Into the Wild

by Larry Correia

  “Mercenaries charge a premium for contracts in this area for a reason,” Horner countered; Cleasby could already tell she was the practical one among the scholars. “It isn’t unusual for hunters and travelers to disappear without a trace. The residents usually blame dire trolls.”

  “Dire trolls?” the professor asked nervously.

  “Big, angry fellows, about the size of a house, perpetually hungry. They eat livestock, people, each other, that sort of thing.” Horner nodded to confirm his fears. “Yes, they are every bit as nasty as you’ve heard.”

  “Even if we did encounter one, a little old dire troll is nothing Storm Knights can’t handle,” Pickett declared. “Right, Cleasby?”

  Cleasby gave his old college pal an incredulous look. Surely Pickett was being flippant about the danger posed by such things; he couldn’t be that naïve. If there was any possibility of a confrontation with a beast like that, Cleasby wanted to be ready. “You mentioned a mining road. Do you think we could get a team and a big wagon up there?”

  “The mining company built the road sufficiently well to get laborjacks and wagons of ore down, so I don’t see why not,” Horner answered.

  The orders he’d received hadn’t specifically said to leave their warjack in Caspia, and besides, it wasn’t like Headhunter cared about R&R. “If you’ll excuse me, your Lordship, I’ve got work to do if we’re to leave first thing in the morning.”

  Pickett slapped him on the back. “That’s the spirit, Cleasby.”

  “Excellent, lieutenant.” The professor extended his hand and gave Cleasby a surprisingly firm handshake. “As you said, this is nothing more than a camping trip for academics. I expect we’ll have your men back in time for Giving Day.”

  Of course, he could have just ordered them to go, but Cleasby summoned his closest friends back to their barracks in the hopes of talking them into volunteering for Wynn’s expedition. Their base of operations was the same old barn they’d been shuffled off to during the lead up to the invasion of Sul, though now it was cleaner and in far better repair. The four of them were the surviving members of what Madigan had called the foundation of the 6th. They’d built this unit, saved each other’s lives, and been through hell together. They were his brothers.

  “Are you daft, Cleasby? Has your brain gone soft?”

  “Come on, Thorny, it’ll be fun.”

  Corporal Gilford Thornbury was as cultured and confident as Cleasby was awkward and straight laced. And at this particular moment he was giving Cleasby a very dark look. “The last time you talked me into volunteering for something ‘fun,’ it didn’t end well.”

  “In my defense, I knew you were bored stuck in that camp, and it was supposed to have been a routine patrol.”

  “Most people’s idea of routine doesn’t include huddling in a trench, being bombarded by artillery for two straight days,” the young aristocrat stated flatly.

  Officially, Thorny was their standard bearer; unofficially, he was the Malcontents’ scrounger—the man who found them the things that needed finding and did the odd things that needed doing when the army’s supply chain let them down. Cleasby had to balance his by-the-book nature against the needs of his troops, so he’d learned never to ask too many questions about the things Thornbury did for the unit.

  “Well, a respected nobleman asked the army for me by name, so I’m going regardless. It’s only a few days’ travel to Ironhead Station from Caspia—in the comfort of a railcar, I might add—and less than a week to do the survey. The weather in the Wyrmwall is even nice this time of year. So, I was hoping my friends would willingly support me in this endeavor.”

  Thorny looked to the others for support. “I do believe our dear lieutenant still hasn’t learned the first lesson of the Cygnaran military.”

  “Never volunteer for nothing,” Corporal Nestor Pangborn answered. The big man sat on his bunk, sharpening a knife on a whetstone. Pangborn had been stuck in the 6th because of his predilection for getting into brawls. He looked like an ox, had the slow drawl of a Midlunder farmboy yokel, but had turned out to be a mechanical genius and now served as the platoon’s ’jack marshal. “Most of us learned that first week of basic training.”

  “Yes, but Cleasby is what is known as ‘book smart.’ He’s not what you’d call ‘street smart.’”

  “Where I grew up didn’t have no streets, and I still figured that out quick enough,” Pangborn mused.

