Into the Storm

by Larry Correia

  Schafer swallowed. He’d begun to sweat. “I understand,” he croaked.

  Madigan nodded as if the captain had just given him a valuable piece of advice. Men like Schafer were motivated mostly by their own doubts and worries of what others thought of them, so it would be counterproductive to make him look bad. Schafer would probably be brave enough in battle—if there were people watching.

  “If you think this invasion is nothing more than a chance for glory, then you’re a fool, and I only pray you don’t have to bury too many of your soldiers before you understand that. I’ll keep my rejects out of your way. We’ll be no trouble at all. Your career is safe. I am a ghost. When the invasion comes, tell me where you want me. Until then, keep out of my face and let me do my job.”

  The captain bobbed his head in agreement.

  “Now salute your subordinate like a proper officer of Cygnar instead of a petulant child.” Madigan stepped away, snapped to, and saluted crisply. “Thank you, Captain!”

  Schafer returned the salute. His hand quivered just a bit as it reached his brow. “That’ll be all, Lieutenant Madigan. Carry on.”

  Laddermore had suggest he tread lightly around Captain Schafer . . . Sadly, that was Madigan’s idea of “lightly.”

  Sergeant Kelvan Cleasby reported to his new duty station to discover they were living in a slum. In fact, to call this barracks a slum would be to insult proper slums. The building was really more of a barn currently unfit for livestock. It even had gaping holes in the shingles and pigeons living in the rafters. When he opened the front door, it promptly fell off the hinge.

  “Hello?” he called. “Anyone home?”

  Lieutenant Madigan came around a corner, looking presentable in a new uniform and even wearing the rare Star of Valor he’d earned. Cleasby’s new orders had been rushed, so he hadn’t been sure who his new commanding officer was supposed to be. Madigan must have found out about Cleasby reporting his bounty violation, and this was to be his punishment. So this is what it feels like when your career dies, he thought as he saluted.

  Madigan waved off the salute and said, “Welcome to the Sixth Platoon, Cleasby. You’re late.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. This barracks was rather difficult to find, the way it was hidden between a slaughterhouse and the cattle pens.”

  “Only the best for Sixth Platoon.”

  “Sir . . . May I ask why I’m—”

  “No. Familiarize yourself with this.” He handed Cleasby a clipboard with a list of names on it. “Now hop to. We’ve got some recruiting to do.” Madigan strode out of the room. Cleasby dragged his equipment to the side, leveraged the door into place so it was approximately closed, and then rushed after his new commanding officer.

  Sixth Platoon’s barracks wasn’t located in the military district with the rest of the army, but with the spin up to the invasion, the city was filling with troops. It was quite a walk across the busy streets of Caspia to get back to the main body of the army, and Cleasby was curious as to why they were stuck so far outside the regular boundaries. Then he scanned the list Madigan had given him and came to a terrible realization.

  “Sixth Platoon is to be made up of criminals and madmen!”

  “Indeed,” Madigan snapped. “And you are one of their NCOs, so you’d better act like it. The first one that gives you trouble, you’ll need to bust his head to set an example of proper military discipline.”

  “That’s rather unorthodox.” Cleasby jumped out of the way as several massive trollkin in colorful tartans crossed the street. Then he hurried to catch up with Madigan, who walked at a very fast pace.

  “When you’re dealing with such men, you can’t show weakness or they’ll eat you. Here.” Madigan handed Cleasby a letter. “See that this is telegraphed today. I need it delivered immediately.”

  Cleasby looked at the address. “Five Fingers?” The Ordic city was well known as a base for pirates, mercenaries, and sell-swords. “Why Five Fingers?”

  “Just do it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Cleasby tucked the paper into his bag and rushed to catch up to his new commanding officer.

  When they reached the edge of the military district, Madigan paused. “Now, which way is the mechanik’s yard?” he muttered. The area was a sea of blue uniforms and commotion.

  Cleasby looked back at the list he carried. “Most of the men on here are in the brig, sir. It’s right over there—”

  “Not yet. When you build a house, you lay the foundation first. You put up walls with no foundation, the walls fall over. Now hurry up. I hear hammering over this way.” Madigan pushed his way through the crowd.

