Into the Wild

by Larry Correia

  “Ah.” Cleasby was a lowly lieutenant, so he tried very hard to stay out of squabbles like this. And this sounded like a deep and severe rivalry between an established professor and a high-ranking occultist—which was very far above his pay grade. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “You should be. I seek to learn more about the ancients so I can share their knowledge with others. Men like Rathleagh seek the same thing but for personal gain. The reason these miners reported their find was because Rathleagh posted a reward for anyone in his province who found ruins or artifacts. He’s always searching for arcane secrets, and he doesn’t particularly care if they might be of the forbidden or dangerous kind.”

  “That sounds like a matter for the Order of Illumination.” And Cleasby didn’t suggest bringing in witch hunters lightly.

  “Though I guarantee he’s gone right up to the borders and danced on them, Rathleagh is far too clever to get caught crossing any lines set by the Church of Morrow. No, if there were something magical at this site, Rathleagh would have never asked for the university’s help. The only reason he would send us those rubbings was because he’s hoping we can find clues that will lead him to other dig sites. The man doesn’t care about the pursuit of knowledge; he only cares about the accumulation of power. I suspect if something valuable were found at the site, he might even be willing to stoop to criminal means to get it for himself.”

  “Are you telling me this because you needed someone to vent your frustrations to?” This was an uncomfortable topic, and Cleasby had to tread very carefully. “Or are you officially warning your military escort that Baron Rathleagh may pose a threat to the expedition?”

  “We’ll just have to find out together, won’t we?” The professor gave him a sad smile. “Now you are informed, and you’ll just have to use your discretion.”

  Cleasby nodded slowly. The last time he’d used his discretion, he’d violated several orders, broken his superior out of the brig, and embarked on a suicide mission that had resulted in the destruction of one of Caspia’s greatest landmarks. “I will do my best.”

  The two of them continued to watch as Steelwater Flats slowly scrolled past their windows. All of the colors ranged between iron grey and rust red. Even the trees were grey. Most of the other passengers in the observation carriage were dressed like workmen, and they seemed eager to get out of town. If they lived here, it had probably been a while since they’d seen something green.

  “By the way,” the professor said after a time, “I’ve been getting to know your squad. A good lot. Your big, blond farmer insists on sleeping in the freight car with his ’jack, so I haven’t spoken to him much yet, but the rest strike me as solid.”

  “Missing Pangborn isn’t a bad thing. He’s tough as an ogrun and far smarter than he looks, but he doesn’t take well to teasing. I assume you didn’t try to play any pranks on my men like you did with me?”

  “Oh, no. I only did that because you struck me as a good-natured sort, slow to violence. A few of them look like the stab-first-and-ask-questions-later types.”

  True. Most of the men Rains had wrangled into this endeavor were plank owners—founding members—of the 6th, and originally no one wound up in the 6th without some sort of black mark on their record. “They may be rough around the edges at times, but the kingdom has never produced braver men.”

  “I have no doubt. Also, your sergeant warned me not to joke at their expense because a couple of them are quick to take offense. Don’t worry, he was subtle and polite about it, only mentioning something about the potential of my scholars being tossed from a moving train, but the message was received. About that man—Rains, I believe is his name—I’m curious. His accent suggests he’s from the Protectorate. He’s Idrian?”

  “Will that be an issue?”

  “Not at all. I’ve traveled the world, and despite the recent unpleasantness with the Protectorate, I’ve found the Idrian tribes to be stalwart. But I am curious—I’ve noticed he carries a shield bearing the Radiance of Morrow on it? That is unusual for an Idrian to follow a god other than Menoth.”

  “I don’t know if Rains worships any gods at all now, but the shield was a gift from a friend.” The thought of Aiden Wilkins ending up on a Menite wrack always made Cleasby melancholy. Rains had never been the same since their devout Morrowan had sacrificed his life to save their apostate Menite. “Don’t worry about Rains. He’s my best soldier. I’ve trusted him with my life and wouldn’t hesitate to do so again.”

