Ironshield

by Edward Nile

  It was a skill he had difficulty employing tonight, as he approached the steps to the rear of his stage.

  He stopped when he noticed Paulson leaning against the scaffold next to the steps, nursing a glass of whiskey.

  “Are you sure we can trust Mal?” Samuel asked his secretary. “He’s a belligerent shit and a terrible soldier.”

  “A man after my own heart,” said Paulson, looking rosy cheeked. Samuel didn’t care to speculate how many drinks deep the man was. “Not to mention the only man we can know beyond a shadow of a doubt isn’t on Salkirk’s payroll.”

  Samuel nodded. Elliot Salkirk had been the one pushing for Yannick Mal to swing from the gallows. By Paulson's report, not only had the senator thrown the lever himself, he'd also let his audience abuse the condemned before he dropped. If there was any man in Arkenia's military Samuel could trust not to be an agent of his opposition, it had to be Yannick Mal's older brother.

  In this endeavor, more than anything else, Samuel needed an ally. After all he'd seen and done before the peace agreement was finalized, Samuel had to know Xang was cooperating. He could toss it up to paranoia or just general animosity, but Samuel wouldn't be satisfied with any information that lying snake Salkirk could manipulate. Samuel needed a guarantee that his nation had done the right thing.

  The Industrialist pin he'd taken off the would-be assassin outside Salkirk's mansion weighed heavy in Samuel's pocket. Or at least what was supposed to appear like an Industrialist pin. Samuel had spent long, sleepless hours turning it over in his hands. Finally, he'd rummaged in his closet at the Edinville Senate House, going through the relics of a war that already felt so long past, until he found James Edstein's pin, taken off him during his capture at the battle of Graytop Hills. The difference between the pin the assassin had worn, and the genuine article, could only be spotted by someone who'd held both items in hand. The pin Samuel still carried, the one he'd pulled off the corpse of his attacker, was a solid piece cast out of silver using a mold. The individual cogs in its gearwork face were stationary. Real Industrialist pins, given to officers in the Northern army, had moving parts, interlocking cogs and sprockets one could turn with the push of a thumb.

  This meant one of three things. Either the man was an impostor, an amateur attaching himself to old Northern ideals after the fact, or the person who hired him wasn't competent enough to have an accurate pin made. Or, the man was an Industrialist sympathizer who’d never become an officer in the North. There was a fourth possibility, of course, though less likely. Whoever orchestrated the attack may have been so bold, so brazen, as to not care overmuch about hiding his plot.

  Samuel approached the edge of his backdrop, hearing the murmurs of the crowd beyond.

  "Presenting Edinville's own Senator Samuel Mutton!" the announcer called from the other side of the backdrop, his voice amplified throughout the amphitheater by loudspeakers.

  Focus. Samuel swept the wild notions and theories aside. Face your enemies as they come. He stepped out to blinding lights and roaring applause. Samuel waved to the audience, more to shield his still-adjusting eyes from the spotlights shining from above than anything.

  As soon as the cheers faded, the boos and jeers of Samuel's detractors rose from the other side of the room.

  "And now, visiting from Arkenridge, the opposing candidate for President of the Arkenian Republic, I present Senator Elliot Salkirk!" the announcer's voice boomed.

  More of the same, although Samuel couldn't help but feel the applause was louder, more exuberant, as Salkirk strode onto his own brightly lit platform.

  The man had dressed somewhat more conservatively than was usual for him, sporting a smart black jacket with a gold-embroidered blue silk cravat matched by gold buttons fastening his maroon silk vest, each one centered with a sparkling sapphire. His belt was buckled with a white gold and sapphire rendition of the Salkirk crest, and the silver, gold, and blue color scheme was repeated in the scrollwork embroidered about his cuffs. The man's hair was neatly slicked back, his goatee perfectly groomed, his teeth whiter than porcelain as he grinned and waved to his hollering admirers.

  Women threw silk handkerchiefs and scarves up onto Salkirk's stage. A garter belt landed on his podium, and the Arkenridge senator picked it up with a mocked chiding expression.

  Well, this is starting out splendidly, Samuel thought as his supporter's insults were all but drowned out by the whoops and hollers of Salkirk's worshiping mob.

  The announcer, situated on a small platform between the two stages, waited patiently for the noise to die down. A few shoving matches started in the throng, only to be halted by other spectators who moved in to pry the combatants apart.

  "Ladies and gentleman," the announcer called out. "I now give the floor to Senator Mutton for his opening statements!"

  Here we go. Samuel took position behind his podium and adjusted the mounted microphone. He also pulled out a small stack of cards and laid them in front of him. The notes he'd compiled for tonight.

  The crowd quieted to something approaching a hush, all eyes on Samuel.

  "Men and women gathered here today, Arkenian patriots. You all know who I am," Samuel began, speaking into his microphone and hearing his own voice echo against the amphitheater's curved walls. "You are all aware of the long history I have of fighting, on and off the field of battle, for our nation's freedom and security. Two things that all too often seem mutually exclusive in the uncertain times that have plagued our young nation. As a soldier, I fought in the Revolution. Then, in the Xang conflict. Finally, when brother turned on brother, I did my part in the tragedy that was Arkenia's Civil War—"

  "Murderer!" The shouted word, among others even less flattering, was taken up by several spectators.