  They had to stop again as a pair of massive Ironclad warjacks crossed the street ahead of them. The ground shook as the six-ton metal machines lumbered past, smoke pouring from each set of dual stacks. Their controlling marshal walked ahead of them, directing them with a series of short verbal commands and hand gestures. Cleasby was awed by the sight, but Madigan only seemed annoyed at the delay. Once the ’jacks were past, Madigan crossed the street and Cleasby hurried to keep up.

  The mechanik’s yard was easy to find once they got closer. It was the noisiest, smokiest, hottest part of the military district. The huge gate, adorned with the symbol of crossed wrenches, stood open. A veritable army of ’jacks loomed inside the walls, most of them perfectly still, almost as if they were standing at attention. Among them Cleasby saw everything from nine-foot-tall light warjacks to massive heavy warjacks, most of which he guessed were at least twelve feet tall, alongside laborjacks of all shapes and sizes. Hundreds of mechaniks were working frantically.

  Near the gate a gobber was working on a partially dismantled Defender, scraping at a patch of rust. The little creature’s legs hung out of an opening in the heavy warjack’s torso. Madigan approached, and Cleasby had to step over a pile of gears and hoses that had been ripped out of the ’jack and then duck under its arm cannon. “Excuse me.” Madigan called to the gobber. “I’m looking for Neel MacKay. Is he around?”

  “The angry human?” The gobber demonstrated why his species was so talented at working on machines as he effortlessly rolled around inside the confines of the Defender’s chest. His green skin was covered in rust and grease. He pointed with his wire brush at a small building. “Follow the shouting and profanity.”

  “Thank you, friend,” Madigan said as he set out for the indicated shed.

  Cleasby checked the clipboard. “There’s no MacKay on here.”

  “There should be. MacKay’s about as antisocial as you can be without getting drummed out of the army. We served together during the Scharde Invasions. He hates people. Loves ’jacks, though.” Madigan reached the shed and slid the door open without bothering to knock.

  A beefy, overweight, older fellow with a white bushy mustache the consistency of the gobber’s wire brush was leaning over the fist of a ’jack, using a cutting torch to remove a damaged knuckle. He cursed at the sound of their arrival. “Blasted interruptions! How’s a man supposed to fix all this poorly designed junk when every dunderhead in Caspia keeps bothering him?” Goggles swung their way. “What’s the meaning of—” His mouth fell open. “Madigan?”

  “Sergeant MacKay. Been awhile.”

  The old mechanik hurriedly turned some valves to kill his cutting torch and set it down carefully on his workbench. “They busted me back to corporal for punching some wet-behind-the-ears journeyman warcaster in his stupid mouth for insulting one of my ’jacks.” MacKay had a strong Thurian accent. He came over and engulfed Madigan in a bear hug. “Good to see you, boy!” The knight returned the hug. When they broke apart, Madigan’s new uniform was stained with grime. The mechanik grimaced. “Sorry about that.”

  Madigan waved off his concern. “It needed to be broken in. How you been, old man?”

  “Bored! Fixing things that shouldn’t get broken in the first place. Stupid officers. I swear they come out of the academy too proud to read the stupid manuals. I’m a field mechanik. This look like t
he field to you?” MacKay waved one heavy work glove around the shed. “They stuck me here and said I’m too old to fight in the invasion. Can you believe that?”

  Cleasby could easily believe it. The Scharde campaign had ended eighteen years ago. Cleasby had been a baby.

  “Their mistake, and their loss,” Madigan agreed. “I need a favor.”

  “If it hadn’t been for you I would’ve died at the hands of those godforsaken Cryxians. Anything for you, my boy.”

  “Sixth of the 47th needs a warjack. That’s my new command.”

  MacKay went to a very full chalkboard on the wall and scowled. “Orders from a Captain Schafer, no warjacks for that platoon. Says here your boys are ‘low priority.’”

  “Get me a warjack.”

  The mechanik scratched at his grizzled chin. “That’ll take some doing.”

  “Do it, then.”

  “Can’t promise nothing new or fancy.”

  Madigan folded his arms. “I want a Stormclad.”

