Into the Wild

by Larry Correia

  “That’s right, Acosta. I’ve learned all about your sordid past.” The baron was still speaking, but Acosta found the potentially dangerous bodyguard more interesting than Rathleagh’s efforts to impress him with how much information he’d gleaned about Acosta’s history. The baron didn’t realize this was unnecessary when Acosta was already locked up and waiting for the noose, but Rathleagh was probably used to intimidating people by demonstrating his knowledge of their secrets. “The local mercenaries speak of you in hushed whispers.”

  “They mercenaries here are timid. The brave ones go where the work is.”

  Rathleagh stopped in front of him. “I believe it is because they do not understand a man who isn’t motivated by coin. They say you seek power and strength and that you’ll do anything to achieve your goals. Even dark, horrible things.”

  Acosta shrugged. Rathleagh made it sound bad, but Acosta figured he simply followed a more honest path than most.

  Rathleagh lowered his voice to a dangerous whisper. “But I understand you perfectly. I am a practitioner of the arcane and a collector of ancient wisdom. There are rules and customs for such activities.” He gestured at his insignia of the Fraternal Order of Wizardry. “The symbol of scared old men bickering about what they can and can’t learn because they’re too afraid of consequences. But like you, I will do whatever I must to get what I want.”

  The baron had a petulant air about him, but he was clearly possessed of an underlying ambition that could be extremely potent. Acosta was certain now that his first impression had been entirely incorrect. Whether he was aware of his path or not, Baron Rathleagh also followed the Lady. Like Acosta, Rathleagh would do whatever was necessary to reach his personal goals, and that made him truly dangerous.

  “Your point, baron?”

  “That Caspian bastard, Wynn, had the audacity to bar me from a dig in my own lands, but I will not be stopped so easily. For years I’ve been searching for a local legend, and I thought maybe I’d found its resting place. It should have been my men to dig it up, but now it’ll be Baron Wynn. He would take it back to Caspia, ignorant as to its real purposes, only to let it collect dust in a museum. I’m proposing a mutually beneficial arrangement. What if I told you that in addition to sparing your life, I could grant you incredible power as payment for your services? Bring this treasure to me instead, and I will use it to make you stronger than you could ever imagine.”

  Despite what Acosta had told Cleasby earlier, he was never actually sure why he was guided to any particular place. Perhaps this was what had brought him here. “What does this artifact do?”

  “It makes warriors invincible. Do I have your attention now, Ordsman?”

  “Do you trust him, sir?”

  After signing the jailer’s paperwork, Baron Casner Rathleagh turned to his bodyguard and right-hand man. The gun mage Lambert Sayre had retired as a Captain Adept of the Militant Order of the Arcane Tempest and worked for Rathleagh ever since. He was a perceptive man.

  “Of course I do not trust him, Sayre.”

  “I’ve known men like him. Better to kill him now than risk him turning on us.” Between his keen eyes and honed instincts, Sayre was seldom wrong about such things. “Let me save us all the trouble and put a bullet in him now.”

  Normally, Rathleagh would be inclined to heed his bodyguard’s advice, but for now, the risk was worth the reward.

  “No. Take Galloway’s men and follow that expedition. Stay out of sight, and let Wynn do the work for us. I wasn’t expecting this, but the professor is a clever man. If it really exists, he’ll find it. If he does, after that, no matter how or what you have to do, whatever it takes, I want that find. If the Ordsman can’t bring it to me, you will. Do you understand?”

  “What about those Storm Knights?”

  Rathleagh gave him a knowing smile. As long as there were enough crowns being paid—and Rathleagh was generous—Sayre would have no qualms about murder or sabotage.

  “The wilds are a dangerous place. Accidents happen.”

  Cleasby hated that he couldn’t see the sunrise from inside Ironhead Station, and this was just one more thing that made him eager for the expedition to get into the mountains. Despite how modern and industrious the travelogues made it sound, living underground was simply not for him.

