Into the Wild

by Larry Correia

  Cleasby’s knowledge of geology was not enough for him to be aware that rocks apparently had temperament. “What’s to stop the skinwalkers from just blocking up the hole themselves and burying all our wounded alive?”

  Dolphs made a dismissive noise. “We’ll pack in enough tools to dig ourselves back out if we need to. Hell, we’ll take all the supplies. They’d just slow down whoever’s trying to run through the forest. Worst case, we’re buried until you boys get back with help.”

  “No, the worst case is they kill us before we reach Ironhead, and you’re trapped in the dark until you starve to death,” Thorny exclaimed.

  “Nah. We’ve only got so many barrels. We’ll run out of water first.” Dolphs shrugged. “I’ll still take dying of thirst over getting eaten, personally, but I can’t speak for everyone.”

  “If you’re sealed in, how will you breathe?”

  The dwarf looked at Thornbury like he was an imbecile. “Air’s no problem. Nobody works the Wyrmwalls without drilling vertical vent shafts to prevent methane buildup. Plus, if you’re planning to use laborjacks, you’ve got to have good airflow or you’d choke on the coal smoke. Everybody knows that.”

  “Of course, I know so very much about mining I just forgot.”

  “That’ll do.” Cleasby didn’t think it was an especially impressive plan, but combat often meant choosing between various levels of bad. “Before first light, we move the expedition to the mineshaft. I’ll leave two of the Malcontents to hold the entrance. Between them and Raus’ people who are handy with guns, nothing is getting in there. Then the rest of my men and I will make a run for the train tracks.”

  “Not without me guiding you, you’re not,” Novak said.

  “Obviously. The jokes about the most dangerous thing in the military being a lieutenant with a map exist for a reason.” Cleasby wasn’t that bad at land navigation, he thought, but a ranger would be much better. He turned to Baron Wynn. Regardless of how the man was still reeling from what had happened earlier, he was still technically in charge. “Your Lordship, do you approve of this plan?”

  The professor nodded slowly. All his quarrelsome pride of earlier was gone, left with the covered bodies outside the bunkhouse. “I trust your judgment, lieutenant.”

  Those simple words meant a great deal to Cleasby at that moment. He nodded sharply. “Excellent. We’re going to be fine. Everyone, see to whatever needs to be done. The minute the sun is over the mountain, we’re moving. Many of the wounded will need to be carried, as will the food and water. Rains, see to assignments.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They’d been up all day, now most of the night, and would need to run across a mountain all day tomorrow. Cleasby wondered what their odds of success were if they didn’t get at least a moment’s rest. “We’ve got a few hours until dawn. I want each Malcontent to at least get a nap in.”

  “That includes you, right?” Thornbury asked.

  Cleasby waved him off. “I’ve just been electrocuted. I don’t think I’m ever going to sleep again. Everyone get to work, except the professor. If you don’t mind, I could use another word with you, your Lordship. Horner as well, please.”

  They dispersed. Horner seemed curious about why she’d been singled out, but the professor looked very tired and very old as he spoke. “Thank you for giving me a chance to save face there, Cleasby.”

  “It wasn’t an attempt. You are a baron of Caspia and are thus worthy of respect. That’s not why I wanted to speak with you. We’ve got another problem. Novak thinks these skinwalkers might be working with blackclads.”

  The professor seemed uncertain. “I know of them. Weird, hermit recluses. Mothers tell stories about them kidnapping children to keep their own kids from wandering too far into the forest. I’ve always thought they were exaggerated.”

  Horner shook her head. “There’s more to them than that.”

  Cleasby had been hoping the field archeologist could shed some light on the subject. “The Second Army hasn’t had much to do with them, but I’ve heard rumors from the First and Third about dangerous encounters with bands of wild warriors, though they’re usually only roused when intruded upon. What do you know that we don’t, Horner?”

  “Nobody sees them as a real threat to the kingdom, but that could be changing, at least according to the rumors I’ve heard in my travels. They’re more powerful than people give them credit for. Creatures associated with old myths are being seen with greater frequency, like griffons and satyrs. Such things are common in Clamorgan folklore, but today, it could be a sign the blackclads are gathering their forces.”

