Into the Wild

by Larry Correia

  “Thieves,” the man hissed.

  “If we give it back, will your people let us go?”

  “Too late. Trespassers must die. He will take it back. He will come for you. All of you. No escape.”

  “Who is coming for us?”

  “He is the first of the last.”

  “Who are you people?”

  “The last of the first.” The light was fast fading from the man’s eyes. He reached one trembling hand toward Cleasby, and then suddenly grabbed hold of his arm and, with surprising strength, pulled Cleasby close. They were eye to eye, so close that Cleasby could smell the stink of his breath, and the dying man whispered, “We are skinwalkers.”

  Then the man slowly fell back. The knife Cleasby had unwittingly driven between his ribs slid out. He sank to the ground, eyes open, blank and staring up at the stars.

  Skinwalkers.

  Cleasby mulled this over. Now their enemy had a name.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Cleasby, but I have fought Cryxians. I do not like it when people who are supposed to be dead aren’t.” Acosta stepped forward and with one deft move sent the man’s head bouncing across the dirt. The blood trailing after it seemed to satisfy the Ordsman. “Better. Now, let us build a bonfire.”

  Cleasby found Baron Wynn next to the bunkhouse, standing in front of the line of bodies. The behaviorist in him found it interesting how the bodies of their foes were thrown in a haphazard pile but their own had been respectfully covered and laid neatly shoulder to shoulder. On the other hand, the soldier in him understood this perfectly well. These were friends, and those were enemies. He’d seen half-eaten bodies and bones gnawed empty of marrow; he understood their foes would grant them no dignity in death. So, he would kill them mercilessly until the job was done.

  The professor heard the clank of armor and didn’t need to turn around to know who was approaching. He spoke without looking back at Cleasby. “I was just inside among the wounded. Such misery, such suffering. I could no longer bear their cries. So, I came out here to be among the dead. Yet I find it isn’t any quieter…even without a sound. This is all my fault, Cleasby. If I’d listened and left when you’d said, none of this would have happened.”

  It was true, but it would do no good to devote any additional guilt to it. Cleasby had been there himself, and he, too, knew how it felt to make a call and still end up with blood on your hands. “The best officer I’ve ever known told me that during the battle, it does no good to dwell on what got you there. It only matters what you do next.”

  “I looked up from my work to see one of the creatures bearing right down on us. He pushed me out of the way, saved my life.” Cleasby could tell, from the edges of the bloody great coat sticking out from beneath the covering, that the professor had stopped in front of Pickett’s body.

  “You’re not the only one he did that for tonight.”

  “I took him for granted. He was like a son to me.”

  “I know. I understand your grief. But now we need to get the rest of them home, your Lordship.”

  Baron Wynn finally turned around. His eyes were red; his face was scratched. “What would you have me do?”

  “Help me figure out how to beat them. The creatures call themselves skinwalkers. Once they die, they turn back into men.”

  Wynn seemed to find something of his former self again as he thought. “The tablet suggested a spiritual transformation. It gave no indication that they could change their forms. However, it is an ancient artifact. Who knows what has changed since its creation?” he muttered. “But they do exist. You were right all along.”

  “Do you still have their tablet?”

  “It’s secured in a chest. We could detect no magic upon it. The tablet is only a record, nothing more. Could it really be so important as to cause all this death?”

  “In Sul, I watched Menites sacrifice themselves rather than give up one more inch of sacred ground. To them we were heretics, unbelievers. Trespassers.” Cleasby stood next to him and looked down at the row of bodies. “That’s what one of the skinwalkers called us. Trespassers. They won’t rest until we’re driven from this mountain.”

  “Not even then, Cleasby. We know their secret now. How many centuries have they lived here, unknown to us? Given the years of disappearances and rumors of monsters, it makes you wonder how many others have met a similar fate in these mountains. They can’t afford to let us live.”

  Cleasby knew the hard truth when he heard it. As soon as he got back to Ironhead Station, he was going to report this to the army. With some of his men lying wounded in the bunkhouse, he wanted nothing more than to lead the rest of the 6th Platoon back here to avenge them. Surely, the skinwalkers realized that none of them could be allowed to escape now. It was a matter of survival for both groups.

