Ironshield

by Edward Nile

  No pressure there. Damn, why did it have to be him? James was in hot water enough with Theodore Kolms’ daughter, Tessa, without this. “He shouldn’t have done that. None of you should have.”

  “Weren’t going to let you hang, Commander.”

  “Who knows?” James replied. “It might have won our cause all the sooner if I did.”

  *

  Samuel knelt by the body of Nicholas Warren, the youngest and last surviving member of his Red Guard, and closed the dead boy’s eyelids with his fingers.

  Nineteen years old, Samuel thought. I should have sent you home with honors after Graytop. If I had, you’d still be alive…

  “Senator…”

  “Any sign of forced entry, Paulson?” Samuel didn’t look up at his secretary. He kept his head down, trying to compose himself. “Any more dead, injured, or missing staff?”

  “No,” Paulson sighed. “But someone did order to have the rear garden left unattended just before the incident.”

  “Ordered?” Samuel stood up. “Do we have a ranking official in my house I wasn’t made aware of? Who gave this ‘order’ that it went over my head?”

  Paulson met his gaze. Today’s events had sobered the man, somewhat. Samuel would have preferred Paulson’s usual inebriation to that solemn, pitying gaze. He knew, right then, what the answer would be. But Samuel had to hear it. “Edmund, who gave the order?”

  “Leanne. It was your wife, Sam.”

  Security officials debriefed Samuel on everything they knew so far as they followed him up the winding steps within the Senate House. He nodded, pretending to listen as they described how Retribution had come bursting out of a dockside warehouse, having no doubt been smuggled down the channel in pieces, then re-assembled here in Edinville over the course of several weeks.

  “An expensive operation, Senator, and one that would require people within the town.”

  “Of course,” Samuel muttered. His throat still stung from the gunpowder, dust, and diesel fumes of the duel. His shoes clicked on the marble-tiled hallway when he reached the second story.

  “We managed to capture a pair of fishing boats with forged manifests. They could be run-of-the-mill illicit traders, or they could have been the Northerners’ transport. We aren’t sure—"

  “Then don’t waste my time about it until you are sure!” Samuel snapped. “Just find Edstein and leave me be.”

  “Sir!” The security officers saluted and about-faced, for all the world as though Samuel were still a military commander. Which, of course, he was. And now everyone would know it.

  He ground his teeth as he turned to a pair of oak double doors and shoved his way through.

  Inside, two rifle-toting soldiers spun to block his path, but snapped to attention and saluted upon recognizing him. Behind them, on a lace-fringed couch, sat Leanne Mutton.

  Samuel’s wife straightened in her seat, lifting her chin and meeting his gaze with cool defiance. This quashed any doubt he’d carried that the allegations were true. His wife was a traitor, an agent for the Industrialist North.

  “Leave us,” Samuel ordered.

  “Senator, Sir. With all due respect, I don’t think that’s a good—"

  “I will speak to my wife alone,” he said without turning to the man. “Or do you doubt my ability to defend myself?”

  “I… of course not, Sir.” With hurried salutes that Samuel barely noticed, both men left.

  Samuel waited, silent and still, until the door closed behind him. Once it did, he started pacing, aware of Leanne’s hazel eyes following his every move.

  “Sam…” she finally said.

  He grabbed the nearest chair and smashed it against a wall.

  Leanne flinched as shards of wood scattered about the room, but otherwise gave no reaction.

  “We live together, Leanne,” Samuel growled. “We share the same rooms. Once upon a time, we even shared the same bed. If you wanted me assassinated, there were at least a dozen ways you could have picked that wouldn’t have got anyone else hurt. Now my town is in ruins and a young man, a kid who put his faith and trust in me, is dead. Does that even matter to you, or are you so enamored with the North as to think all our Southern lives worthless?”

  “I didn’t want Nicholas dead,” Leanne looked at her hands, clasped in her lap. “And I didn’t want you dead, either. Theodore was only supposed to distract you. I never… no one ever thought you’d actually try to fight him.” Her expression hardened. “Had you told me the truth, Sam, about your role, about your still being Striker Crimson, I’d have known better than to expect you to avoid a battle.”

  “Right, you betray me and your country, connive to have a Warsuit marched in the streets and an enemy commander, a murderer, set free. But I’m to be chastised for dishonesty?”

  “James Edstein is not a murderer,” Leanne snapped. “And the Industrialists are not traitors, no matter what Davids and his cronies say.”

  “Edstein broke codes his own leaders agreed to, and in so doing killed men who had no opportunity to defend themselves. But I shouldn’t expect an Industrialist to worry about that. If you don’t care about what Kolms could have done today, what death he could have wrought, why would you give a solitary shit about my men being slaughtered like helpless children—"

  “Children led to war by people like you,” Leanne interjected. “In a war that we never wanted. If you wished to preserve their lives, you and Davids should have done what the Northern provinces asked and left them alone.”

