Cold Iron

by Stina Leicht

  “And my troops?” Nels asked.

  “Those who survive can leave with you. They can take their weapons as well,” Marcellus said. “I propose a truce, not surrender.”

  “I don’t understand,” Nels said. “You’ve won. Why would you do this?”

  Marcellus glanced at the gyrfalcons guarding the cave. “Your kind can command malorum. And yet, on the brink of destruction, you didn’t use them as allies to defeat us. If your people worship evil as they say, then you wouldn’t have hesitated. You would’ve released them, not imprisoned them.”

  Nels stared. The thought of doing such a thing hadn’t even occurred to him.

  “I’ve never been terribly religious,” Marcellus said. “I’ve always left those matters to others. But …” He shrugged. “I think the people of Acrasia have been misled.”

  “You do?” Nels asked.

  “My kind couldn’t have done what you did in there,” Marcellus said, and shuddered. “Do you think … would it be possible …” He swallowed. “Do you think you and your queen could send all of them back to where they came from? Do you think you could drive the malorum out of Acrasia?”

  Nels said, “I think we’d be willing to try.”

  “Then when I’m questioned as to why I let you go, I’ll tell them,” Marcellus said. He put out a hand. “I give you my oath.”

  “The word of an Acrasian?” Nels asked.

  Marcellus paused and then drew his dagger.

  There was no way Nels could defend himself. He was too weak. Why did Suvi give him back his weapons?

  “I offer you a blood oath, then,” Marcellus said. “I know you believe in those.”

  “Oh,” Nels said. “One moment.” He called to Suvi.

  “What is it?” she asked, kneeling down next to him. She saw Marcellus’s dagger and terror flashed across her face. “I command you—”

  “Don’t,” Nels said before she could finish. “He’s offering a truce. He’s willing to let everyone go free, but it’s not my place to accept.”

  “Well, tell him I accept before he changes his mind,” she said.

  “You haven’t heard the terms,” Nels said.

  She said, “Explain so I can accept already. People are dying. We have to get home.”

  “He’s taking the city and turning us out. It’s winter,” Nels said. “We don’t have anywhere to go. We’ll freeze to death or starve.”

  “We can go to Ytlain,” Suvi said. “I can’t imagine Cousin Edvard will turn us away. Not now.”

  “Help me up, then,” Nels said. “I can’t do this lying down.”

  He reopened the cut in his palm. It stung something awful. When he offered his hand to Marcellus, he repeated a line from the Soldier’s Contrition: “What is lost in war cannot be replaced in vengeance.”

  Confusion clouded Marcellus’s face.

  Switching back to Acrasian, Nels said, “It’s a blessing.”

  “Ah,” Marcellus said, and took his hand. “Very well, then.”

  “We’ll go to the palace in the morning and meet with your army under a flag of truce,” Nels said. “Any idea how you’re going to convince them that you’re not under an Eledorean spell?”

  “I’ll find a way,” Marcellus said. “Are you always this thorough in your pessimism?”

  Nels asked, “Wouldn’t you be?”

  Marcellus seemed to take in the others’ faces. “I suppose I would.”

  SUVI

  ONE

  “Everything is packed, Your Grace,” Valterri said, buckling the last trunk. “I’ll see that your things get to the coach. The Otter is waiting.”

  Suvi didn’t know how the old butler had managed to survive, but she was glad of it. Having him and Ide nearby gave her comfort. Everything is going to be so different. I won’t have any of the things Father had to build with. I’ll be starting from nothing. She paused to say good-bye to the palace, her childhood home, and everything it represented. Even Kassarina Ilmari, the first Queen of Eledore, had more than I do. In all the years Suvi had imagined growing up to be like Grandmother Hännenen or the hero of whatever story her mother had told her, Suvi had never thought about what that might really mean. All the best stories, no matter how happy the ending, resulted in the uncertainty of abrupt change and loss. That’s the price of adventure.

  “Ready?” Ilta asked.

  “When I read history, everything seemed so preordained,” Suvi said. “You don’t even consider that there were other options. That everything might not have turned out the way it did.”

  Ilta nodded. “That’s true.”

  “Did I do the right thing?” Suvi asked. “Did I make the right choice?”

  “You made the right choice.”