  The professor sighed. “I know I often lament the modernization of the world, and I pine for the past, but some old things deserve to be destroyed.”

  Cleasby hadn’t joined the army to be a destroyer but a protector. Too often they were the same thing—like right now. “I’ll do whatever I have to, your Lordship.”

  “Normally I want to preserve things, but if it wasn’t so wet and green, I’d say set the whole forest on fire and watch it burn.” The professor was beginning to sound like Rains.

  “I need that tablet.”

  “What do you intend to do?”

  The skinwalker had spoken of a first among them, someone Cleasby felt certain had to be a leader of some kind. “I’m going to attempt to parley.”

  “Parley? With these savages?”

  He didn’t know if it would work, but they were outnumbered and surrounded on enemy ground. “It’ll likely fail. But I intend to try.”

  Andras Caradoc was furious.

  After he’d ripped through the small group of gunmen he’d found on the mountainside, a few had fled, and the fire in his blood demanded he chase them down like rabbits. He’d had to force himself from the hunt in order to turn back to the rest of his prey. The primary prey. To assault the fort, he’d left some of the young ones to hunt the survivors. The bullets the gun mage had put into him had slowed Caradoc down, and by the time he’d gotten to the fort he’d been shocked to discover the way hadn’t been opened. Even though several of his warriors had been replaced by using the stones to materialize right in the midst of their prey, his tribe had still somehow become the hunted.

  The full savagery of his tribe had been brought to bear but too late. The soldiers had reacted too quickly, and with the element of surprise gone, the intended slaughterhouse, the pen, had been turned back into a fort. A skinwalker could scale a wall but not while being shot and hacked at by lightning swords. Even mighty Blood Drinker had been wounded and forced to retreat.

  Too many of his warriors had been hurt. Though it had pained him, to do so he’d ordered his warriors to fall back into the forest to wait.

  As the moons climbed and time passed, the fire in Caradoc’s blood had cooled sufficiently, and he’d set aside the furious power of the skins so he could return to his human self. This form was weaker, but his thoughts were clearer. Under the tutelage of the blackclads, newer skinwalkers remained more rational in their beast form, but the first tribe had kept the original ritualistic approach of their berserker ancestors. They welcomed the fury; the loss of control was made up for with savagery. They saw the other tribes’ skinwalkers as lesser beings, not as attuned to their primal god.

  Yet Caradoc willingly returned to his human form because he suspected this fight would not be won by strength alone but rather by cunning as well. He just wasn’t sure how yet.

  From high within the branches of a tree, Caradoc watched the fort. His human eyes could not see so well in the dark, but he saw enough to know the soldiers had been hurt. There were fewer of them on the walls. Many had been wounded and taken inside the big hut. Caradoc had lost five—he guessed they had lost at least twice that. But even at a two-for-one trade, Caradoc couldn’t afford to spend any mor
e of his precious warriors.

  A heavy wagon had been tipped over and shoved in front of the gate, and behind it was the gleaming hulk of their great metal beast. Caradoc knew that if not for the cursed machine, his warriors would be feasting on the trespassers’ guts this very minute. Such a thing ran on coal, but he didn’t know how much they had stored inside.

  Below him, many of his warriors were licking their wounds. They would heal rapidly, especially if they returned to feast on the things hidden in their village, but he didn’t want to leave the soldiers unwatched. Given a chance to feast on living flesh, their skins would make them whole again by the next night. Except for Cenek, who had lost an arm to a lightning sword. He was crippled now and would only slow the pack down.

  Lefan Guto had also returned to his human form. The old chief was at the base of the tree, ready to offer his counsel. Both of them were so experienced, they would be able to return to the beast form, to fill their holy skins, within minutes. Caradoc leapt down from his perch and landed smoothly on the ground far below.

  “What should we do, Caradoc?” Guto asked.