  Clemency Horner had hired a gang of local workers led by an ogrun korune to do the digging. So there were now fifty people under his protection. Their six ox-drawn wagons were loaded with tools, supplies, and one very large Stormclad warjack, which made for an impressive convoy through the narrow streets of Ironhead Station. The crowds grudgingly parted before their oxen. Since it was obvious they were leaving, the already loud merchants had seemed to increase their collective volume, trying to make one last crown off a departing mark.

  “It’ll be fine if you want to stay and attend the hanging,” Dalton Pickett told Cleasby. “I’m sure you’ll have no problem catching up with these lumbering things.” Pickett thumped the side of the wagon they were marching alongside.

  But in his short life Cleasby had seen enough people die that he had no desire to watch more, especially when it was someone he’d served with. “I should stay with the expedition.”

  “I don’t see why you’ve got such a sour face. This fellow isn’t even from Cygnar. By your own admission, he’s a murderer and probably a Thamarite cultist. The fact you were willing to go out of your way to beg for mercy for some criminal shows you’re just as idealistic as you were back at the university.”

  It was difficult, but Cleasby held his tongue. Pickett was only a product of his upbringing; naturally, he saw it that way. And while he was an old friend, he could never understand the brotherhood that formed between soldiers. “Let it go, Pickett.”

  “Good old softhearted Cleasby, always worried about the low born.” Pickett chuckled. “You would have made a fine priest, tending to the needs of the perpetually stupid. Everyone knows the Ordic are greedy and ruled by their passions. You can’t be surprised when one of them comes here to get rich off our wars and then does something to get himself hanged.”

  It was suddenly very hot inside Cleasby’s helmet. He took a deep breath to keep from doing anything rash, and once the urge to flatten Pickett’s nose had passed, he spoke quietly. “Pickett.”

  “Yes?”

  “If you don’t shut your mouth right now about this subject, I will be forced as a gentleman to take off my gauntlet and strike you in the face with it. Should you accept that challenge, promptly thereafter, I will beat you to a pulp in the street for the whole city to see.”

  It took a moment for Pickett to realize Cleasby wasn’t joking. “Oh…”

  “It would be a shame to get blood all over your new coat. So, due to our longstanding bond of friendship and my profound desire to not have to explain to your mother why you no longer possess teeth enough to chew with, I’m imploring you to be silent now.”

  Pickett seemed shocked. He must have been expecting the clumsy, bookish schoolboy he’d known before; he clearly didn’t know the soldier Cleasby had become. Pickett was taller and broader—and in college would have easily thrashed him—but Cleasby had spent the time since those days fighting for king and country against a parade of right hard bastards; there was no doubt what the outcome of his challenge would be now.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll leave you to your walk.” Embarrassed, Pickett retreated to the other side of the wagon.

  Cleasby hoped he hadn’t damaged their current professional relationship, but he was fresh out of patience. As he considered the exchange, Thorny hurried up to walk alongside him, and Cleasby cursed himself silently: from the excited look on Thorny’s face, it was clear he’d heard the whole exchange. Thornbury grinned. “Bravo, lieutenant!”

  “I probably could have handled that in a more polite fashion.”

  “Perhaps, but Sir Madigan would’ve just shoved him beneath the wagon wheels and made his death look like an accident, so by the standards of the 6th,
that was impeccable diplomacy. And speaking of the sometimes flexible standards of our unit,” Thorny looked around conspiratorially to make sure no one else was listening, “have you given any thought to my earlier suggestion?”

  “Bribing the watch and freeing Acosta? My answer remains the same. We’re not going to break any laws.”

  Thorny looked disappointed. “I’ve always wanted to participate in a jail break.”

  “It’s overrated.” He’d been up late last night talking the men down from doing anything stupid. Acosta might have been a criminal madman, which didn’t exactly make him special in the Malcontents, but at one time or another he’d saved most of their lives. Thorny’s schemes to free Acosta had been duplicitous but not particularly violent while Pangborn’s had been more direct, up to and including having Headhunter smash the gallows, but Cleasby had put his foot down and ordered an end to their conspiring.

  “It irks me too, Thorny, but it’s out of our hands.”

  “Any chance Rathleagh will turn out to be the merciful sort?”