  “We’ll have nothing,” Suvi said.

  “The nut must shed its shell in order to grow into a tree.”

  Suvi gave her a look. “Really? Did you just say that?”

  “I’m your advisor. It’s my duty to come up with adages, isn’t it?”

  “Does it have to sound so much like—like a bad poem?”

  “I’m new at this.” Ilta shrugged and smiled. “Give me time to practice.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Gran said that there are some fates in which it’s not wise to meddle. No matter how much you would rather otherwise. It’s the Great Circle. Everything is born, grows old, and dies.”

  “But Eledoreans don’t believe in death.”

  “That was our first mistake. We willfully put off a fate that was not meant to be avoided.”

  “So, the truth is Eledore is dead?”

  “Not dead,” Ilta said. “More like … sleeping.”

  Suvi sighed. “We’re refugees.”

  “We have enough to begin again,” Ilta said. She stared into the distance. “We’ll have help. The way ahead will be difficult, but the people won’t starve. Try to think of this as shedding all that we don’t need.”

  “Really?” Suvi asked.

  “Grieve first. When you’re done, you’ll see you have a choice,” Ilta said. “To think of all this in a positive light or to think of it negatively. I suspect the first will be more helpful in the long run.”

  “If you say so.”

  “We’ll be back one day.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Ilta paused and then nodded. “We will.”

  You mean Nels will, Suvi thought.

  “You both will,” Ilta said. “Together.”

  Suvi’s face grew hot. She’d been reminded again of how little she was able to protect her own thoughts.

  “The dead create room for new life.” Ilta whispered the phrase as if it were part of a prayer.

  “Let’s go.” Suvi whirled, turning her back on her old rooms and her old life.

  Nels and the last of her servants waited outside. They would board Northern Star and head southwest toward the Chain Lakes. With Dylan to keep the ice from stopping them, they were free to go. From there, she might even head out to the ocean. She would have her childhood wish—a fleet—and nothing else. The Water­borne live in much the same way. Why can’t we?

  Vast snowdrifts made it easier to pretend the damage from the siege was less. She huddled inside fur-trimmed velvet and nursed the ache in her heart. The air was sharp, crisp, and it pinched her cheeks. Nels stood at attention next to the coach. He looked tired. His uniform was ill used, and yet he’d managed some dignity. His friend Viktor was next to him. A band of Acrasian soldiers clustered around the coach. They’d been sent to escort her to her ship. Marcellus was being generous, allowing her to leave with everything she and her people could carry. She was certain he’d see severe repercussions for it, but it was obvious Ilta’s faith in him was well placed.

  Reaching out, Nels offered to help her into the coach. She looked back one last time. An Acrasian flag fluttered above the ­tallest tower, but it wasn’t alone. A purple Eledorean banner flew just under it. The sky was a gray and blurry background.

  �
��Dylan says the weather won’t wait,” Nels said. “Another blizzard will hit before nightfall. It’s to be a real beast. He can only hold it back for so long. He must save some of his power to get us to Järvi Satama and the summer palace. We need to get to Ytlain before the Emperor replaces Marcellus.”

  Suvi nodded. Three hundred troops and a couple thousand people. That’s all we are now. I don’t even know how we’ll hide them all away.

  The dead create room for new life, she told herself, and turned to face the future.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Once upon a time, I read an essay about the fantasy genre that was printed at the end of Chris Bunch and Allan Cole’s Sten Chronicles series. The authors stated that fantasy, unlike science fiction, positively depicts feudalism. The obvious reason why is because J.R.R. Tolkien was British. That thought, in turn, led to the seed question for The Malorum Gates. That is, if Tolkien had been American, what would fantasy look like? I strongly suspect that “more fantasy” was not the goal behind that essay, but I’ll thank them for it nonetheless.

  The list of resources used for Cold Iron is comparatively short. There’s a reason for that. I believe that a writer who doesn’t take risks is one who doesn’t grow in skill. So, this novel stretched a different set of muscles—mainly that of making shit up. That said, Cold Iron does have its resources, helpful fairies, guardian angels, and various inspirational influences.