  “Very well, lieutenant. I trust your judgment. It seems your squad is made up of men of integrity… Mostly.”

  “So, that means you met Thornbury. I’m assuming he tried to swindle you somehow?”

  Wynn chuckled. “He wouldn’t dare. Should young Thornbury live long enough to take over his father’s holdings, he’d still be far beneath my station. But even if he tried, luckily for me I learned from an early age never to trust nobles from Mercir—a bunch of con artists, pirates, and blackmailers masquerading as legitimate businessmen, the lot of them. It just goes to show if you get rich enough, the kingdom will give lands and a title to anyone. The lad can’t help it. Trickery is in his blood.”

  “You might be surprised, but Thornbury is actually an extremely honorable man in his own way.”

  “I’ll take your word for it; however, if you get a chance, warn him away from seducing my prettier students. I’m not responsible for any duels that may occur with offended family members when we get back to Caspia. Oh, and he cheats at cards, too, so as a show of good faith, it would be really nice if he’d give my assistant his pocket watch back. Pickett’s grandfather gave that to him.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Cleasby assured the professor, though the petty part of him was secretly glad to see Pickett lose at something for once. “Anything else you want to warn me about?”

  “Are greedy barons not enough? No. That’ll be all for today, lieutenant. Enjoy the remainder of our train ride. It should be nothing but beautiful mountain vistas from here to the tunnels into Ironhead Station. If you’ll excuse me, I have much work to do.” Wynn began walking away but turned back for a moment. “And thanks again for your help with deciphering those symbols. They helped unlock that whole passage.”

  Cleasby didn’t known they’d made that much of a breakthrough. Curious, he called after the professor. “So, what did it say?”

  “Our dig site was once a place of profound religious significance. One of the rubbings shows a symbolic ritual, where the tribesmen would wear the skins of animals to claim their savage traits. The Molgur knew the place as hora ze viti vulku.”

  It took Cleasby a moment to decipher the ancient words.

  The mountain where wolves howl.

  The men of the 6th had gathered in one car to prepare their gear and receive their final instructions. They would be debarking soon. When he arrived, Cleasby was pleased to see the squad seemed to be in good spirits. He returned the casual greetings as he passed down the aisle. Most of the men Rains had volunteered had been with the 6th since its formation—Corporal Allsop and Private Langston had even been there for the battle at the Great Public Works of Caspia. Privates Bevy and Hellogand had been transferred back to the Malcontents after the invasion ended, and Private Younger was a recent replacement. None of them had family in the area or a compelling reason to stick around Caspia after they’d blown through their pay.

  Cleasby picked an open seat. Pangborn was taking up most of that particular bench, but it wasn’t as if Cleasby required much space. He’d gotten so used to constantly wearing his armor that it was easy to forget he was a thin man without it. “Good afternoon, corporal,” he said as he sat down.

  “Look at that.” Pangborn was too enthralled to turn away from the window. “Ain’t that something,” he said as the train entered the final tunnel into Ironhead Station and blue sky was replaced with grey rock.

  “It is a fascinating place,” Cleasby said as the impenetrable mountainside flashed by only a
foot from the glass. The view had been like that off and on all day as they’d passed through the seemingly endless series of tunnels cutting through this region. “There’s sixty miles of track around Ironhead Station, but only fifteen of them are above ground.”

  “They’re always digging more here. I wonder: how do the rail workers not get squished when a train goes by?”

  “They have alcoves, big enough for even a laborjack to take cover in, dug every so often.” Cleasby only knew this because he’d found one of the train engineers’ safety manuals during his explorations and had been bored enough to read it. “When they hear a train coming, they retreat to the nearest alcoves for safety.”

  “It ain’t right for men to live down here. I can’t imagine never feeling the sun on my face.”