  "In the Civil War," Samuel pressed on. "I defied our customs to stay on the battlefield while holding my seat in the Senate, because I could not abide waiting on the sidelines while our own young men risked their lives to bring peace to this land."

  "Liar! Butcher!"

  More shoving began between Samuel's supporters and his opponent's. Elliot Salkirk himself watched on in barely concealed amusement from his podium.

  It was someone else, someone in the crowd, that Samuel took note of just then, however. A man in a black hat, watching him with intense focus. He didn't cheer or boo with the others. He didn't even turn around when a brawler backed into his shoulder. The man held a Redstripe flag limply at his side, not bothering to raise or wave it.

  "I do not pretend to be a saint," Samuel continued, raising his voice to be heard above the roaring crowd. The loudspeaker whined with feedback, distracting the audience just long enough for Samuel to pick up the pieces of his fragmented speech. "The war sullied men better than I, and I was not able to avoid its stain. I followed..." A snake, a charlatan, he thought with a glare toward Salkirk. Samuel couldn't incriminate his opponent without throwing Nathaniel Davids to the winds. If he did that, not only would neither him nor Salkirk gain the presidency, but the country, already pulling together its shattered unity, would tear itself apart once more. You made a promise, Sam, he told himself. For good or ill, you agreed to bear this burden. Though in his defense he'd hoped, naively, that Davids would be able to keep Salkirk in check.

  "I followed bad judgement, which led to events that I would never have condoned." It was the most honest answer he could give, and Samuel knew it was nowhere near good enough. "But from those mistakes, we managed to end the war. From the lapses in judgement made by both sides and the disasters which followed, we as a nation learned the consequences of turning on our own. I will not turn my back on my people -any of my people- and it is for that reason I refuse to step aside." Here, Samuel pointed a finger at his opponent. "And let such a duplicitous, conniving man take the helm of our great land."

  This was met with resounding applause from his flag-waving supporters, while Salkirk's people made rude gestures and shouted even more vulgar comments.

  What a time we live in
. Many of those in Elliot Salkirk's camp were no doubt former Industrialists. The man's pro-Empire leanings and vehemence toward the Northern cause, however, paled in comparison to the outrage of the Quarrystone Massacre, of which Salkirk was blameless, as far as the public was concerned. Samuel wondered what they'd think if they knew the man they threw their votes behind was the mastermind of the whole ordeal, and the villain they raged against an unwilling pawn in his mechanizations.

  It doesn't matter, Samuel told himself. Neither of us deserve the position. But until a better man comes forth, I'll do what I can.

  "Settle down, good folks!" the announcer's voice boomed. "Now, we give the floor to Arkenridge senator Elliot Salkirk!"

  More of the same from the audience, which resembled a turbulent sea lapping at opposite shores.

  The black hatted man, a stone in the midst of the human waves, remained motionless, still watching Samuel as the rest of the gathered hundreds turned to the opposite podium. While most waved flags, called out either in admiration or disdain, or leaned in to talk to one another, this one man remained rooted to the spot, looking up at Samuel, his Redstripe flag seemingly forgotten in his hand.

  Samuel gave his odd spectator a nod and received nothing in return.

  Maybe he's an invalid, Samuel rationalized, sipping from his cup of water. But he knew that wasn't the case. There was no lack of awareness in those eyes, no low intelligence dulling their focus.

  “Thank you, Senator Mutton, for that colorful interpretation of events,” said Elliot Salkirk with a wry curve of his lips. “I’m not sure if my imaginative talents would be up to the task of twisting reality quite so far, or of passing off bloodthirst as a virtue. No, ladies and gentlemen, my forte is not as a wartime commander, although you’ll no doubt be aware I fought on the field that fateful day, unaware of the treachery being enacted on our Northern brothers and sisters in Quarrystone. No, instead, I am adept at the subtler arts of negotiation, something Arkenia, in this hard-earned peacetime, will require if we’re to keep ourselves from re-entering the fire and gunsmoke hell of war.

  “No, dear citizens, I don’t claim to be a hero of combat. I never took on a grandiose title, never led the charge to kill my fellow man with such enthusiasm. Where other men took lives, I did what I could so sow the seeds of unity and save them. And in that, as anyone who’s studied my life’s work will be aware, I have succeeded.”

  "Empire-loving bastard! Lytan dog!" Samuel's people shouted. More commotion, shoves and punches. Samuel ground his teeth. Of course Salkirk would play peacemaker. The brutality Elliot Salkirk enacted was done away from public scrutiny. Samuel had read and re-read Paulson's report about the last moments of the spy Yannick Mal, and wondered how many of Salkirk's fans knew or suspected the man's sadistic ways.

  "Where Sam Mutton and his war mongers sought division, I sought peace,” Salkirk continued, ignoring the epithets. “While he pushed the Xang conflict forward, I acted as a voice for our people, a voice for the families left behind while their fathers, brothers and sons were sent on a pointless campaign that had nothing to do with their homeland. And now, once the blood's all been shed, this man would rather wipe the slate and claim moderation."