  First, I want to thank those who kindly offered their expertise. Chris Levesque answered questions about the military, and Veera Mäkelä kindly provided help with Finnish. Mind you, this book probably still contains bad translations. That’s not her fault but mine. Try to keep in mind that Eledore is an imaginary place with imaginary languages that originated from a wide swath of ­imaginary peoples—much like the United States (only slightly more imaginary.*) I needed some way of demonstrating that Eledore had existed for a long time—one of those ways is through the eroding of place names and such. Mind you, if I were as skilled with linguistics as J. R. R. Tolkien, I’d have designed my own language. However, I’m aware of my shortcomings. I’m dyslexic, after all, and hell, I had a tough time with what little Irish I managed to cram into my wooden skull. (And that is very little indeed.) The Finnish learning curve is simply too steep. Mind you, Finnish is definitely worth learning. Like Irish, it’s gorgeous.

  With that, I should go ahead and thank J. R. R. Tolkien. The Lord of the Rings swept me away to Middle Earth, and part of me never came back. Much of my teenage years were spent sketching scenes and characters from his books. (I’m probably one of five people who read The Silmarillion three times.) My heart will always live in Middle Earth. And while Tolkien is often (rightly) criticized for his lack of female characters … well … I’ll just start and finish with Eowyn, the first character that showed me I could pick up a sword even though I was female. She told me that my daydreams of being a knight instead of a princess weren’t silly. Eowyn, with all her self-doubt, made me understand that in order to be a brave warrior, one had to truly fear. For that reason, she made me feel as if I could do anything. And if someone declared that no man could do something? Well, that restriction sure as hell had no effect upon me because I am a woman. It was the first time I’d seen womanhood demonstrated as an advantage in fantasy. (Sadly, it was also just about the last.) I’d also like to thank George R. R. Martin. My husband handed me a copy of A Game of Thrones back in 1998. There is no doubt that it positively inspired me. Martin gave me permission to look outside of the standard epic fantasy medieval framework. He demonstrated that actual history was a very good place to look for fantasy settings, characters, and plots. (Regardless of how “true” you remained with the history.) Another big influence is Sir Terry Pratchett. He is, and always will be, someone I admire. The more I learn about writing, the more his ability to employ humor while conducting a thoughtful discussion on what it means to be human simply takes my breath away. He is, and always will be, one of the greats.

  Others I wish to mention are Stephen King, Ray Bradbury, Charles de Lint, Ursula K. Le Guin, Michael Moorcock,† Diana Gabaldon, Ellen Kushner, Nisi Shawl, Kari Sperring, Scott Lynch, Mary Robinette Kowal, and Holly Black. All are wonderful writers and well worth your time. I should also list some historical fiction/classic fiction writers whose works helped me wrap my imagination around Cold Iron’s technological era: Gabriel Sabatini, Robert Louis Stevenson, Pierre Choderlos de Laclos, Jane Austen, Patrick O’Brian, C. S. Forester, and Bernard Cornwell.

  Also? While there are many people who told me I was wasting my time, D&D taught me about world-building and story­telling. I learned a great deal about myself, too. I’m not alone in this. For that reason, I’d like to thank my gaming group—present and past: Thad, Andrew, Valerie, Alex, Andre, Chris, Christian, Alice, Matt, Katie, Leah, Steve, Stephanie, Mo, John, Mandy, Jame, and, of course, my husband, Dane “I’ve a plan. I need 50 feet of rope and a hobbit.” Caruthers.

  Thanks must go out to my writing group: Amanda Downum, Fade Manly, Elizabeth Bear, and Skyler White, and my former neighbors, Pat and Fawn, for lending me their front porch. Writing outside isn’t the same now that you’re not around to share coffee with. (May Seattle make you and little Uli very happy.) Also many thanks to Nisi Shawl, Cynthia Ward, and Mary Robinette for the Writing the Other Workshop.

  Bless you, Melissa Tyler. Because.

  I want to give a shout-out to Angel Sword of Driftwood, Texas, and Master Swordsmith Daniel Watson for giving me a private tour of his sword forge. A big thank-you to Cherie Priest for taking me around the Civil War battlegrounds in Chattanooga, Tennessee. (Hooray for ghost stories and cannons!) Also, I’d like to mention Moy Yat Kung Fu Studio of Austin (Aaron Vyvial) and Hakkoryu Ken-Nin Dojo of Austin (John Cole).