  “You didn’t mention this before,” the professor said.

  “Rumors circulated in backwoods taverns are hardly reviewed by peers, your Lordship.”

  Cleasby was troubled, straining to remember. “Weren’t there old stories about druids who could channel arcane energy to shape stone? That’s a pretty frightening proposition, especially if you’re hiding in a mineshaft. If these skinwalkers come back with such an ally, you’ll all be in danger. I’d prefer for Caradoc’s forces to concentrate their attention on us.”

  The professor sighed. “Then you’d best catch that train, Cleasby.”

  “Don’t worry. I will.”

  “We will,” Horner stated, surprising both men. “You’ve got a ranger guide, but in case anything happens to her, I’m an excellent navigator. I have wilderness survival skills, I’m an excellent medic, and I’m fit enough to make the climb.”

  “Are you certain you want to do that?” the professor asked.

  “I lived my life out in the open air rather than in the gloom of the university’s walls. I’d prefer to finish it under the sun rather than a hole in the ground, if that’s the way it goes.”

  Cleasby cut in. “Listen, your safety is my responsibility, but on this march, I can’t promise that any of us will survive. This may sound cruel, but if you slow us down, we’ll have no choice but to leave you behind.”

  “Sounds to me like the odds are terrible either way.” Horner grinned at him.

  Cleasby had no argument against that. He liked to imagine that this was the kind of courageous scholar he might have been had things been different. “Very well then. Malcontents are surprisingly hard to kill, but we do have a tendency to get lost, so your help is welcome.” Since that matter was settled, he returned to the reason he’d asked the professor to stay. “I need you to give me the tablet, your Lordship.”

  “Having it will only make you a bigger target.”

  “Good. I want Caradoc to come for me personally. He said something about how a war can’t end until one tribe’s chief is dead. He sees that chief as me, not you. So, while he’s focused on getting to me, the others will have a better chance to escape. And if I can kill him, maybe that’ll end this.”

  “Ahem.” The sound came from the other side of the fire. Cleasby hadn’t noticed that Acosta had only moved back a bit to linger in the shadows, eavesdropping. “If I may be so bold, that is a terrible idea, my friends.”

  “Speak your mind, Ordsman,” the professor said.

  “I agree—it is wise to provoke this Caradoc. You say he is fearsome. Good. Enrage him, hold this sacred thing over his head, make him claw and scrape for what he holds dear. It will draw him out and force him to fight. When he finally comes for it, a fantastic battle will ensue.” Acosta walked around the fire, grinning maliciously. “So, let me carry the tablet.”

  Caradoc knelt next to Guto. The old warrior had been lain on a pile of bearskins, close to the fire. Other than the pop and crack of burning logs, the hut was quiet. Their mad shaman had prayed over him, shaking a string of bones and begging for strength, but after an hour, he seemed to have given up.

  “Why does he not wake?” Caradoc demanded.

  “It is a forever sleep, my chief. Guto is stuck between life and death and will remain there until you free him.”

  “But we’ve poured blood down his throat. Why won’t he heal?”<
br />
  “The bullet is in his skull. Such things are impure, but if I reach in to pull it out, he will die. The lead banishes the healing spirits. His body lives, but his mind is gone forever.” The shaman might have remembered how to use the stones, but he’d lost the rest of the blackclads’ magic.

  Caradoc looked down at his father, weak and grey, with a wet rag placed over his eyes. His lips were slack and blue. Caradoc glared at the shaman. “Get out.”

  Slowly, as if reluctant to abandon his charge, the shaman crawled backward, scraping his necklace of bones and feathers along the floor. Caradoc did not acknowledge his presence again; the shaman had gone from his consciousness long before he had gone from the hut. Finally, the shaman reached the door, where he stood and left, likely pleased to escape the possible wrath of Caradoc.

