed in their ears.

  Smart. Even Marcellus had cotton in one ear. Not that it would save you. You wouldn’t have time to plug your other ear before Uncle had you in his power.

  “Drop the pistol. I want both hands in the air.” General Marcellus wasn’t as tall as Nels had imagined. His dark brown hair was cropped short, and his eyes were pale. He was wearing a long, dark gray uniform coat over a deep green jacket. Both were layered on top of a yellow waistcoat and a bright red sash. An ornate silver pin marked his rank. His buttons were silver. He stood next to the king. On the other side, an Acrasian soldier had Nels’s father at gunpoint. Two more stood on either side of Suvi.

  Nels gave his family what hoped was a reassuring look.

  “I said, drop the pistol, Hännenen,” General Marcellus said.

  Nels smiled. “How about I lay it on the ground instead?”

  “Just do it. Both pistols. The saber as well.”

  “All right,” Nels said. Keeping his eyes on General Lucrosia, he began placing his weapons on the floor. How much longer do the troops need? The servants’ entrance to the dining room wasn’t hidden. It shouldn’t take long to find it. Unless the Acrasians have troops in the dining room. His racing heart staggered.

  Stop it. You’d have heard something if that were the case. He straightened.

  “Kick your weapons toward me,” General Marcellus said.

  Nels did as ordered. He wasn’t enthusiastic about it.

  “Now step away from the door,” General Marcellus said.

  Here’s hoping everyone is in position. Nels moved from the doorway.

  Moller shouted from the hall, “Larsson!”

  A smoke grenade clattered and rolled into the room. The iron ball hit the king in the leg and bounced away. The servants’ door slammed open. Larsson and two others fired on the Acrasians from behind. Nels dove for his pistols. Gunfire went off all at once. He wa
s able to reach one pistol before an Acrasian boot caught him in the side. Rolling, he pointed the gun up and fired. Nothing happened. Another round of shots went off. The Acrasian fell. More smoke filled the room. Nels retrieved his second pistol and his saber. Then he covered his nose with the crook of his arm and hunch-walked to his sister and father, who’d taken refuge behind a desk. His father was wounded in the shoulder. Bright crimson stained the teal silk of the loose bed jacket he wore over his nightshirt.

  Nels positioned himself on the floor next to Suvi and painfully reloaded both pistols, wary of the battle around them. He spied eight dead on the floor. Five wore Acrasian uniforms. Where is Uncle Sakari? And Marcellus?

  “Thank the Great Mother, you’re still alive,” Suvi said. She glanced at him over her shoulder and then continued tugging at her hem. She wasn’t making much progress.

  “Apparently, I’m good at it.” Nels risked peeking inside the drawer where he knew his father kept a penknife. He fished it out and handed it to her.

  “They killed Piritta.” Suvi accepted the knife and made short work of her silk nightgown’s hem. Her expression was hard, determined.

  “How?”

  “Just do what you have to. There’s no point in talking to them.” She moved to apply the makeshift bandage to their father’s wound. “I’ve got this.”

  Nels pulled her hand away. “The blood. Let me. You can’t touch—”

  “This isn’t the time for meaningless taboos,” Suvi said.

  The king said, “You’re my heir. You cannot—”

  An Acrasian spotted them and charged. Nels aimed his pistol and fired. The Acrasian dropped but then struggled to get up. Reloading, Nels shot him a second time before he could get closer.

  “Father, I love you, but shut up,” Suvi said and began to bind their father’s wound with white silk. “Mother said, know when to follow tradition and when to ignore it. If this isn’t one of those times, I don’t know what is. Nels, may I have one of your pistols?”

  “What?!”

  “Just give me a damned pistol,” Suvi said.

  “But it’s unclean. I used it to kill—”

  “Do you want us to die?” she asked.

  Nels checked the pistol, reloaded it, and handed it to her. He offered her extra shot and powder, but she refused.

  “You’re staying with us,” she said. “I only want the one shot. I won’t need more than one. If that. Well, hopefully not even that. I hope.”

  “We can’t stay here,” Nels said, peering over the top of the desk. “The Acrasians will break down the front door soon if they haven’t already.” The smoke was so thick in the room that it was difficult to see and breathe. His eyes stung and his words caught in his throat. He coughed. He wasn’t the only one. He checked on the platoon. The fight seemed to be going well. They had the Acrasians outnumbered.

  Glass crashed. A window. They’re trying to get fresh air into the room. Another window shattered. He spied shadows at the openings. “The Acrasians are forcing their way in. I don’t know how many are stationed at the back of the house. We can go through the servants’ access and take them—”

  “The keep,” Suvi said, coughing. “We must go down to the keep.”

  “Right. Good idea. You and Father should go. Once you are both secure, I’ll take the platoon down the servants’ passage and—”

  “You have to go with us,” Suvi said. “All of you.”

  “I can’t cower in the keep,” Nels said. “I’ve the city to protect.”

  “You don’t understand,” Suvi said. “There’s a tunnel under the palace. It leads to Keeper Mountain. If we don’t block it off, the Acrasians will blow it up beneath us.”

  “Oh.” That’s how Marcellus got in, Nels thought. “Wait. Why didn’t I know about this?”

