Into the Storm

by Larry Correia

  “It is the way of the Dark Twin to think only of your personal benefit—” Wilkins began.

  “Sacrifice, Wilkins, sacrifice.”

  Wilkins sighed. “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell you what, Madigan. I’ll check it out. I’ve got nothing better to do.”

  “Good, good,” Madigan smiled, but his eyes stayed cold. He leaned in even closer, right into Thornbury’s face. The aristocrat shrank back into the couch. Cleasby had seen that expression on the lieutenant a few times now, and it was unnerving, like the only reason you were still alive was that it wasn’t worth his effort to kill you.

  “A few things we have to clear up, though. That’s Lieutenant Madigan from now on. They might think we’re the dregs of the army, but we’re still the army.” The next part was a whisper that could barely be heard. “And if you ever bring up Earl Hartcliff’s children again, I’ll make you regret it. Understand?”

  Thornbury nodded quickly.

  “Good. That’s settled then.” Madigan patted Thornbury on the shoulder. The aristocrat flinched. “Let’s be going.”

  “Uh, sir?” Wilkins nodded his helmet toward the improvised fighting arena. “We’ve still got company.”

  One of the boxers remained, sitting on a stool in his corner. The man was huge, with a torso that was a solid block of muscle. His head was down, blond hair covering his eyes. His face and hands were badly swollen and dripping red.

  “That’s the champ,” Thornbury explained. He pointed at one of the chalkboards showing the odds. “That monster took on five challengers in a row tonight and whipped them all. He’s strong as an ox and can take a beating like you wouldn’t believe. I think he must be half ogrun.”

  “I never took any of Pendrake’s classes at the university, but I’m fairly certain that isn’t biologically possible,” Cleasby said.

  “Is he dead?” Wilkins asked.

  “He’s still breathing.” Madigan raised his voice. “You, fighter! What’s your name?”

  Surprisingly, the battered man got to his feet, wobbling for only a moment, and then raised his arm and saluted. “Corporal Nestor Pangborn, sir! Stormblade Infantry Storm Gunner!” he shouted. “Currently unassigned, sir!”

  Cleasby checked his clipboard. “Pangborn . . . He’s on here. Disciplinary problems. Fighting. Fighting. And more fighting.”

  “You don’t say.” Madigan stroked his scar. “You like to fight, Corporal?”

  “It’s all I’m good at, sir.”

  Cleasby was a bit unnerved by some of the notes on Pangborn. “He was released from the brig yesterday, sir. He was there for getting into it with some long gunners. He put five of them in the hospital . . . using only his bare hands.”

  Wilkins whistled.

  “One of them called me dumb. I’m from farm country, and never went to school or nothin’, but I’m not dumb, no sir.” The huge man lifted his head proudly. His nose was currently smashed flat and blowing frothy blood bubbles, but he didn’t seem to notice. “They all laughed, so I went at them. I don’t like people thinking they’re better than me, especially those that laugh all mean at folks. There was ten of them, but I only got through half the squad before the MPs clubbed me down. Would’ve gotten them all, but a few ran too fast. Sir.”

  Thornbury sounded disappointed. “If I’d known that beforehand, I would’ve made a lot more money on the odds tonight.”

  Madigan smiled. “Well, Pangborn, I’m happy to say you’re no longer unassigned.”

  It had begun to pour on the way back from the docks. It was miserable. Cleasby’s heavy storm armor made walking exhausting, but at least it held his body heat in and kept him warm. The old mechanik, Neel MacKay, was waiting for them at the entrance to their barracks, standing under an awning smoking a cigar. “Evening, Madigan.”

  The lieutenant didn’t waste time on hellos. “You get me a ’jack yet?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Work faster.” Madigan introduced him. “Lads, this is Corporal MacKay, the ’jack marshal for the warjack we don’t have yet. He’s going to bring us a nice Stormclad.”

  “Lieutenant Madigan certainly reaches for the stars,” MacKay said in a dry tone. “At this point I might be able to get us a one-legged Lancer and some crutches. Turns out Captain Schafer doesn’t hold a particularly high opinion of your platoon.” He took a big puff from his cigar, then held his hands up when Madigan scowled. “Fine, fine, don’t put those scary eyes on me. I’ll get you your lightning ’jack.”

