“For Betrys,” Ivor spat.
“I don’t even know who that is,” Cleasby said. His words only seemed to enrage the new chief even more. Very well. “If she threatened my people, then she deserved whatever she got.”
Without prompting, several of the skinwalkers drew their daggers and tossed them into the gravel between Cleasby and Ivor.
Krueger crossed his arms. “Choose your weapon.”
“This isn’t some Corvis dueling school, Cleasby.” Acosta sounded desperate. “He really will kill you.”
Cleasby looked down at the scattering of blades at his feet. Acosta had said so himself: Cleasby was incapable of not putting the needs of others ahead of his own. Here he was, willing to die the same way he had lived. He looked to his Malcontents and gave them a sad smile.
“Save whoever you can,” he said. “Get them home safe.”
“Choose your weapon,” Krueger snapped again.
Ivor bent down and picked up a long, wickedly curved dagger. He spun it smoothly in his bloodstained hands, dancing it between his fingers, flipping it through the air and effortlessly catching it again. The Skinwalker was confident.
“He shows off,” Acosta called encouragingly.
Bloody hell. Cleasby looked back down at the blades. Acosta was right about another thing. This wasn’t a dueling exam. Nor was Cleasby some barbarian warrior with a blood debt. He was a scholar and a Storm Knight from the most technologically advanced society in the history of the world, one who had been trained by an officer who would break any rule to win…
He wondered what Madigan would have done.
“Any weapon?” he asked.
“Yes,” Krueger said. The Stormlord grew impatient. “Any weapon.”
“Very well.” Cleasby looked back toward the Malcontents. “Headhunter.” The warjack perked up.
Cleasby pointed at Ivor. “Get him.”
Surprised, Ivor turned toward the warjack just in time for a giant steel fist to smash into the upper-half of his body. The incredibly powerful blow smashed him into the gravel. Headhunter drew his arm back and struck again, pulverizing the skinwalker and shattering bones; Cleasby could hear them crack. The next two blows drove Ivor’s body deeper into the ground as if the warjack were attempting to kill and bury the skinwalker at the same time. With the next attack, Headhunter was punching straight down into a bloody hole—Ivor was no longer visible. The warjack’s knuckles came back dripping red.
“That’s enough,” Cleasby ordered.
The narrow yellow vision slits regarded Cleasby for a moment. Headhunter smashed his fist into the depression one last time, just to prove a point, before retreating from newly created grave.
There were howls of outrage from several of the skinwalkers, but they didn’t dare move. Krueger stared at the warjack for a long time before he spoke. “That was unexpected.”
Cleasby moved to the edge of the hole as Headhunter backed away. No one could say Headhunter wasn’t a weapon and an effective one at that—Ivor’s body had been nearly obliterated. As far as Cleasby was concerned, that was what he deserved for bringing a knife to a ’jack fight. Cleasby looked at the druid and asked, “Are we done then?”
“A chief is dead. The agreement has been bound in blood,” Krueger muttered, though he seemed disappointed he’d not been able to see Cleasby be murdered. “It is done.”
Not knowing what else to do, Cleasby gave a small bow, as if the druid were a low-ranking noble. It seemed the polite thing to do. “Thank you, Stormlord.”
“Spare me your pleasantries. Flee back to the cities where you belong, Cygnaran, and huddle there, afraid for your future. You do not belong here, now or ever.” Krueger turned to the skinwalkers. “Gather your dead and meet at the stones. You can mourn your mountain when my mission is finished.”
“Stormlord, wait.” Caradoc had watched the duel in thunderstruck silence. Now he’d found his voice again. “What of me?”
The druid’s eyes narrowed. “You did not really think you would die that easily?”
“If I must abandon our mountain, I have nothing left to live for.”
“Then that will be your punishment. My army needs its skinwalkers, and those skinwalkers need someone to lead them into battle now. Until now, I thought that I had that function filled.” Krueger scowled at the bloody hole. “You may yet have the opportunity to die in battle. Or you may die once I think you’ve suffered enough or I find someone better to replace you.” Krueger propped his spear over his shoulder and walked away without another word.
As the other skinwalkers slowly left the tunnel, Caradoc remained behind. Cleasby and the Malcontents stood prepared in case of duplicity on the part of the Stormlord or the skinwalkers serving him. Acosta seemed both the least likely to survive another battle and the one most eager to engage in one. But the enemy moved on, all save Caradoc. He glared at Cleasby.