  “And I want to bed Ayn Vanar, but neither one is likely to happen.” MacKay paused, thinking it over. “The Stormclad’s the top of the line. Every Stormblade unit wants a Stormclad. Getting one would be hard, but not impossible . . . You’ll still need a ’jack marshal to run it, though. Get me on your platoon and I’ll get you your ’jack.”

  Cleasby couldn’t believe his ears. “That’s against regulations. You can’t work outside of regular procurement, and you can’t just go moving assigned personnel around!”

  MacKay looked like he was thinking about hitting Cleasby with a wrench, but Madigan just ignored the protests. “You know how to work a storm glaive?”

  “Better than you do, I’d wager, since I was there when Sebastian Nemo unveiled them. Hell, I know how to build them.”

  The knight rubbed his scar thoughtfully. “You’ve let yourself get fat, MacKay . . .”

  He patted his gut. “My Evie can cook.”

  “You’ve got two months to squeeze yourself into a suit of storm armor. It won’t do me any good to have a warjack if its controller is too fat and slow to run along behind it.”

  “Deal.” MacKay’s toothy grin could barely be seen beneath his huge mustache. He used his thumb to wipe the word low from the chalkboard. “Now Sixth Platoon is priority.”

  “I’ve heard they call him the Ascendant,” Madigan said as they made their way through the streets just outside of the walls of the Sancteum. “Supposedly he’s a remarkable fighter.”

  “We probably shouldn’t call him the Ascendant. He’d probably consider himself unworthy and take offense.” Cleasby was master of the clipboard. “It says here that Sergeant Wilkins is quite possibly delusional. His last commanding officer found him to be insufferable, obnoxious, and a detriment to morale.”

  “Then you two should get along splendidly.”

  The Sancteum within Caspia was the home of the Church of Morrow. Thousands of faithful pilgrims flocked to this place every day. The Sancteum itself was a walled city within a city. A holy, contemplative place, filled with the offices and headquarters of various orders of the church. The neighborhood around the Sancteum’s main gates was anything but quiet, though. It was filled with businesses catering to the needs of countless pilgrims, visitors, clergy, and scholars. Vendors sold totems, statues, trinkets, and even supposedly holy relics. Street preachers shared their particular messages at nearly every corner. As Cleasby and Madigan passed the open gates and the sergeant caught sight of the legendary Archcourt Cathedral, he couldn’t help but gawk at its magnificence.

  “You appear moved, Cleasby.”

  Of course Cleasby believed in the ascendency of the Twins and the rightness of the Morrowan faith, and he attended services occasionally, but beyond that he didn’t pay such matters much heed. His appreciation was more scholarly; so many important historical decisions had been made and miracles manifested within the walls of that cathedral it was staggering. The Menite faith was about blind obedience to the Creator, whereas the Morrowans believed in nuanced morality, ethics, and intellectual achievements. The world would still be in darkness if it wasn’t for the Church. “Not really, sir. I appreciate the clergy very much, but I’m afraid I’m not particularly devout.”

  “Well, our Sergeant Wilkins is, so let me do the talking.”

  “Are you schooled in the doctrine of Morrow?”

  “That’s the good twin, right?” Madigan asked, completely deadpan.

  “Sir!” Cleasby choked. Everyone knew that Thamar was Morrow’s sister, the dark to his light, and that she was the goddess of selfishness and the merciless search for personal gain, worshiped only in secret in exchange for giving her followers dark powers.

  Madigan chuckled. “I’m joking, Cleasby. Wilkins is a fanatic, but we’re about to go to war with some fanatics, and it wouldn’t hurt to have one of our own. Look for a street preacher with a Precursor’s shield. I heard Wilkins carries that with him everywhere. Thinks it’s a holy relic or some such thing.”

  They found Sergeant Wilkins two streets over, standing on top of a crate giving a passionate discourse on his interpretations of doctrine to a small crowd that included pilgrims, several trollkin, a few gobbers, and an ogrun. Resting against the crate beneath the burly, square-jawed preacher’s feet was a battered steel shield bearing the symbol of Morrow and the Precursor Order.