  The door to the barracks had fallen on the floor again, so Madigan simply stood on top of it as he held up a lantern and gestured expansively at their lodgings. Water was drizzling in through the many holes in the roof. “Gentlemen, welcome to your new quarters.”

  “This ain’t so bad.” Pangborn dragged his bags inside and dropped them on a rotting bunk. The wood collapsed in a cloud of dust. He coughed. “At least the smell of the slaughterhouse next door reminds me of my village.”

  Thornbury entered last, stepped over a mummified rat, and then covered his mouth with a handkerchief. “Say the word, Lieutenant, and I can get us rooms at this really nice inn from now until the invasion starts. The proprietor owes me a favor.”

  Cleasby looked to Madigan hopefully. Even though it would go against regulations, a warm, dry inn sounded preferable to this place.

  Madigan hung the lantern from a peg on the wall. “Tempting as that may be, we’ve got another fifty names on Cleasby’s clipboard to gather up, and this is our base. You men are the foundation of this new unit. I’m counting on each of you to make this work.”

  “Well, how about we foundational leader types sleep in the nice inn while the grunts sleep here?” Thornbury asked. “No?” He sighed. “Well, I’ve always wanted to contract a case of flea plague.”

  Wilkins spoke from the corner he was inspecting. “Permission to set up a unit shrine, Lieutenant? It will be small, I promise, just to honor Ascendant Markus, read from the Prayers for Battle, and ask for his blessings on this platoon.”

  “Permission temporarily denied. When you go one week without annoying me, ask again. Get some rest. Tomorrow’s another busy day. Speaking of which . . .” He turned to Pangborn. “You said you grew up on a farm?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You know how to patch a roof?”

  “Sure thing.” He sounded funny with the bandages shoved up his broken nose. “I’m gonna need some supplies, though.”

  Madigan reached into his coat and pulled out a big coin purse. He tossed it to Thornbury. “Take Pangborn shopping tomorrow. And get us new bedding. The rest of you, I want it scrubbed clean while they’re gone. I want this place livable.”

  Cleasby recognized the coin purse. It was the payment from the ogrun bounty hunter, Hutchuck. “That’s—”

  Madigan cut him off. “That’s our entire operational budget from Laddermore,” he lied. “So make it last, Thorny. I don’t trust our good captain to keep us supplied, and we’re probably going to need to supplement our rations with that too.”

  “I won’t spend it all in one place.” Thornbury hid the money in his cloak.

  “Good. I want the men warm and well fed, and I don’t want any of them falling ill.”

  For once, Cleasby didn’t know what to say. This whole time he’d thought Madigan had taken his share of the bounty for himself. Madigan shot him a glance, and Cleasby knew he wasn’t ever to mention it.

  The knock on the door frame was entirely unnecessary, as there wasn’t anything stopping the man from coming inside. “I’m looking for Sixth Platoon,” he said.

  “You’ve found it.”

  “I was told to report to Lieutenant Madigan for assignment.” He shook the rain from his cloak, came in, and pushed his hood back, revealing the dark hair, dark eyes, and tanned skin of someone of Idrian blood. He was tall, thin, and probably only a few years older than Cleasby. He saluted. “Corporal R—”

  “Rains!” Wilkins clanked forward in his a
rmor. He pointed one gauntlet at the stranger. “Begone, you wretched Menite dog! Go back and lick the boots of your hierarch in Sul!”

  “Easy, Wilkins,” Madigan cautioned.

  “That’s a Protectorate spy!” Wilkins shouted.

  “I’m Corporal Enoch Rains.” He glared at Wilkins. “Stormblade, Army of Cygnar, and loyal subject to King Leto Raelthorne.”

  “Your own evil doctrine says you can place none above Menoth. You can’t serve two masters, traitor.”

  “I no longer worship the Creator.” Rains let his cloak fall open, revealing his sheathed sword. “But call me a traitor again and I’ll arrange it so that you can explain it to him in person.”

  “You claim to betray your merciless god and declare yourself no traitor?” Wilkins lifted his galvanic sword. “His jealous commandments hold no sway over the righteous.”

  “Stand down, Sergeant,” Madigan ordered.