  “That’s because you have common sense,” Thorny said, “a trait that can be found in great abundance among the Cygnaran people, from our nobility to our hard-working farm folk, hence the term ‘common.’ Yet common sense seems to be completely lacking in our fearless lieutenant, who, after spending months marching until the soles of his boots wore off, when offered a vacation, instead volunteered to march some more.”

  “He sure must like marching,” Pangborn said.

  Cleasby said, “There’s hardly any marching. We’ll be taking the train nearly all the way.”

  “It’s the principle of the matter,” Thorny said.

  “What do you think, Rains?” Cleasby looked to the last man for assistance. Sergeant Enoch Rains, one of his squad leaders, was sitting there, his darkly tanned face expressionless. As usual, he was the most difficult to read. He’d pulled up a stool, listened to the pitch, and watched the ensuing debate without comment. Of all the Malcontents, he was the most likely to be swayed by appeals to honor or duty, but he was also at times a gloomy, pessimistic type. Rains was a political refugee turned soldier and thus pragmatic and patriotic at the same time.

  “I’m in.”

  “Damn it, Rains!” Thorny exclaimed. “You’ve put a crack in our solidarity.”

  “I’ve got nothing better to do here. If you’ve not noticed, I’m not the most popular man in Caspia. The last time most of these people saw an Idrian was when they invaded the place.” Rains had an obvious Idrian accent. “The minute I go anywhere in this city without my uniform on, I’ve got people muttering about Protectorate spies and trying to pick fights with me.”

  “Oh?” Pangborn perked up at the mention of fights. “Not a problem. I’ll go drinking with you. There’re a few pubs around the military district I’ve not been banned from yet.”

  “If you’d quit breaking their furniture with the other patrons’ bodies, you wouldn’t get kicked out,” Cleasby said.

  Pangborn shrugged. “I never start nothing, but I won’t abide loudmouths. They throw an insult, I throw a fist.”

  “A fact the watch in every town the 6th has visited appreciates at this point. Thanks for the offer, my large friend, but I might as well be working.” Rains looked to Cleasby and gave him a slight nod before continuing. It was now two against two, but as the experienced NCO, Rains understood the character of every man in the 6th even better than Cleasby did. “Orders are orders, so someone has to go to the Wyrmwall. I’ve no one to visit. Better me than one of my soldiers who misses his children. Let those with families stay.”

  Thorny groaned as he looked between Rains and Pangborn. “Oh, now you’ve done it. You’ve gone and appealed to Pangborn’s big, soft heart.”

  The brute did have a surprisingly gentle side to him. “Hmmm... Hadn’t thought about folks seeing their kids.” Pangborn tested the edge of his freshly sharpened knife by shaving a patch of thick arm hair. Satisfied, he put the blade away. “Well, I got no kin around Caspia. I’d better go too, then.”

  Rains gave Cleasby a knowing smile. Part of being a good leader was understanding what motivated any particular soldier. Pangborn was the only one who could reliably drive their homicidal warjack, so Cleasby was especially glad he was in. Headhunter barely tolerated Cleasby’s directions, and Cleasby had a sneaky suspicion that the only reason the warjack hadn’t squished him was because it would make Pangborn sad.

  “Wipe that obnoxious told-you-so grin off your face, Cleasby,” Thorny said. “You’ve ruined all my plans.”

  “Let me guess—you were going to use o
ur leave time to set Pangborn up as a ringer in some underground fights, to sucker the gullible into giving up their money?”

  “You make it sound so tawdry—but basically, yes. Pangborn is going to get into scrapes anyway; I might as well make some coin off of it.”

  “True,” Pangborn agreed.

  “Come on, Thorny. You’re it. The miners have even built a stockade and a bunkhouse already, so it’ll have all the comforts of home.”

  “You know how I feel about roughing it.” In fact, their nobleman had turned out to be as tough as any of them when it came to the inevitable mud-wallowing misery of campaigning, but unlike most of the 6th, Thornbury had actually experienced the finer things in life enough to know when he was missing them. Thorny made an exasperated groan as he rubbed his face in his hands. “Unlike these two, who don’t have a gold crown between them, I’ve got important things to do here in Caspia. Family business to conduct, investment meetings, maybe catch an opera, or attend a ball…” He sighed as he looked between his companions, mulling it over. “Oh, to hell with that. That all sounds incredibly boring anyway. Fine. I’ll go.”