  “The ascendants have taught us there are many righteous paths to Morrow’s domain in Urcaen. Rowan renounced her wealth and helped ease the suffering of others. Doleth gave his catch to the hungry and risked his life to save drowning sailors. Gordenn tilled his fields and used that bounty to feed the poor. What do they all have in common?”

  “Sacrifice!” shouted one of the listeners. “Sacrifice!”

  “Correct, my brother. Though there are many paths and many philosophies, sacrificing for the good of others is the ultimate display of devotion. The wretched Menites do not sacrifice for their fellow man but instead sacrifice each other to their merciless god!” He raised his voice so the entire street could hear his words. “The Creator is a petty, jealous god. Every soul is born with the ability to choose between righteousness and wickedness. Morrow would encourage that choice, allowing us to better ourselves. We choose to sacrifice! We choose to be good! We choose to be willing servants.”

  There were murmurs of assent from the crowd. Even the Dhunia-worshiping trollkin, gobbers, and ogrun seemed moved.

  “But Menoth doesn’t want servants; he wants slaves. Menoth would take that agency and crush it beneath his heel until we are all ground into dust. We must not be enslaved by the Protectorate, a government that focuses only upon the rigid inflexibility of their god. No, my brothers and sisters, they must be destroyed and Hierarch Voyle cast down from his palace of gold! We all must sacrifice in our own ways to stop this Menite menace!”

  The crowd cheered. Wilkins’ talk was certainly animated, though it was more militant than Cleasby was used to. Yet if Madigan had one personality trait that showed consistently, it was impatience. He wasn’t the type to waste time listening to a lay preacher. The knight stepped forward. Several members of the audience, seeing the medal on his chest, respectfully moved out of the way. “Sergeant Aiden Wilkins?” he said above the clamor.

  The preacher looked down. “Yes, my brother?”

  “You’re not my brother. You’re my subordinate. Get down.”

  “We all must answer to Morrow eventually, and if we’re to have victory over the Menites, we will need his light to guide us.” He glanced at the patch on Madigan’s shoulder to ascertain his rank. “So tell me, Lieutenant, who among the ascendants do you follow most closely? It appears you are knighted, and Ascendant Katrena is the patron of knighthood and nobility, yet you carry yourself as a common soldier, and they are watched over by Ascendant Markus. So who guides your path?”

  Cleasby was actually curious about the answer to that question.

  Madigan’s expression did not change. “King Leto Raelthorne guides
my path, by way of his holy prophets Lord Commander Stryker and Major Laddermore, and they’ve ordered me to scrape together a unit to go ruin some Menites’ day. So if you want a piece of that action, shut your mouth and get off the crate.”

  “Yes, sir!” Wilkins hopped down.

  The crowd, disappointed that the fiery preacher was done, began to drift away. Cleasby found himself apologizing to a disgruntled trollkin who muttered something about the army ruining the best shows before stomping off.

  Wilkins approached them and saluted. “The opportunity to bring the light of righteousness to confront the evils of the Protectorate fills my heart with joy.”

  “If you ever question my orders again, you’ll have the opportunity to fill your backside with my boot. Understood, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir!” Wilkins stood at attention.

  “Cleasby. Clipboard.” Madigan thrust out his hand. Cleasby gave him the list. Madigan pretended to study it, though Cleasby was fairly sure he’d already memorized it, and addressed the sergeant again. “You were a Precursor knight, a soldier for the Church. Why did you leave the order?”

  Wilkins stuck his chest out a bit. “I had a prophetic vision, sir.”

  “A vision?”

  “Yes, sir. Ascendant Katrena spoke to me in a dream. I saw a world filled with lightning. I understood then that Morrow’s path for me required me to become a Stormblade. I enlisted immediately.”

  Cleasby scratched his head. That explained the possibly delusional part. Even in a world with magic and miracles, it wasn’t like the ascendants made a habit of talking to people directly.

  “And how’s that path working out for you?”

  “There have been . . . setbacks.”

  “As in you’re a self-righteous busybody and nobody wants to serve with someone who’s always judging them and telling them what to do.”

  Wilkins scowled. “It is my sacred duty as one of the pious to point out when my brothers and sisters are faltering, distancing themselves from Morrow’s light.”