“This is your doing,” he said. “You should have left us be. Now we will be banished. I don’t know where we’ll go, but if I ever see you there, I will kill you for what you’ve done.”
Cleasby shook his head. “Then I truly hope that day never comes, Caradoc.”
“I only wanted to protect my people.”
“And we just wanted to study the past, not destroy it.”
“Too late,” the skinwalker said as he limped away.
Two Weeks Later
Ironhead Station
Just after Baron Casner Rathleagh had sent away his servants and sat down to enjoy his dinner in his opulent dining room, a battered tricorn hat landed on the table in front of him. As the baron stared at Lambert Sayre’s hat, a forkful of steak suspended before his slack jaw, Savio Montero Acosta pulled out a chair and sat down next to him.
“Hello, baron. That smells delicious.”
Rathleagh slowly returned his fork to the plate. He suspected it would be wise not to make any sudden movements. “How’d you get in here?” he asked.
“That should be obvious.” Acosta spread his arms wide to display his attire—he was dressed as one of the household servants. “I do not always lumber about in a suit of armor with a pair of glowing swords. I worked up to that.”
He reached over and picked up the Baron’s steak knife, turning it. “Interestingly, the first man I ever killed was with a knife far duller than this one. I was six. Good times.”
Rathleagh swallowed hard. He might have been a mighty arcanist, but there wasn’t much a man could hope to accomplish with someone like Acosta already within conversational distance. He took a moment to reflect how strange it was that a relationship could change so much when two men were not separated by bars. There was far more humility in the baron’s voice now. “I kept my part of the bargain.”
“No. You sent gunmen to spy on me.” Acosta poked at Sayre’s hat with the steak knife. Rathleagh could see dried bloodstains on the fabric. “It did not end well for them.”
“My apologies, Ordsman.” Rathleagh knew Acosta could cut his throat in the blink of an eye, but it was not the first time he’d faced danger in his pursuit of power. He kept his composure. “Despite that, my original offer stands. Did you retrieve the artifact?”
“I did but briefly. Despite your lack of trust, I still intended to give it to you. Then a friend made a vow. Because of his promise, I had to leave it behind.” Acosta seemed to be momentarily lost in thought. He shook himself. “A long story. Suffice to say an honorable man changed our understanding for us. The only part that truly matters to you is knowing that our agreement is now void.”
“That’s not how—”
Acosta spun the knife and jammed it into the table next to Rathleagh’s hand. The baron flinched. The knife stuck in the wood, vibrating. “My visit is a courtesy to avoid misunderstandings that may cause future unpleasantness between us.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you send anyone to kill me, be sure they are worth my time.”
Acosta pushed his chair away from the table and
had already turned to walk back across the dining room before Rathleagh spoke. “Wait.”
He knew he should be afraid of Acosta coming back and killing him, but he was still a baron, and barons could not tolerate being betrayed without at least some token protest. “I heard the reports when the expedition got back, about how resilient those forest creatures were. Imagine what I could have done with such magical knowledge. Imagine what you could do with it.”
“I thought about it. I could combine such savage might with my own skills and become the greatest warrior in Caen. I would have all I need to demonstrate my greater to my Lady.”
Rathleagh smiled. This was a man he could work with after all. “So, what stops us from taking what we want from those creatures?”
Acosta smiled back. “That would be cheating.”
Caspia
“Lieutenant Kelvan Cleasby, reporting as ordered.”
“None of that nonsense now,” Baron Wynn said as he got up from his desk. “Come here, my boy.” He engulfed Cleasby in an awkward hug.
Cleasby stood there uncomfortably as he looked around the cluttered office, unused to being hugged by noblemen. Then he patted the professor on the back. “Thank you, your Lordship.”
The professor stepped back but continued to hold Cleasby at arm’s length with one hand on each shoulder. The man looked like he was about to cry. In fact, Cleasby suspected the professor might have actually shed fresh tears on Cleasby’s seldom-worn dress uniform. Baron Wynn was truly overcome by emotion.
“You did it, Cleasby. You got us out of there. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy as when we had climbed out of that stinking mine. Most of my people are alive because of you. Please, sit. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“I’m fine.” Cleasby pulled up a chair as the professor braced himself on the edge of his desk. The old man grabbed two glasses and a half-empty bottle and poured a shot for Cleasby anyway. “It sounds as if all is well for you, sir.”
“Better.” The professor handed the glass to Cleasby. “We’ll to be translating the rubbings we gathered for years. In time, they will revolutionize our understanding of ancient history.”