  Salkirk shook his head gravely. "But I know the truth as well as any of you, even those of you who pretend not to. Samuel Mutton not only lives up to the legacy of his Warsuit, he exceeds it. You can try to wash the blood from your hands, Sir." Salkirk was shouting now, shouting and pointing across the crowded space at Samuel. "But I can see it, and even from here, you reek of it. The Butcher of Quarrystone, the crusher of women and children. Ladies and gentlemen, under this man, more death is all but certain!"

  Guards and constables tried and failed to stifle the crowd’s agitation. Samuel watched, mortified, as a pair of his own supporters knocked a guard down, beating him with his own club. The fighting spread, even as more level-headed spectators backed away toward the exits. Soon, Samuel could no longer tell who was in his camp or his opponent’s as the two groups blended into one chaotic, riotous mass.

  And still, one man stood out among the enraged horde. The black hat man kept watching Samuel. Only now the cold, appraising expression was gone, replaced with something manic. His nostrils flared, his jaw clenched.

  Samuel had seen enough combat to know when a man was working himself up to something. He looked around for Paulson, but his secretary was out of sight, doubtless seeking more to drink as he avoided having to look at Elliot Salkirk. That was assuming Samuel’s secretary was still conscious.

  The guards and constables were overwhelmed, barely managing to pull their own out of the fray, let alone take control of the mob.

  The announcer, meanwhile, hid behind his platform, all attempts at quieting the masses abandoned.

  Samuel reached into his coat, where he kept his four-shot derringer.

  Things started to fly. Rocks and shoes, bottles and fruit, some of which surely had to have been brought in for just such a purpose.

  Across the room, Salkirk had disappeared, leaving Samuel, and Samuel alone, marooned in a sea of angry faces.

  An overripe apple broke in half on his forehead. A shoe struck his hand.

  Samuel didn't waste time looking for the perpetrators. As he drew his gun, there was only one man who concerned him.

  The black hat man wound back and hurled something of his own toward the stage. A cloth satchel, with a lit fuse sparking from it.

  Samuel rushed for the edge of the stage and dove off as the bomb hit the platform.

  An explosion knocked half the rioters off their feet, sent wood and shrapnel zipping through the air.

  Coughing from the smoke, Samuel tried to stand on shaking legs, his tiny gun up and ready. Where was he?

  People screamed and ran. Others lay prone on the floor, bleeding, unconscious, stunned. Dead. Samuel managed to stand on his third attempt, stumbling back and forth as the world wobbled beneath him. His vision blurred in and out of focus.

  Was I hit?

  Keeping his gun in one hand, Samuel used the other to feel along his body. Nothing hurt, nothing missing. His ears rang, but he'd experienced that before. A woman lay on her stomach nearby. Samuel bent to check on her. No pulse. In her hand, a soiled Redstripe flag lay soaking in blood.

  Someone tripped over Samuel in their mad dash to flee the scene. He hardly noticed.

  Samuel made his way around the burning wreckage that had been his pedestal. He bent down to check the pulse of another prone form. From the look of the jagged splinter, as thick as his thumb and sticking out of the man’s forehead, he needn’t have bothered.

  Have to help, he thought. This… this is my fault.

  “Sam!” Hunched over as though expecting another blast, Paulson rushed to his side.

  “Medics,” Samuel croaked. “Get the medics over here, now!” He saw a red and brown uniform on a groaning man, a soldier he recognized. One of his Ten, who’d perished at Graytop. When Samuel blinked, the uniform was gone, replaced with an elderly civilian, clutching a bleeding leg as a young woman knelt by him.

  “Sam, we need to get you out of h—”

  “I said get the goddamn medics in here!” Samuel growled, grabbing Paulson by the jacket.

  “They already are, Sam.” His secretary put a hand over his. Only now did Samuel see the constables and guards helping injured people onto stretchers alongside medical first responders, even as others scanned the surrounding area, rifles poised to respond if there was a new threat.

  “Come on, Sam.”

  Samuel nodded, feeling numb, the ringing persistent in his ear. With Paulson leading him by the shoulder, he made his way around the burning wreckage that had been his stage.

  Bursting out of Speaker’s Hall through a side exit, they found the street flooded with frightened citizens. The mob tripped over one another in their rush to get away from the massive building. And why shouldn't they? If there had been one bomb, there could well be another.

  But what ha
ppened to him? Samuel asked himself as he and Paulson shouldered their way into the stampede.

  They tried to get ahead, but the throng kept shoving, people jostling to get past each other, cramming together to fill the narrow avenue.

  “I’m going to get the car,” Paulson yelled to be heard over the panicked bedlam. A moment later he was gone, pushing and even punching his way through the crowd.

  Samuel attempted to turn down a side-street but was thwarted when he collided with someone hard enough to knock him on his rear. Samuel looked up to see the black hat man looking back at him.

  A gunshot rang out nearby, followed by two others. The crowd surged back, scrambling to head in the opposite direction.

  The black hat man turned to the sound, but evidently decided it was of no consequence. Looking back to Samuel, he reached into his coat, drawing a long pistol.