  Caradoc knelt in the same spot for a long time. Outside, the air was thick with grief. The voices of the villagers swelled into a somber harmony and mixed with the flakes of ash that fell from painted faces. Caradoc felt his lungs fill with the heavy air as it pressed against the expansive ache of loss.

  He closed his eyes focused on the voices. The death songs were mournful things that honored the warriors who’d gone to the next great hunt, but one song was different. The Haul clan was singing a vengeance chant instead, beating a steady rhythm on a war drum. Whether the vengeance was aimed at him or at the Cygnar who’d killed Betrys remained to be seen. Caradoc opened his eyes, looking out at his warriors. Those who had been wounded were glutting themselves on flesh and blood to prepare for the night’s vengeance hunt. The rest were in their human form on the mountainside, resting, watching, and waiting for the sun to go down. Even mighty Blood Drinker had dragged a bear from its den and devoured it, so it would return to its full strength in time. Their warpwolf was eager for payback.

  “I will not fail this tribe,” Caradoc whispered to Guto. “I will free you.”

  It was not what he wanted to do to the one who had given him the most strength in his time, but it was still Caradoc’s responsibility to see his father through to the very end.

  He thought about his knife but dismissed this almost as quickly as he thought it; he would not bleed his own father like some sacrifice to fill a basin. Instead, he gently pinched Guto’s nose closed and pressed his palm across the elder’s mouth, trapping the breath. He could feel the life pushing against his palm. Hot. Caradoc held it there as the pressure built, but he did not look down at his father. Guto didn’t even struggle, didn’t so much as kick, and that filled Caradoc’s heart with sadness. Caradoc held him long after he’d suffocated, just to be merciful and certain.

  When it was done and he’d murdered his own father, Caradoc wiped the saliva from his hands on the furs and stood up. The sounds outside the thin walls of his hut had changed. Someone had arrived through the stones. Zamir the Sun Caller.

  The blackclad would be here to gather Krueger’s army.

  A rage slowly began to build inside Caradoc’s chest. He’d always done what the Circle asked, but not today. Today he not serve not the Circle but his tribe instead. The anger slowly grew greater and hotter as he looked down at dead Guto. They’d failed because they’d rushed. Krueger’s incessant demands had forced Caradoc to act sooner than he’d liked, and because of that his tribe had suffered again. Because of them, he had lost his leader, his mentor. His father.

  By the time he finally pushed through the skins covering the door, he was so furious that it took everything he had to maintain his human form.

  The sun was bright on their huts, but overall, the village seemed grey and sad, as if no light could bring back the color they’d once known. He could see the anger in the eyes of his people; he saw their anger at the trespassers, their anger at him for his failure, and their anger at the self-righteous druid standing between the stones, ready to take them away and spend their lives in some distant land for a god they barely understood.

  And then Ivor Haul tackled him from behind.

  Caradoc struck the ground hard, dashing his face against a rock. Ivor was on his back, pounding his fists into the side of Caradoc’s head. He took up handfuls of Caradoc’s hair, jerked his head back, and then slammed it forward into the ground.

  “You killed my sister!”

  This was not a challenge for leadership. This was a murder.

  Furious, Caradoc rolled. Ivor was on him, rock-hard fists raining down against Caradoc’s skull. Ivor was physically stronger, but Caradoc fought with cunning. He caught one of Ivor’s wrists, jerked it down, and bit Ivor’s wrist. His teeth had only begun to change, but already his jaws were strong enough to rip through skin and flesh. As Ivor roared, Caradoc stabbed his fingers into Ivor’s neck.

  The young Haul fell off, rolling through the dust and choking. Caradoc went after him. They were both changing as the magic of the skins took hold. But Caradoc had no time for this. He understood Ivor’s heartbreak, but vengeance could not be interrupted by the young Haul’s inability to control his pain. Caradoc drove into Ivor’s midsection, shoving him back through the wall of a hut. They hit the ground together, but this time Caradoc was on top, and he would end this in the most efficient way possible.

  Rising up, he struck Ivor with his fists, pummeling his face. Caradoc’s arms fell again and again, like a blacksmith’s hammer. He smashed Ivor’s teeth out, smashed the bones of his eyes sockets, broke his nose, broke his jaw, and once his hands became too deformed, sunk his claws deep into Ivor’s chest until he could hook them around a rib. Ivor screamed.