  “More of our warriors are still on the way. Our wounded will heal quickly. Theirs will sicken and fester. They are trapped; there is no escape. Not for any of them. We will bleed them. Harass them during the day so they do not rest. Then when night comes again, we will step through the stones and appear among them again, only this time the rest of us will be here, ready. We will strike all at once, harrying every wall to split their forces, but most of our number will be brought against a single wall at once. When it falls, they belong to us.”

  “Bleed them until tomorrow? How quickly you forget,” Guto snapped. “Krueger is waiting for us. We don’t have time for attrition.”

  “Damn him,” Caradoc growled and slammed one fist against the tree. The gesture left a dent in the bark. “And damn the Circle. There is no stopping until this is done.”

  “You cannot disobey the Stormlord.”

  There were no good choices, only degrees of bad, but that was what it meant to be chief, Caradoc thought. “If we go off to fight for him and let these humans escape, we might as well not bother coming back. There will be nothing to return to. These woods will be crawling with blue soldiers and their machines. We stay and finish this. Then I will deal with Krueger.”

  Guto lowered his head submissively. “As you wish, my chief.”

  Caradoc was angry and frustrated, but he wasn’t stupid. “The decision is on my head, not on the tribe. I will take the Stormlord’s punishment, if there is such. I will suffer his wrath so our tribe can live, so the sacred mountain can be protected. Who knows? Maybe Krueger will understand and be merciful?”

  They both snorted at the ridiculous notion.

  Caradoc heard a noise from below: the humans’ warjack was dragging the wagon aside. He rushed forward, leaping from rock to rock, until he had a better vantage point. It had only made a small opening, just big enough for one man to squeeze through. Several of the blue soldiers’ helmets appeared atop the nearest wall. They were up to something. His warriors had seen this as well and began howling. The others answered them. Within seconds, the entire mountain was covered in the haunting noise.

  “Enough!” Caradoc barked.

  Instantly the howling stopped.

  One of the blue soldiers appeared through the crack. Alone, he walked down the road. Curious, Caradoc watched as he walked away from the safety of the fort. He stopped halfway between the walls and the woods, and there he spread his arms wide, hands open, so that everyone watching could see he was unarmed.

  “I want to speak to the first of the last,” he shouted.

  Intrigued, Caradoc hopped down from the rocks and started toward the fort. Guto rushed to his side. “What are you doing? It has to be a trap.”

  “Maybe. But it is a brave trap to use himself as bait.”

  “They’ll be able to shoot you from their walls.”

  “Don’t worry, Guto. I’ll stop at the edge of the woods. If it is a trick, I will disappear before they can harm me.”

  The old warrior reached out, grabbed him by the arm, and stopped him. “Your first warning might be when they put a bullet through your brain, my chief.”

  There was real concern on Guto’s face. Despite having challenged Guto for leadership of the tribe, defeating him, and deposing the old chief, he had always loved his father, and Guto had always loved him. “Then I will trust that you will watch out and warn me before that happens.”

  Guto let go of him. “Then I will.”

  As he moved quickly down the slope, Caradoc saw the soldier waiting before him was the one called Cleasby. His blue and gold was stained red, and from the smell, it was from both his people and Caradoc’s warriors. Caradoc had been right about this one—appearances were deceiving.

  He stopped at the edge of the woods, still in the shadows, but close enough that Cleasby would be able to see him. Guto hid a few paces behind him. Caradoc called out, “I am the first warrior of the last tribe.”

  Cleasby slowly turned to face him. He seemed remarkably unafraid. “I recognize your voice. From the road. You are Andras Caradoc.”

  “I warned you not to come here. You greed would not hear me.”

  The soldier had a young face but old eyes. “What’s done is done.”

  “It is almost done,” Caradoc agreed. “But you’re still alive. What is it your greed wants now?”

  “To get my people home safe.”

  “So, not your greed speaking now. Your fear. I want the same thing, but not for your people.”

  They were both silent for a time. Caradoc remained in the darkness, but he could feel Cleasby studying him, trying to gain the measure of the chief who threatened his tribe.