  “You sound just like the Ironshield, you know that?” Samuel spat. “Do all of you rebels follow a script, or are your arguments really so single-minded?”

  “Not wanting to be robbed of our rights and property doesn’t require philosophical debate or second-guessing, Husband.” Leanne’s voice was cool. “Unlike you, I don’t need to rationalize every aspect of my beliefs to convince myself I’m doing what’s right.”

  “Maybe you should second-guess, when holding to those rights keeps Arkenia at war with Xang, not to mention cuts our trade with Lytan. If we can have peace, Leanne, true peace, why would we need, let alone want Warsuits?”

  “Peace, so long as we’re conquered and disarmed. Yes, Sam, you’re talking about ending the war. By losing.”

  He felt a vein bulge in his forehead. “All reports from Xang point to their disarmament. The only heavy artillery they still have is gathered in reserve in case we don’t hold up our end of the agreement.”

  “Reports by whom, Samuel?” Leanne leaned forward. “From the Xangese? Do you trust the word of people we just fought a war against?”

  “Lytan has had auditors survey their weapon caches.”

  “Oh, right!” Leanne threw up her hands. “How silly of me to forget that we’re now following the word of an empire we fought a war to break free of.” She curled her lip in a look of utter disgust that stung Samuel to the core.

  Suddenly, irrationally, he felt ashamed. “The Revolution is long over, Leanne. We won. We have to move on.”

  “I don’t have to do any such thing. You can let the Empire dictate terms if you wish, but the man I married would never have been so naïve.”

  “Then why stay with me? Well? Are you only here as a spy? A double agent, working out of my very HOME?!” He was shouting, his voice shaking with rage. Inside, he wanted to sink to his knees and weep. Naïve, that’s right, he thought. To think she still loved me, somewhere inside. Samuel didn’t realize he’d drifted off into thought until he surfaced to find his wife standing before him, looking up into his eyes. Her own shined with unshed tears. Leanne’s lip quivered.

  “I’m here because I think… I hope the man I loved is still in you somewhere.” She touched his chest. “And I’ll wait for him, even if it means you hate me, even if it means being a prisoner.” A teardrop ran down her cheek. “I was so scared he’d kill you, Sam.”

  Samuel almost embraced her then. It took every fiber of his will not to pull Leanne into his arms. Her hand, wa
rm and delicate on his chest, but also strong. The hands which had carried ammunition across cannon-chewed battlegrounds for him during the Revolution. The hands he’d held one smoke-filled morning as they said their vows in a hasty ceremony inside a blown-out church. Samuel had hoped her hands would hold their son or daughter, but Leanne never was capable of having children. That had always been alright, though, because she was enough for him.

  Just the touch of that hand, more than he’d received in the better part of a year, sent a thrill coursing through him, stirring his body in a way entirely different from the rush of battle. My God, I forgot how good she smells.

  Leanne leaned in.

  Samuel pulled her hand aside and stepped back. Yanking one of his own fingernails out would have been easier.

  His wife shrank inward, looking crestfallen.

  Watching her weep was one of the most painful things Samuel had to witness that day, second only to the body of Nicholas Warren. But it was the recollection of the boy’s lifeless face that hardened Samuel’s heart. “You’re confined to your chambers until I figure out what to do with you,” he said. “Guards will remain outside these doors at all times. If you need anything, send word to me. No other messages will be carried to or from you. There will be no communication with anyone outside these walls until your co-conspirators are caught and brought to justice.”

  He spun around and left, nearly knocking one of the guards down when he shoved the door open.

  “She is not to leave these rooms under any circumstance,” he growled. And, because he couldn’t help himself, he looked over his shoulder to catch sight of his wife before the door finished closing.

  Leanne had sat back on the couch, head down, hands clutched around a handkerchief in her lap. In all the years he’d been married to her, Samuel had never seen her like this.

  He would have never believed Leanne Mutton could look lonely.

  **

  James expected an ambush at every bend, but his driver navigated through Edinville well into the evening without encountering any patrols or roadblocks. They bypassed the river docks completely, heading further out to the edge of town, where a railyard served as both loading and offloading point for shipments from the west.

  "A train?" James asked, skeptical. "There's no open railway back North. I'll be caught."

  "Train's only taking you part of the way, Sir. After that you'll go on horseback for Quarrystone."

  "Horseback?" James turned to the man. "There's no time for that. I need to get back to Ironshield before the Appeasers retaliate. They won't let what Kolms did slide."

  The driver pulled the automobile over by a small guardhouse. "The plan is what it is, Commander, and I've got my orders." He reached into the back seat and handed James a long, cloth-wrapped bundle. Uncovering it, James found he was holding his father's saber. The key to Ironshield.

  An electric torch flickered from the guardhouse. The driver blinked his headlights in response.

  "Go on, Sir. This is as far as I come." He offered his hand, and James shook it.

  He closed the passenger side door behind him and strode out into the cool night air. The shadowy figure with the torch descended from the guardhouse. He wore Southern garb.