  “For the Great Mother’s sake,” Suvi said, “this isn’t the—”

  An Acrasian leapt up on the desk. Again, Nels fired. Warm blood splattered him in the face. The Acrasian soldier tumbled on top of the king.

  Nels shoved the body away. “Father? Are you all right? Father?!”

  His father sat up, choking and shuddering. He nodded.

  The smoke began to clear. Nels made out the shapes of people but couldn’t see their insignia. Another shadowy form approached.

  Nels turned, aiming the pistol. “Stop right there!”

  “It’s me! Larsson, sir! Don’t shoot! We’ve won!”

  Lowering his weapon, Nels said, “Report.”

  “We’ve two …” Larsson gave Suvi and his father a sideways glance.

  “Go on,” Nels said.

  “We’ve two dead. Three wounded,” Larsson said. “The Acrasians are … eh … gone.”

  “All of them?” Nels asked. “Where’s General Marcellus and my uncle?”

  Larsson said, “I never saw your uncle or the general.”

  “How many Acrasian dead do you count?” Nels asked. I need to know how many are left.

  “Nine, sir,” Larsson said. “We couldn’t find the others. Moller thinks they may have fled through the windows.”

  Another bang and crash caused the building to shudder.

  “Tell Private Lassila and the rest to get in here,” Nels said. “Then barricade the doors. Gather the wounded. Strip the dead of weapons and powder. And report back to me. We’re leaving. Now.”

  “Yes, sir.” Larsson saluted and left.

  Suvi helped their father to his feet. He seemed much ­stronger now that the air was clearing. Nels checked and reloaded his ­pistols. It wasn’t easy with his injured left arm. The pain had finally reached a point where it couldn’t be ignored. Finished with the pistols, he decided to risk a look and shed both coat and jacket. The cold drifting in from the broken windows slapped him at once. He tugged at the tear in his sleeve. It was hard to tell at that angle, but he thought the ball had passed through the meat of his upper arm.

  “Let me see to that, sir. Mrs. Westola has been teaching me a few things over the past few weeks. Mostly how to judge a wound. I can help,” Sergeant Wiberg said. “Looks like you were lucky. It isn’t too bad.”

  “Just get the bleeding stopped,” Nels said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Larsson returned shortly after Wiberg finished and Nels had struggled back into his jacket and coat.

  “Let’s go,” Nels said. “Moller, Kalastaja, and Kulmala, you’re with me. We’re first. Second squad, you’re at the front. When I give the signal, you, Suvi, and Father are next. Then Wiberg, you’re with the wounded. First squad, you’re last. Lassila and Larsson, you’re taking the rear. I want you to bolt the door once we’re through. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Nels led the way. He found the door to the keep ajar and the lanterns lit in their niches on the way down. The moldy smell coming up from below was more dank than usual. Must be the rain.

  “I sent Piritta to get the keep prepared,” Suvi said, blinking back a fresh set of tears. “I sent her here, and they killed her.”

  Nels put a finger to his lips, signaling for quiet.

  Lantern flames flickered. He felt a cool breeze. Hardly daring to breathe, he inched his way down. There were no sounds from below. The area visible from the steps showed only the familiar rug covering the stone floor and nothing else. Halfway down, Nels put his back against the right wall and signaled for Moller to do the same to the left. Together, they neared the bottom and stopped. With pistols at the ready, Nels slowly made his way to the last step.

  The room was empty. A woman lay on the floor dressed in a pale blue silk dressing gown. Dark crimson colored both carpet and silk.

  She’s lost too much blood, Nels thought. She’s dead. He told himself he’d been prepared for it. Still, it was one thing to know and another to see.

  “Piritta!” Suvi rushed to the body.

  Their father said, “Suvi, be careful!”

  At the top of the stairs, Larsson slammed the heavy iron door closed, bolted and barred it. “
Door is secure, sir.”

  Nels crossed the room to Piritta’s body. He’d seen a great deal of death in his years in the Royal Army. He’d lost friends before, but this was … different. Piritta had been his sister’s souja. She wasn’t a soldier. He’d grown up with her. The situation seemed unreal and distant. It was as if he were watching his sister and Sergeant Wiberg bend over Piritta’s body through someone else’s eyes. Wiberg recited the Prayer for the Dead Lost in Combat in hushed tones. Suvi held Piritta’s head in her lap. Nels half expected Piritta to sit up and push them both away in disgust. At the same time, he had a sense that the body lying on the floor wasn’t Piritta any longer. It couldn’t be. All the years he’d avoided her. All the years she’d made him uncomfortable. I could’ve been nice to her. Just once. She would’ve understood how I felt. She was a souja. He thought again of everyone and everything he’d lost in the past few months. Mother. Guilt and grief lodged huge in his throat.

  He turned away from the scene, and when he did, he spotted something he’d never noticed before—an open panel. He grabbed one of the lanterns from its niche and peered inside. Beyond the hidden door, the opening became a twenty-foot-wide tunnel. The ceiling was equally as tall. The smooth walls said it was a naturally formed cave. However, long claw marks stretched several feet at a time. Ancient symbols chiseled into the stone warned away demons and professed the triumph of light. Tree roots pierced the ceiling. It smelled of damp earth, mold, and sweating stone. It was cold, too, far colder than the winter day above. He detected the rush of water in the distance.