  “People are remarkably adaptable, so I suppose it is the same as living anywhere else,” Cleasby assured him, though he did have to admit to experiencing an involuntary shudder as the passenger car plunged into total darkness. There was something unnerving about being under a mountain. “The dwarves have been living beneath the ground here comfortably for a long time.”

  “Yeah, but Rhulfolk are short. They’re supposed to like tunnels. If I lived in a tunnel I imagine I’d hit my head a lot.”

  Cleasby breathed a sigh of relief when the train’s gas lamps activated and provided some proper illumination again. He wiped a bit of sweat from his brow with a handkerchief and then hid it before Pangborn turned away from the window. It wouldn’t do to let the men see that a little thing like being beneath millions of tons of rock—precariously poised to obliterate them at the smallest earthquake—made their commanding officer nervous.

  “Ironhead Station isn’t all tunnels, you know. The main cavern is an engineering marvel of mobile catwalks and interconnected structures. The lines that feed into Ironhead’s central rail hub were the greatest excavation project in the history of the kingdom. They’ve built a thriving community down here.”

  “You’ve been to Ironhead Station before, lieutenant?” Rains asked as he sat down across the aisle.

  “No. I read about it in a book.”

  “You’ll note that’s Cleasby’s response to most questions about places and things,” Thornbury said as he joined them. “No, I’ve not done or been anywhere, but I read about it in a travelogue once.”

  Cleasby shrugged. “It is said that most live but one life, but someone who reads experiences the lives of thousands.”

  “Eh, if I wanted travel and experiences, I’d join the army or something… Oh, wait… Never mind.” Thorny handed him a clipboard. “I finished inventorying the equipment like you ordered.”

  Cleasby took it and gave the paperwork a cursory once-over. He wasn’t particularly concerned with who was carrying what issued equipment, but giving Thorny busywork kept him from conning or otherwise harassing the expedition members. “Did you give Pickett his watch back?”

  “Of course I did. And a valuable lesson was learned by all; however, if your old chum truly loved his late grandfather so much, he wouldn’t be so quick to wager family heirlooms in games of chance.”

  “As if there’s ever ‘chance’ involved if you’re playing.” If there were a way to rig a game, Thorny would find it, though Thorny wasn’t the only one who liked to stack the odds. “When we get off in Ironhead, I want it to look like we mean serious business. Rains, have the men kitted up when we arrive. I want full gear. Do everything but charge the glaives.” Powering up their galvanic weaponry was intimidating but unnecessary, not to mention dangerous and a bit of a fire hazard in town. “I want the locals to see that we’re ready for trouble.”

  Rains gave him a quizzical look—clanking about a friendly town in full storm armor was a pain—but he didn’t question the order. “You say so, sir. They’ll be ready.”

  “It’s just for show. Wynn doesn’t like the local baron, a man named Rathleagh. Apparently the feeling is mutual. He suggested to me that Rathleagh may be of questionable moral character, perhaps even enough to meddle with the expedition’s good fortune.”

  “As a fellow member of the aristocracy, I find such behavior appalling,” Thorny said with mock indignation. “When a nobleman intends to screw over his opposition, no one should see it coming. Small-town amateurs.”

  “If there’s the potential for trouble, I can put a few men on the professor at all times,” Rains offered. “I’ll see to his safety personally.”

  There had only ever been two men in the 6th better with a blade than Enoch Rains, and they had been the mysterious Acosta and Sir Madigan himself. Cleasby himself was a proficient duelist—having been fascinated by tales of knightly valor, he’d scrimped and saved until he could hire an instructor in Corvis—but Rains had the natural talent to fight circles around him.

  “The professor is in good hands then. I’d like for the local baron to see that the army fully supports the university in this endeavor.”

  “Nothing conveys moral support better than a few big blue-armored fellows with lightning swords standing behind you,” Thorny agreed. “If you’re concerned about it, would you like me to ask around about this Baron Rathleagh while we’re in town?”