  He shook his head. After speaking with Rathleagh last night, Cleasby determined that Professor Wynn’s assessment had been accurate. As Cleasby had pled Acosta’s case, Rathleagh sat there stone-faced, and when it came time to ask questions, Rathleagh and the other officials he’d had with him had all been fishing for information about Baron Wynn’s motivations and the nature of the expedition instead of debating the reasons to free Acosta.

  “Well, if there’s anything to all that nonsense about Acosta’s Lady and him being destined to travel with us, then the scions will miraculously deliver him.” Thorny snorted. “I suppose that’s the problem being a Thamarite—all you’ve got to pray to is a bunch of folks who became immortal by being notably bad at something.”

  “You mean they were incredibly good at doing bad things.”

  “Regardless, they don’t seem like the crowd to go around doling out miracles. Not at all bloody likely.”

  Rains and Allsop were walking alongside the lead wagon. When Rains suddenly held up one fist, the other Storm Knights who saw it immediately mirrored his action, and the signal to halt went down the line.

  “Stop the wagon,” Cleasby called to the driver closest to him. There was a chorus of whoas as the convoy slowly came to a stop. He walked up to see what had caught Rains’ attention. It couldn’t be anything too interesting; they weren’t even out of town yet.

  Acosta was waiting for them in the middle of the street. Instead of black-and-white-striped jail clothes, he was wearing a battered suit of storm armor with all the insignia removed or painted over. A storm glaive hung over each shoulder.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Cleasby muttered.

  Thorny glanced around the street. “I don’t see the watch in pursuit. How in the world did he…” He trailed off, swallowed nervously, then looked toward the roof of the cavern and proclaimed, “Obviously, I meant no offense to the scions in my previous remarks!”

  Baron Wynn walked up behind Cleasby. “Why did we stop?” He gave Acosta a curious scowl. “Who is that bloke?”

  Cleasby remembered what Acosta had said earlier about his presence in the area. Thornbury wasn’t the only one feeling superstitious right then. “That, your Lordship, is an omen of bad things to come. Please wait here.” He left the professor and walked up to Rains, Allsop, and Acosta.

  “Hello, my friend,” Acosta greeted him. “A fine morning for a journey. Shall we go now and discover whatever it is I’m supposed to kill?”

  “How’d you get out?”

  “He’s not covered in blood,” Rains muttered. “That rules out the most likely explanation.”

  “It is good to see you too, Rains.” Acosta made that unnerving smile as he looked down at Rains’ shield. “So, you finally picked someone new to pray to? Benevolent Morrow, I’m disappointed. I thought you had the strength to make a bolder choice.”

  Rains’ jaw clenched, but he didn’t respond.

  Acosta turned back to Cleasby. “To answer your question, Baron Rathleagh was moved by your heartfelt petition and has released me into your custody.”

  Corporal Allsop, a big, jovial, red-faced young man, pointed at one of Acosta’s storm glaives. “Hey, that was my sword.”

  “If you had truly wished to keep it, you should not have misplaced it in Caspia. Now it is mine.”

  “I only dropped it because I got shot in the neck!”

  “That is no excuse for sloppy weapon retention,” Acosta replied. “It appears they issued you another. Do not be so careless with that one. Besides, since then I have paid a great deal of money to have these two weapons lessened in weight and improved in balance. They are no longer suited for your clumsy style.”

  Allsop looked like his feelings had been hurt, but before he could respond, Cleasby said, “Enough.” This was making his head hurt, and that was before he realized Professor Wynn hadn’t listened and had followed him over. He’d hoped to handle this without the nobleman’s interference. “What do you mean, you’re released into my custody?”

  “My punishment for disturbing the peace in Ironhead Station is to protect your expedition.”

  The Baron interrupted them. “I take it you know this man, lieutenant?”

  “I do, your Lordship. He’s a mercenary. We served together in the invasion.”

  “Is he any good?”

  Acosta laughed as if that was an absurd question. “I am the best.”

  Wynn looked to the Storm Knights for confirmation. Cleasby nodded. Rains did as well, albeit grudgingly.