  Some of the nonfiction I used for reference included Lt. Col. Dave Grossman’s On Killing and On Combat, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee by Dee Brown, Guns, Germs, and Steel by Jared Diamond, Pox Americana by Elizabeth A. Fenn, We Were Soldiers Once … and Young by Lt. Gen. Harold G. Moore and Joseph L. Galloway, War by Sebastian Junger, A Rumor of War by Philip Caputo, and both Matterhorn and What It Is Like to Go to War by Karl Marlantes.

  I am a child of the 1970s. The Vietnam War factored largely in my life during the years when I was first forming my perceptions of the world. Many of the questions in this book are a direct result of what I witnessed. I lived next door to a young man and his wife (sadly I can’t remember their names). Not long after they’d moved in, he’d returned from a tour in Vietnam. Captain Karpanen’s expression when Nels asks what it’s like to kill comes directly from my memory. (Yes, I, like Nels, asked.) In part, this book is for that neighbor and all the others who suffered. Mind you, I’m aware not all of war is about suffering. If it were, we wouldn’t read war stories. Certainly, epic fantasy, a genre known for its escapism, wouldn’t contain so much war. My belief is that combat—horrifying as it is, not only brings out the very worst in people—it also can bring out the very best. Nonetheless, I much, much prefer peace. I may be a Goth, but I’m also a damned hippie and proud of it.

  I’d also like to thank my copyeditor, Richard Shealy. Not only was he a joy to work with, but he laughed at the funny parts. My agent Barry Goldblatt deserves a big THANK-YOU. He knows why. Well … outside of the fact that he is amazing, listens to me when I’m being silly, and fought for my welfare even before he was officially my agent. Then there’s my editor, Joe Monti. There aren’t enough words for the wonderful he is. He plucked me out of the slush pile when he was an agent and snapped me up again when he went back to editing. I remain stunned by that miracle, and I firmly believe that there isn’t anyone who understands my work better, outside of myself.

  Lastly, there’s my husband, Dane. He is, without a doubt, the most wonderful, funny, sexy, patient, and fun man in the world. And since I know a large number of wonderful men, that’s saying something.

  *

  * Ask anyone from Austin to pronounce “Manor,”
“Guadalupe,” “Burnet,” or “Manchaca.” You’ll know what I mean.

  † Nels does, in fact, get the color of his hair from Elric.

  TURN THE PAGE FOR A PREVIEW OF THE NEXT ADVENTURE FROM THE MALORUM GATES:

  BLACKTHORNE

  DRUSUS

  NOVUS SALERNUM

  THE REGNUM OF ACRASIA

  29 AUGUST

  THE TWENTY-FIRST YEAR IN THE SACRED REIGN OF EMPEROR HERMINIUS

  “This can’t have been a malorum attack,” Cadet Warden Fortis Drusus muttered more to himself than to his partner. “It’s too messy.” Heart pounding in his ears, he gazed at the drying blood on the brick wall while his partner, Tavian, retched.

  What a mess, Drusus thought. He fought his own urge to be sick. Focus. Remember your training. Follow procedure and you’ll get through this. Show no weakness. Remember Tavian is watching. Glancing at the hunched Tavian, Drusus reconsidered that last thought. Still, this was their first corpse in the field, and Drusus was determined not to give Tavian any opportunities for advancement at his expense. Not like poor Severus.

  Drusus’s stomach muscles knotted again. Unable to bear the sight any longer, he checked the roofline and alley for ­trouble. Wiping palms slick with sweat on his uniform trousers, he hoped the beat of his heart was the only thing left to betray him. Other­wise, he felt calm. Too calm, he suspected. He wasn’t entirely sure if that was due to the training or the unreality of the situation. He forced himself through the next steps. Making note of the time for the report, he snapped his pocket watch shut with a precise click. A quarter to eleven.

  At first glance, the victim had appeared to be nothing more significant than a mound of filthy and stained rags. Drusus had been about to return to his rounds when the drying bloodstains had stopped him. He’d gone as far as to signal to Tavian before entering the alley alone when the sight of the disembodied hand had brought him up short. Having only recently graduated from the Academy, he hadn’t been sure of himself until that moment. It was a relief to understand that he’d passed the first test.