  “Do whatever it is you do, but don’t stir up any trouble. This is probably nothing to be concerned about, but better safe than sorry.”

  The noise level suddenly increased as the door to the next car slid open and a uniformed conductor entered. He checked his pocket watch. “Twenty minutes to Ironhead,” he called out as he moved effortlessly down the aisle despite the swaying. They were currently on the second floor of the massive train, so the man had a long walk back to the observation carriage before returning with the same message through the lower floors of the few double-decker passenger cars. It was apparent the conductor didn’t like having to step over all of the Storm Knights’ weaponry that was cluttering up this particular portion of his train, but he had the good sense not to complain about it to their faces. “Twenty minutes!”

  Rains waited for the conductor to leave. Once the door to the next car was closed, there was considerably less noise, which worked out well—Rains wasn’t the type of leader who liked to raise his voice unnecessarily.

  “You heard him, Malcontents. Time to look presentable.”

  As Cleasby stepped off the train and onto the raised metal platform, he realized that though the written description had been totally accurate, Ironhead Station was far more impressive in real life. His mouth hung open in wonderment as he took in the vast space. When the other Malcontents joined him on the platform, Cleasby reminded himself to close his jaw so he wouldn’t look like an ignorant tourist.

  Rains whistled. “That’s one damned big cave.”

  For being underground, the place was remarkably well lit. Gas lamps burned everywhere, and the lights went on for a very long way. The floor of the central cavern was big enough to fit the entire train station with room to spare, but no space, whether it was horizontal or vertical, had been wasted. Buildings rose all around them, hugging the rock walls, growing along the ledges and ridges and even dangling from the ceiling. If a structure could be stuck to it, the people here had built one. From the train platform he could see a maze of roads, most barely wide enough for a pair of wagons to pass each other. Above them, a multitude of catwalks and bridges crisscrossed the space.

  The paths through the city were crowded with bustling masses of people, and all of them seemed to be in a rush. Smoking laborjacks trudged across the train yard, loading and offloading cargo, while dozens of workers pushed carts of ore or merchandise. Stalls were set up anywhere there was an open spot, and merchants loudly hawked their wares. The busy crowds were mostly made up of humans, but there was a surprisingly large number of Rhulfolk, far more than Cleasby had ever seen before, and there was no shortage of gigantic trollkin and ogrun towering above the others. The main thing all the residents had in common was that they were far too busy to pay any attention to one squad of Storm Knights.

 
“I do believe we got dressed up for nothing,” Cleasby shouted to be heard over the noise.

  And Ironhead Station was very noisy. Merchants were competing for attention by trying to outshout the others. Supervisors were bellowing at their workers. Marshals were yelling at their laborjacks. Yet the entire racket was drowned out by the even greater sounds of continually chugging engines and piercing steam whistles. There was a rhythmic whump whump noise coming from above, and Cleasby looked up to see that particular noise came from several huge fan blades mounted in the ceiling; they circulated the cavern’s air and kept everyone from choking on all the coal smoke. Below them was a constant low-level mechanical rumble that could be felt through the soles of their insulated armored boots—a combination of train cars rolling and factory machines churning.

  “Morrow preserve us, I thought Caspia was bad.” Pangborn’s visor was open, so Cleasby could see that his eyes were darting about nervously.

  “Caspia is home to a hundred times more people.”

  “Yeah, but they ain’t all in one room.” Pangborn had begun sweating. The big man was a first-rate soldier who could go through battle without flinching, but put him in a big city crowd, and his nerves immediately began to fray.

  “You’re certainly not on the farm anymore.” Then Cleasby recalled that Pangborn’s usual answer to stress was to get into fights with random bystanders. Give him another minute of this, and he’d probably decide that one of those big blue, 400-pound trollkin was looking at him funny. It was probably best to get Pangborn away from the chaos as quickly as possible. “Go supervise the unloading of Headhunter.”

  “Thank you, sir!” Pangborn retreated back onto the relative quiet of the train.