  “We mean you no harm,” Cleasby said.

  “That is a lie. Your existence is harm. We only wanted to be left alone. But your kind has to keep pushing and pushing, until there is nothing left for those who are not like you.” Caradoc eyed the walls. Guns and glowing blue swords were pointed his way. He slowly crouched to make himself a smaller target. “Did you call me out just to lie to my face?”

  “I want to offer a trade. Let us leave in peace, and we will give you back your tablet.”

  So, they’d found the chamber. Caradoc wasn’t surprised. It had only been a matter of time. Cygnar was too curious for its own good. They could never understand that the real value didn’t lie in the words carved into it but in the memory of generations of hands that had reverently touched it. As long as it existed, their ancestors would never be forgotten.

  “It is a sacred thing, but it is just a thing. Once I kill you, I will put it back myself.”

  “And decorate the place with my bones?”

  “No. That is too good for you. The others I will just kill, but you brought them here.” Not all of the newer skinwalkers gave into their cannibalistic urges, but the first tribe embraced who they truly were. “I will put you in a hole so small, you can’t move your limbs. Your muscles will grow soft, but we will force feed you every day, so that you become plump and fat. And then one day, long after you’ve forgotten what it felt like to be a man, we’ll cut your throat to fill our basins and feast on your tender flesh.”

  The soldier didn’t flinch. He was not so easily shaken. Instead Cleasby’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “That isn’t what’s going to happen.”

  “Is it not?”

  “No. If you don’t get out of my way, I’m still going to walk these people out of here, but I’ll kill every skinwalker that tries to stop us. Then when I get back to civilization, I’ll tell the world about you. I’ll come back here with an army and hunt you down like the criminal vermin that you are. I’ll annihilate your entire tribe.”

  Caradoc smiled. “Now we are being honest with each other.”

  “I am an honest man, Andras Caradoc. You’d be wise to believe me when I say this is not what I want. I don’t want to kill your people.”

  “Then
you are weaker than I thought.”

  “Mercy is not weakness.”

  “That is not our way.”

  “Then help me understand your ways so we can find a solution.” Cleasby said this so earnestly, so honestly, that Caradoc actually believed he meant it.

  “Our ways are the old ways. I’ve sounded the horn. There is a war between our tribes now. This war cannot end until one tribe’s chief is dead. That is the tradition, and tradition must be kept.” Caradoc noticed movement to one side. One of his warriors was slinking through the tall grass, trying to get an angle to pounce on Cleasby. He spoke sharply in the old tongue. “Leave him alone.”

  “What are you saying?” Cleasby asked,.

  The hidden skinwalker paused for just a moment but then started moving again. Caradoc realized it was Betrys Haul. There would be no swaying her from the hunt. “The burden of being chief,” Caradoc muttered.

  But Cleasby still heard him. “Command is a weight, isn’t it?”

  It was the first thing they’d actually agreed on, and somehow, Caradoc knew it to be true. They were very different, but in this one way, they were exactly the same. “A chief must do what is best for his tribe.”

  “Then let’s help both our tribes. My offer stands, Caradoc. Let us leave.”

  “So you can expose us, drive us from our lands, and make us slaves?”

  “Cygnar does not practice slavery.”

  Caradoc laughed. “Your entire way of life is slavery! You toil away on your machines, breathing coal smoke, cut off from life, passion, and freedom. I will not let you do that to my tribe.”

  “I will not lie for you, but our king is a wise and benevolent man. I’ve personally looked him in the eye. He has had his fill of war. There are wild trollkin kriels in our borders, and we leave them be. Let us go, and I will urge my people to do the same for your sacred mountain.”

  “I believe you believe that, but it is not meant to be.” If one civilized man made a promise, the next one who came along would simply break it, Caradoc already knew. He had fought against the kriels. He had seen how Cygnar abused the trollkin, cut down their groves, and mined their land. Besides, the mighty Circle Orboros had plans for Cygnar. And Betrys was closing in to carry Cleasby off to be devoured anyway, so their negotiation was over.