  “Silence, pup!” Caradoc roared in a voice only half-human. “You think your family is the only who lost?” He twisted the rib bone until it snapped; Ivor let out a terrible wail. “First we kill the Cygnar, then you can challenge me!” Caradoc let go of the bone and pulled his bloody hand out of Ivor’s chest.

  At length, he stood over the fallen skinwalker, breathing hard, and then kicked Ivor in the side as a reminder. “Crawl back to your clan and prepare yourself for tonight’s hunt, fool. If you really want vengeance, take it out on the ones who killed her.”

  Bloody and partially transformed, Caradoc stepped through the broken wall and strode toward Zamir. The druid had witnessed Ivor’s brutal beating, and now he stunk of nervous sweat and even a trace of fear. Zamir clearly had not expected this sort of reception.

  “What do you want?” Caradoc demanded.

  “I’ve come for the Stormlord’s army,” he stammered.

  “Tell the Stormlord that we’re busy.”

  There were gasps from all across the gathered villagers. Only a madman would openly defy the Circle. Zamir slowly backed away. “Do not make this mistake. Think carefully about what you’re doing, Caradoc.”

  “I have. I’ve thought about how we’ve kept our part of the bargain, but you’ve done nothing for this tribe!” Caradoc bellowed, spittle flying from his jagged teeth. “For too long we’ve fought for you, for your promises of protection, but with Cygnar upon our holy mountain, where are the blackclads? Nowhere! Look at them, Zamir. Look at the ashes on their faces. You interrupted a funeral, fool.”

  The druid slowly backed away. “I did not realize—”

  “Take my words back to the Stormlord. Tell him we will serve again only when he keeps his part of the bargain. We are not like the other skinwalkers. We are not your pets. You did not make us. The first tribe is allied with the Circle, not enslaved to them. Run back to your master and tell him the words of Andras Caradoc.”

  Zamir stepped back into the circle of stones. “I fear you will regret this.” The druid disappeared.

  “I’m sure I will,” Caradoc whispered. Krueger would more than likely flay him alive as an example, but by then his village would be safe. Guto’s death would not be wasted. He raised his voice to a roar. “Prepare for the hunt!”

  PART III: THE DESTROYERS

  Acosta jogged along the trail, the heavy pack bouncing up and down on his back. The ranger was the only one ahead of him. The female archeologist
and the Malcontents were strung out in a line behind, with the gigantic Headhunter bringing up the rear. They’d left the rest of the expedition hiding in a hole two miles behind them.

  The rocky mountainside was cloaked in clouds. Up close, the clouds were not so different from fog, and he’d gotten plenty of that back in Ord. Despite the terrain, they were making excellent time. He figured the clumsy warjack would have fallen down the mountain by now, but Headhunter was full of surprises. Even weighed down with sacks of coal, the machine had no problem sticking close to Pangborn. A few times there’d been something in their path that Headhunter couldn’t duck under or around, so it had simply smashed those obstacles out of the way. Acosta was fond of this particular warjack; most had no personality, but he couldn’t help but think this particular machine was after his own heart.

  Novak paused at the top of the next rise and looked back at the group. She wasn’t even breathing hard yet.

  “My compliments to the rangers,” Acosta said as he approached. “Your conditioning is excellent.”

  “To be fair, those pavement pounders are doing better than I expected. Carrying all that kit, I figured a unit from Caspia would be throwing up by now.” She gave him a quizzical look. “You’re wearing the same kind of armor they are. How is it you’re fine?”

  “Custom tailoring and extensive conditioning.” Acosta came to a stop and looked back down the mountain. “Cleasby will run them as long as he can before slowing them to a quick march. I’ve seen how hard these men train. They’ll make it. Our packs are heavy with coal now. They’ll get lighter as the day goes on, and the warjack burns it all.”

  “Coal’s not all you’ve got in your pack, is it, mercenary?”