  Cleasby smiled. “All of you, my thanks. Pangborn, prep Headhunter for the trip.”

  “Oh good. He’d be sad here with nothing to kill. Maybe in the mountains he’ll find something new for his trophy wall.”

  Cleasby shuddered at the thought. Headhunter liked to keep the heads of his worthy adversaries, and he’d amassed a good collection since the 6th had rescued him from the scrap heap. Pangborn would only let him wear the most recent few on chains because otherwise they got in the way. The rest ended up bolted to the wall of their workshop. It had all been warjacks so far, but he was worried what Headhunter might find worth collecting in the wilds.

  Rains seemed amused at the idea of bringing their bloodthirsty warjack along. “I thought you said you weren’t expecting any trouble?”

  “I’m not. I thought we could put Headhunter to work around the dig site like he was a laborjack.” All of them had a good laugh at the absurdity of Cleasby’s idea. “Thorny, you’re on equipment and supplies. We’ll requisition coal and wagons in Ironhead Station. As for weapons, we’ll be in rugged terrain so just glaives, maybe one thrower.”

  “You sure about that?” Thornbury asked.

  “Leave the rest of the equipment with Sergeant Compton; I’m giving him acting command while I’m gone. If the 6th gets called up for an emergency, they’ll need the gear more than we will. Rains, go find us some more men from the platoon to fill out a squad.”

  “I can think of a few who’ve more than likely already blown all of their pay in the brothels and gambling dens by now. Saving the city only gets you so many free drinks, and Caspia is no fun when you’re broke.”

  “I’m capable of offering those men loans at extremely reasonable interest rates—” Thorny began.

  “No,” the other three said simultaneously.

  “Do you want me to volunteer them your way or the Madigan way?” Rains asked Cleasby.

  “What’s the Madigan way?”

  “Order them to go and then trick them into thinking it was their idea the whole time.”

  “That works, too…” Cleasby thought about it for a moment, and out of curiosity had to ask, “What is it you consider my method to be?”

  “Ask nicely first and then do what Sir Madigan would have done anyway.”

  Cleasby took that as a compliment.

  As their train pulled out of the city of Steelwater Flats, Baron Wynn joined Cleasby at the bank of thick glass windows on the second floor of the observation carriage. The last car of most Cygnaran passenger trains was given extra windows because it had the best view. The engineers at the front might have had a better look at things coming, but the observation carriage had the best view of things going. Besides, when you were thirty cars back, the sights were no longer obscured by coal smoke.

  “Good afternoon, lieutenant.”

  “Professor.” Cleasby gave him a respectful nod. He’d come to appreciate the man more now that he knew he wasn’t an insufferable ass. “How go your preparations?”

  “Splendidly.” Wynn seemed unaware his shaggy beard was infested with the remains of his lunch. For their journey, his scholarly robes had been replaced with rugged but terribly mismatched work clothes. His shirt had already picked up several new wine stains, and it was still early in the day. Genius apparently didn’t have time to worry about fashion or tidiness. “My team has already made some real progress with just these limited rubbings. I was told you helped.”

  “It was nothing.”

  The last few days of train ride from the capital city of Caspia to Steelwater Flats had given Cleasby a chance to meet every member of Professor Wynn’s expedition. They were a likable bunch. In truth, Cleasby had rather been enjoying himself. It wasn’t often that he got to speak with people who’d read the same books he had. Strangely enough, there weren’t very many fans of archaic historical literature in the 6th Platoon.

  “You reasoned out the meaning of a block of text that had been giving my best linguist a headache for days.”

  “Just a lucky guess.”

  “Hardly. That was brilliant logical deduction. If you are going to make a name for yourself as a scholar, you’ll need to give up humility. You’re a remarkably observant man, Cleasby. If anything, Pickett understated your intelligence, and he flatly admits that, without your tutoring, he never would have made it through school.”