  “So, that greedy bastard Rathleagh ordered you to protect us?” Wynn asked suspiciously. “I told him I didn’t want any of his help.”

  “Only a fool refuses the swords of Savio Montero Acosta when they are freely offered. Be thankful—normally, you could not afford me.”

  “Don’t let these humble traveling clothes deceive you, Ordsman. I’m extremely wealthy.”

  “But I am not compensated in gold.” Acosta picked up a pack at his feet and walked toward the wagons. “Enough talk. Let us be off.”

  Wynn watched him go. “That was ominous. Do you trust this mercenary, lieutenant?”

  Cleasby hesitated. Acosta was already putting his bag into the back of a wagon. “Trust is an interesting word.”

  “Do you really intend to let him come with us?” the professor asked.

  Rains was shaking his head no.

  “I don’t know if it would be worth the effort to try to stop him,” Cleasby stated flatly.

  The expedition covered a lot of ground that day. Though it was mostly uphill, the road was in good condition, and the weather was pleasant. The ogrun in charge of the hired workers had a deep, booming voice, and he liked to sing Rhulic marching songs. Many of the laborers were dwarves, and they joined in, too. Cleasby had to admit he was rather impressed with the quality of their singing. He’d not expected such range from anyone so burly and hairy.

  The woods here were far different from where he’d grown up. Corvis was swampy and wet, a never-ending sea of mud and vines populated by all manner of nasty crawling things that wanted to eat anyone not paying attention. Only fools wandered too far from civilization. Here in the Wyrmwalls the air was thin and crisp. The trees were evergreens. By comparison to his home province, this part of Cygnar seemed rather pleasant, and Cleasby was even able to shake the feeling of unease he’d developed that morning.

  They still had daylight to spare when they came across a meadow that struck Cleasby as a good place to make camp. He liked it because it was defensible. Horner approved because there was plenty of grass for their oxen and few horses to graze on, thus saving some of the feed rations they’d brought along. Baron Wynn was eager to push on, but the old professor was smart enough to listen to his experts. After they’d made camp for the night, Cleasby checked in on as many members of the expedition as possible. All of these people were his responsibility, and he took his responsibilities very seriously. A few of the unive
rsity students were unprepared for marching and had developed blisters, but other than that, the expedition was in good shape.

  The Storm Knights had a campfire going next to the wagon carrying Headhunter. Langston was stirring their supper in a kettle over the fire. He was their best cook, but that really wasn’t saying much—there were only so many ways to make trail rations interesting. Most of the men were out of their armor and checking their kits for any damage from the day’s journey. Galvanic weaponry was powerful, but storm glaives needed to be stripped and cleaned to remain reliable. Anybody who failed to maintain their weapon would draw the displeasure of Sergeant Rains.

  In fact, Rains was waiting for him. “Everything is in order, lieutenant. I’ve assigned the watch order. Headhunter is prepped and could be under steam within a few minutes.”

  He glanced around the encampment. “Where’s Acosta?”

  “Off by himself,” Rains muttered. That wasn’t unusual. The Ordsman had been antisocial in Sul as well. “Probably asking favor from dark forces.”

  “You sound like Wilkins.”

  “Wilkins wasn’t wrong about everything.”

  “He was wrong about you,” Cleasby pointed out. “I seem to recall you two wanting to fight a duel over whether you were a Protectorate spy or not because you didn’t pray to the ascendants.”

  “I was only eager to take on Wilkins until I saw him fight. Don’t know if I would’ve survived that one,” Rains said truthfully. “Eh, we worked it out. This is your decision, but I’d be lying if I said I trusted Acosta.”

  Cleasby recalled that Rains hadn’t offered any suggestions while the Malcontents had been scheming how to keep their former member from hanging earlier.

  “Don’t worry. Once this expedition is over, he’ll be on his way.”

  “Just because Acosta fought by your side in Sul doesn’t mean he’s still on our side now. He’s a mercenary. He’s got no real loyalties to anyone other than himself.”

  “He was loyal to Madigan.”