  The former Precursor took another step toward Rains, who placed his hand on his own sword and readied himself. The other soldiers looked between them, surprised by the sudden confrontation, but Madigan had lost his patience. He grabbed Wilkins by the open visor of his helmet while simultaneously kicking the back of the man’s knee. Wilkins’ leg buckled beneath his armored weight, and Madigan used his leverage to swing him around and hurl him in a great clanking mass to the floor. Madigan put his boot on Wilkins’ neck and applied some pressure.

  “I said stand down.”

  Wilkins was turning red. “Yes, sir,” he managed to croak.

  “Can’t rightly call it standing down if he’s lying on the floor,” Thornbury said.

  Madigan removed his foot, and Wilkins gasped for air. The lieutenant turned back toward Rains. “What’s this spy business?”

  “I am originally from Sul,” he said simply. “But I am no longer a citizen of the Protectorate.”

  MacKay was leaning against the wall, still puffing on his cigar. “So you must be the one they call the Apostate.”

  “I have been called that by some, but rarely so casually to my face.”

  Cleasby had been so distracted by Wilkins being tossed around by the smaller and older Madigan that he’d nearly forgotten his clipboard. He got it out and scanned until he found Rains’ entry. “He’s on the list. He’s got an exemplary service record, including a commendation for bravery during a skirmish against the Khadorans in Llael. The only problem listed is ‘Personal issues with squad mates.’ Currently unassigned.”

  “‘Personal issues’ means no one wishes to serve alongside someone born and raised in the Protectorate of Menoth in a war against the Protectorate of Menoth,” MacKay pointed out. “I’ve heard some of the soldiers talking about him around the military district. How can you trust a man to fight against his own people?”

  “They are no longer my people.” Rains’ voice was firm. “Cygnar is my country and has been for five years. I have served this king and protected its citizens. Do not question my honor.”

  MacKay didn’t respond to Rains. Instead he addressed Madigan. “Some folks say he’s a Protectorate spy. Now I’m not saying he is . . .”

  “He’s a spy!” Wilkins insisted from his spot on the floor.

  “I’m not saying that, but a soldier’s got a right to wonder if his squad mate would hesitate to raise a sword against his former countrymen.”

  Rains gestured rudely at Wilkins. “He’s my current countryman, and I wouldn’t hesitate to raise a sword against him.”

  MacKay chuckled and took a puff from his cigar. “Fair enough.”

  “Why did you leave the Protectorate?” Thornbury asked, suspicion tingeing his voice. “I understand that doesn’t happen very often in a country full of fanatics.”

  Rains’ eyes narrowed. “My reasons are my own.”

  Cleasby was still studying the clipboard. “You were already serving in a Stormblade unit in the north. You had to request a transfer to get back to Caspia, where we’re about to invade your home city.” He didn’t need to point out why that seemed odd.

  “My reasons are my own,” Rains repeated.

  An uncomfortable silence fell. Rains was staring down all of the others. Madigan had been listening intently but had not spoken. Rains turned to him. “Your orders, Lieutenant?”

  He rubbed his scar thoughtfully. “You know your way around Sul?”

  “Yes, sir. I know it like the back of my hand.”

  “And you’ve got no problem spilling Menite blood?”

  “None whatsoever, sir.”

  Madigan smiled. “Pick a bunk, Corporal.”

  “What?!” Wilkins demanded.

  Rains gave Madigan a formal bow. “I swear on my life and my honor I will not fail you. Thank you for this trust.” He straightened, then walked to the back room and set his pack down in an isolated corner.

  “Lieutenant?”

  Madigan looked down to where the sergeant still lay on the floor. “Yes, Wilkins?”

  “With all due respect, I think you’re making a big mistake. After he finishes informing on us, and we’re in Sul, he’ll slash our throats in our sleep—or worse, get us captured, tortured, and wracked.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. Remember when I said you needed to go a week without annoying me before you could have your shrine? Make that two.” Madigan walked off.

  Wilkins, red-faced with embarrassment, rolled about a bit in his armor, then looked to Cleasby. “Help me up?”