  “I think Pickett was more in love with the idea of being an adventurer than actual scholarship.”

  “Of course. The boy idolized Pendrake, but the pursuit of knowledge requires both kinds. I’d hazard a guess that if you’d not caught the soldiering bug, you’d have a university position somewhere.”

  “Perhaps when the kingdom no longer has use for me.”

  “Trust me, lad, that time comes eventually for all of us. You get crippled up, and they’ll drum you out the minute the ink on the orders is dry. I speak from experience. Plus, I saw your application. That’s the real reason I asked for you specifically. I like to know what manner of man is seeking a position in my department. Are you certain you wish to leave the service?”

  Cleasby knew he could always count on the foundation, a thought that made him feel a bit guilty right then. He’d not yet told his men that he had decided to get out of the army when his term was up in a few months. He wasn’t even sure why he was procrastinating telling them. Yet the professor’s question was still a difficult one. Spurred on by stories of knightly valor and shame at his own helplessness, he’d signed on that dotted line and become a soldier. He’d done everything the army had ever asked him to, from shuffling reams of paperwork for proper gentlemanly officers to helping the infamous Sir Madigan mold a gang of criminals into a real fighting unit. Then had come the Invasion of Sul, and he’d learned far more there than he ever had in any classroom. The war changed everything. When it was over, Madigan was dead, and Cleasby—who’d never thought of himself as a leader—had been doing his best to keep the Malcontents alive ever since.

  “I am.”

  “Do your men know?”

  “Not yet.” Cleasby knew he was a glorified clerk, trying to fill the boots of one of the finest leaders the kingdom had ever known. The Malcontents deserved better.

  The observation carriage was crowded, but that was understandable. The only person on the entire train with a better view was the guard on the roof. And he would be busy watching for anything big or dangerous that might blunder onto the tracks and cause him to sound an alarm.

  So, the two of them settled in to watch the city for a time as the other passengers had their own conversations or pointed out sights. Steelwater Flats was the single most industrialized city in the entire kingdom. It made the Smoke District of Caspia look small by comparison. There were factories as far as the eye could see. Hundreds of tall smokestacks belched black into the hazy, grey air.

  “Look at that sky, Cleasby.
It is so gloomy.”

  “I’m from Corvis. If summer falls on a weekend, we throw a picnic.”

  “Fog and rain are one thing, but willfully coating the world in soot is something entirely different. If that’s what the future looks like, it’s no wonder I prefer to live in the past.”

  Cleasby studied the professor. The man normally put on an act of nonchalance, and it was easy to underestimate him because he appeared to be such a disheveled mess, but his mind was sharp as a tack. “You sound troubled, your Lordship.”

  “Cygnar strikes a precarious balance between tradition and modernity. Sometimes I fear that in our headlong rush toward progress, we lose sight of where we came from. I believe we have to protect the things that make us who we are. That’s why I became a historian.”

  “I suppose you could say the same thing as to why I became a soldier,” Cleasby said.

  “Indeed.” Wynn grew somber. “In a few days, I’ll have to deal with someone who sees things very differently than I do, someone who will carelessly step on the remains of the past if he thinks it’ll make him that much taller. He is the reason I needed to speak with you. The man responsible for this discovery is Baron Casner Rathleagh. He will be meeting us in Ironhead Station.”

  “The dim-witted uncle. But he is a man of some importance, I assume.”

  “In Mansgrave Province, yes. In Caspia, he’s nobody, only he doesn’t have the grace to realize it. He’s a member of the Fraternal Order of Wizardry—in fact, he’s the highest-ranking member in the region, for what little that’s worth.”

  Even though the powerful organization had lodges in every major city across Cygnar, Cleasby hadn’t had many dealings with the Fraternal Order of Wizardry. His knowledge of the arcane was rather limited. “Is there a problem?”

  “Rathleagh’s an insufferable, malignant narcissist with an obnoxious thirst for relevance. He is fundamentally dishonest and thoroughly ambitious. It is with great sadness I discovered he’s the man responsible for this discovery. He thinks of himself as a historian, but it embarrasses me to the core of my being that he has taken my great passion and turned it into his casual hobby.”