  James put a hand to the handle of his saber before he took note of the pin the guard drew his red and brown coat aside to reveal. The Industrialist Gearsword, rendered in silver.

  James relaxed. “Just you out here?”

  The guard saluted with a grin. “More or less, Sir. Lieutenant Gelden, honored to meet you and glad to see you walking free.”

  “Don’t celebrate yet. Southern troops could show up any moment.” James nodded to the freight train sitting idle on the tracks. “This my ride?”

  “Yes Sir, ready to take off as soon as you are. Best not to let the conductor know who he’s smuggling, though, if you happen to run into him. There’s only so far a few thousand marks will go.”

  “You’re saying you hired him? Don’t we have any loyalist train operators?”

  “None whose routes come by here at the right time, Commander. We’ve had to work with what we have.”

  James felt like a fool. Worse, an ingrate. “And you’ve done well, lieutenant.” He walked over and shook Gelden’s hand. “I’ll make sure you’re considered for a promotion, along with the others.”

  “’Fraid that won’t do me much good until you win the war, Sir.”

  Oh… So, the coat wasn’t a ruse. Gelden, and perhaps the driver and his kill-happy partner, were actual Southern soldiers, working as double agents for the North.

  James had a sudden urge to wash his hand, but wasn’t about to take back his gratitude. He could quibble about the ethics of spy work later. “Best not waste time, then.”

  Gelden showed James to a freight car with a partially opened door. The lieutenant looked over his shoulder, checking to make sure they were unobserved. “There’s a bag in there for you with some essentials.”

  James nodded his thanks. “Watch your back, lieutenant.”

  “Same to you, Commander Ironshield.” Gelden snapped as sharp a salute as James had ever seen. He didn’t like spies and he liked double agents even less. Imagining the danger this man and his comrades had just put themselves in for his sake was humbling all the same. James returned the salute, then climbed into the pitch blackness of the boxcar.

  Gelden shut and locked the door behind James. He tried not to think of this as yet another cell as he settled against a crate, threw his arm over his head, and settled in for the long ride. The train chugged to life a few minutes later.

  James was on his way home.

  Chapter 7

  A train engine screamed in the opposite direction, rousing Samuel Mutton from his half-slumber. Rubbing his eyes, he stretched his aching joints within the confines of his private cabin. Coffee, he decided. He needed coffee.

  The telegram had come back to Edinville barely a day after the Ironshield’s escape. President Davids wanted Samuel to meet with him as soon as possible.

  Given what had just happened, this summons couldn’t bode well. But Samuel wasn’t going to shy away from a tongue-lashing, especially not one he deserved.

  Right under your nose, he admonished himself for the innumerable time. She planned it from under your roof. Your own wife, and you didn’t catch on. Old fool, you didn’t even suspect. But others had, and would waste no time extolling their prediction once word got out. Leanne Mutton’s Northern sympathies were the talk of many a Southern rag, not a small number of which were funded, either privately or publicly, by Samuel’s political opponents within the Senate. His having opposed the welcoming of Lytan supply ships had only strengthened the rumor mill, giving, at long last, fodder for accusations of lukewarm fighting spirit.

  Well, Samuel thought, picking up the folded newspaper beside him. At least they’ve been proven wrong on that mark. It was a faint silver lining in this disaster.

  In bold black letters, the front-page headline read:

  SAMUEL MUTTON REVEALED AS STRIKER CRIMSON. SENATE DEMANDS HEARING TO DECIDE HIS FATE.

  As a high-standing politician, Samuel was forbidden to hold military rank, a law meant to prevent gerrymandering of military affairs by the political class.

  The newspaper was The Arkenian Star, a publication funded in large part by Elliot Salkirk’s estate. Their feud only grew more fierce the closer the next presidential election cycle came. In a little over a year, the race for Arkenia’s next Commander in Chief would begin. It was a position Samuel felt duty-bound to vie for, if only to stop a power-hungry bastard like Salkirk from attaining it. He didn’t talk much about that, any more than he spoke of his other reason for mistrusting Salkirk. A former Lytan lord himself, the man was too friendly with the Empire and had been since before the end of the Revolution. Others conveniently forgot the trade deals and favors the senator had performed, how he’d rubbed elbows with Imperial delegations before the bodies of Arkenian Revolutionaries were even cold.
>
  Samuel hadn’t forgotten and he never would. He’d be damned before the country fell into Salkirk’s hands. Disarmament was necessary to preserve peace, but Samuel was determined to make sure Arkenian obeisance to the Empire ended there.

  The next days would tell whether his revealing himself in Edinville Square was the final nail in the coffin of his career, or the move that propelled him further on the path of defending his country.

  Samuel leaned back, his saber propped against the window next to him. He looked out at the rolling countryside, one hand straying to the amulet beneath his shirt, a depiction of the Savior broken on the Wheel. The deity himself was cast in silver, the wheel a dark bronze styled to look like wood.