  The troops were assembled in the open yard between the slaughterhouse and their crumbling barracks. Forty men stood in two sloppy ranks, unkempt and unruly. Madigan had no doubt a few of them were still hung over as well. They’d been dragged here from the stocks, from the brig, and from various flop houses and taverns, and they looked it. Madigan walked in front of the line, inspecting each man carefully. Some had given into laziness and turned to fat. Some looked down as he passed, ashamed to be here. Others met his gaze, cocky or even belligerent.

  He certainly had his work cut out for him.

  Sergeant Cleasby had taken roll. Satisfied everyone was accounted for, Cleasby announced that the lieutenant wished to address them.

  “Welcome to the Sixth Platoon. I’m Lieutenant Hugh Madigan, your new commanding officer. I’m not one for giving flowery speeches and I figure you lot aren’t the kind that likes to listen to them, so I’ll save us all some time. You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t screwed up somehow.”

  “Neither would you,” one of the men in the second rank muttered. Several of his fellows laughed.

  Backtalk was to be expected from a lot like this, and Madigan was prepared for such an eventuality. A reputation was just another tool to be used. He walked up to the soldier who’d spoken. “What’s your name, Private?”

  “Langston.”

  “Why yes, Langston. I understand what it means to be in trouble, to be on the outs with the army. You are here because you drink too much and have a stupid mouth and a bad attitude.” Madigan leaned in close enough to smell the ale on Langston’s breath and looked him in the eyes. “I’m on the outs because I slaughtered a family of nobles during the coup. If I cared so little about personal friends of Leto Raelthorne’s, just imagine how much less I care about you.”

  Langston took a step back.

  Madigan went back to pacing. He preferred to stay in motion. “I don’t care what you’ve done in the past as long as it doesn’t get in our way. Every last one of you, at some point in time, showed enough potential to be appointed into the elite of the kingdom’s military. Now I expect you to show me why.”

  He stopped before another private, one who he knew had been accused of cowardice because he’d dropped his weapon and run during a skirmish against the Khadorans. “I will not accept excuses. I will not accept weakness. Some of you may have your hopes up that because of the unique nature of this platoon, we won’t see significant combat. You may think there’s no way we’ll be put on the front line. Anyone who believes that is a chump who doesn’t understand th
e nature of war. There is nothing worse than fighting in a city. In a city, there is no front line.”

  The private who had fled was shaking. Madigan leaned in very close and spoke low enough that no one else could hear. “Will that be a problem?”

  “They were doom reavers, sir. I was overcome,” the private whispered back.

  “That sounds like an excuse.”

  “No. No, sir.”

  “Khadoran doom reavers.” Madigan continued whispering. “They’re terrifying, I’ll give you that. Lunatics wielding cursed Orgoth blades.” He made an exaggerated shiver. “But they die like anyone else. I know because I’ve killed them myself, even though they walk in an aura of pure, quake-in-your-boots, piss-your-britches terror. I still killed them, because that was my duty, and you put aside the fear until your duty to your squad is fulfilled. You can be afraid on your own time, but not on mine. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then it is forgotten.” He said this part loud enough that all could hear, then started walking again. After a moment he continued addressing the assembled men. “I could give a speech about how Cygnar is the greatest kingdom on Caen, and how our citizens enjoy freedoms unimagined by the rest of the world, but you already know that. I could talk about how our kingdom is beset on all sides. About how Khador has invaded and conquered our ally Llael, and they’re building up on our border in the Thornwood. About how desert raiders, these barbaric skorne, have come from the east and are terrorizing our settlements with a cruelty you have to see to believe. About how some of the trollkin kriels within our borders are in open rebellion. About how while all these things are happening, the Protectorate of Menoth, our former countrymen who betrayed our forefathers in a civil war, are using these events as an excuse to harass us and assault the very gates of Caspia, thinking we are weak and distracted, unable to respond. And then I could say a few words about how the kingdom needs you now more than ever. But why bother?”

  The troops were glancing about, confused.

  “All those things? That is the big picture. We are soldiers. We don’t care about the big picture. We care about one thing. Victory. We don’t get to pick the fight. We don’t get to pick the enemy. We don’t care about the politics of kings or hierarchs or lines on a map. We care about winning. That means killing the enemy and staying alive in order to do it again the next day. Do you understand me, Sixth Platoon?”