While that was good news, Cleasby thought about the ruins being dug through, and it made him a little melancholy. “Well, I’m glad it worked out for you.”
It was clear the professor knew what he was thinking. “But the cost was too damned high. And I know I made mistakes. Those will haunt me for the rest of my life.”
“The hardest thing isn’t making the decision; it’s dealing with it afterward.” For just a moment, they weren’t nobleman and soldier but just two men who had made tough calls. Cleasby held up his glass. “To Pickett.”
“To Pickett.” The professor downed his drink in one gulp. Cleasby gagged on the potent mix as it tried to burn a hole in his esophagus. He’d never been much of a drinker.
“I’ve no doubt the young man would have made a fine adventurer. He’d want us to proceed with the work. You know, the best officer I’ve ever known told me that during a battle, it does no good to dwell on what got you there; it only matters what you do next.”
“That advice sounds familiar, but I was told that same thing by an officer who actually had a clue what he was talking about.” Cleasby wasn’t sure what Sir Madigan would have done differently, but he had no doubt the knight would have been damned proud of his Malcontents.
“So… The reason you’re here. Have you given any thought to my offer?” The professor slapped his knees in excitement. “Professor Cleasby?”
“The offer was for an adjunct professor position, your Lordship.”
“Titles! Regardless, you’re a hero in these halls. You’d have an office. You’d have to share it, and there are no windows, but just the same, an office you’ll rarely be in. We both know the Royal University will put a man like you to work in the field. Just think of what we could accomplish. ” As the professor spoke, he finally realized Cleasby’s expression hadn’t changed. He paused. Then, “You’re not going to do it, are you?”
“No, sir.”
Wynn blinked as if he didn’t believe what the man before him had just said. “You’re turning us down? You didn’t resign your commission after all?”
Cleasby had, in fact, signed the papers this morning. “I’m sorry, your Lordship. The Royal University will get along fine without me.”
“And the Malcontents won’t?”
“If I’m away too long, they tend cause trouble. Set fires. That sort of thing.” Cleasby grinned. “Sorry, sir, but I think they need me more.”
“I understand your decision.” Gathering himself, Baron Wynn extended his hand; Cleasby was glad to shake on it. “These are dangerous times. The kingdom needs men like you.”
“I appreciate that, sir. Now if you’ll excuse me, we just received new orders. Sixth Platoon is shipping out next week, and I still need to figure out where to get a giant beast head stuffed and mounted for our warjack’s wall.”
After Cleasby said his goodbyes to the professor, he wound his way through the Royal University’s hallways. All those books called to him, but he’d get to them someday, maybe, once the kingdom had no more use for him. Until then, he would serve his men and his country. As he walked down the marble steps into the crowded streets of a city that he’d once helped save, Cleasby was surprised to see a familiar face waiting for him.
“Good morning, corporal.”
“Lieutenant Cleasby.” Novak looked remarkably different out of uniform. He had to admit that it was a little odd seeing the Ranger in a dress rather than a camouflaged cloak. But this was nice, too. “Rains told me I might catch up with you here.”
After reporting her patrol’s findings, she’d been sent back to Caspia, and she and Cleasby had traveled together. Though he’d not say as much to the other Malcontents, he’d rather enjoyed their conversations. “How did yesterday’s briefing with the Scout General go?”
“Hypothetically speaking, if such a meeting did occur, I’m sure it would all be kept very secret by the CRS.” She had a lovely smile, even one meant to be a bit dismissive. “You know how it is.”
“Indeed.” That was the Reconnaissance Service for you. “So, what brings you here?”
“I’ve never been to Caspia before, and I’ve been given a few days leave before my next assignment. I thought it would be wonderful to have a gentleman give me a proper tour of the place.” She gave him her hand.
Cleasby took it.
The kingdom could wait a little while longer.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Larry Correia is The New York Times bestselling author of the Monster Hunter International series, the Grimnoir Chronicles trilogy, and the military thrillers Dead Six and Swords of Exodus. His first book in the Malcontent series, Into the Storm, is one of Skull Island eXpeditons’ most popular titles. He has been a finalist for the Campbell award, the Julia Verlanger award, and won an Audie Award for Hard Magic. He is published by Baen Books. A former accountant, military contractor, firearms instructor, and machinegun dealer, Larry now lives in the mountains of northern Utah with his wife and children, where he has moose in his yard.
Into the Wild
Copyright © 2016 Privateer Press
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First electronic printing: April 8th, 2016
ISBN: 978-1-943693-11-5
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