The ones who still had some discipline shouted an affirmative response. Some of the others caught on a little late, and a few didn’t respond at all. It would have to do for now.
“We are going to invade a city filled with fanatics eager to die for their god. I say good!” Madigan shouted. “Let them be eager to go to Urcaen, because we’re happy to send them there. You will strike them with lightning and cut them with steel. We’re going to destroy anyone who gets in our way. We’re going to cut out their Menite guts and use them to grease the joints of our ’jacks.”
About half the men cheered. Good. It was a start.
“My job is to make sure you are ready to do it. Sergeant Wilkins!”
The former Precursor stepped forward. “Yes, sir!”
“Run these men until they vomit, then run them until they think they are going to die, and then run them some more. Dismissed.”
Cleasby really didn’t know quite what to make of Madigan’s leadership. On one hand, he was absolutely nothing like the cultured, chivalrous knights Cleasby had so much respect for, but there was no denying the man’s effectiveness. The last few weeks had been a whirlwind of activity. The barracks of Sixth Platoon—or the Barn, as the men had taken to calling it—was almost full. They were at nearly fifty men, which was understrength for a Storm Knight infantry platoon but respectable nonetheless.
They had tracked down nearly all of the soldiers on the list, and Madigan had spoken to each one personally. Cleasby had been there for most of the conversations, and he’d been surprised to see that Madigan treated each individual differently. Sometimes he was a harsh commander with threats and orders; other times he was like a kind father with advice and counsel. He would be cunning and manipulative with a self-interested noble, and then a few hours later he would listen patiently and offer advice to a scared private. A few soldiers had even broken down into tears and admitted they were afraid of going to war, and Madigan’s approach for each situation had been unique. The lieutenant had told one new soldier that he was simply a coward who needed to become a man; hours later, he’d told a veteran of multiple campaigns that he understood the weariness because he’d felt it himself, and then he’d appealed to the soldier’s patriotism.
Madigan was a cipher. He was unreadable until he wanted to be read, and then he put on whatever face he needed to in order to accomplish his mission. Cleasby had watched him change tactics for each soldier, finding out what they needed and then guiding them toward it. Even though serving as Madigan’s right hand was going to be a black mark on his career, participating in the process had been fascinating from an academic perspective.
A few times Madigan had sat down across from a soldier, looked them in the eyes for a moment, and then gotten up and left without a word, later telling Cleasby to mark the name off the list as being unacceptable. He never gave an explanation.
The bounty money from the ogrun had been put to good use. The Barn was repaired. The vermin had been chased away, and a few of the troops were passable cooks. They still hadn’t been issued their equipment, so they drilled with wooden practice swords shaped roughly like Caspian blades, which were similar in size to their anticipated storm glaives.
Other than Madigan himself, Sergeant Wilkins was the most experienced combatant of the Sixth, having seen considerable action during his years with the Precursor Knights and then one tour as a Stormblade in Llael. Madigan had turned the drilling and training of the men over to him. A few of the men had remained belligerent and quarrelsome until Corporal Pangborn had been appointed as Wilkins’ drill assistant. That solved two problems, as nobody wanted Wilkins to sic the giant Pangborn on them, and occasionally beating the tar out of an unruly soldier kept Pangborn content. When the brawler wasn’t busy intimidating people, he wandered over to the nearby livestock pens to lean on the fence and look at the livestock. He said it reminded him of home. Nobody made fun of him.
“You told no one you were coming here?” Captain Schafer asked.
“The orders said not to, sir.” Cleasby answered truthfully.
“Please, have a seat,” Schafer gestured at one of the chairs in his office. “Would you care for refreshment? Tea, perhaps? One of my aides brought cookies.”
“I’m quite all right, thank you,” Cleasby said. The captain struck him as a gentleman and a proper officer. “Is this about my request for a transfer?”
Captain Schafer sat across from him. “Yes, Sergeant. I’ve heard from some of the officers you served with in Corvis that you are an exemplary staffer with a keen eye for organizational detail. You are a man who appreciates order and decorum.”
“Thank you, Captain. I hate to be a bother, and I will gladly go wherever the kingdom needs me, but I am concerned—”
The commanding officer of the 47th waved his hand dismissively. “No need to explain yourself. I am aware of the contemptible nature of your Lieutenant Madigan. Any proper soldier would be worried some of this stain might rub off on them, and I’d hate to see such a promising career cut short.”
“So I’m to be transferred then?” That was a relief.
Schafer gave him a gentle smile. “Sadly, no. I have need of you at the Sixth.”
Cleasby tried not to let his disappointment show. “Whatever best serves the needs of Cygnar.”
“A fine attitude to have, and I am sure your talents are being wasted. Which is why I need you to do something for me. I will look upon it as a personal favor. I have been promised a promotion—after this campaign is concluded and I have proven myself, of course. My uncle is the general of the Tenth Division at Point Bourne, and I have been groomed for a position on his staff. I will need good organizational men there, and I would like to keep you in mind. Do this favor for me and it will be remembered.”
Some said he was naive, but Cleasby certainly wasn’t stupid. If the request was above board, they wouldn’t be meeting in secret about it. Schafer would just give the order and that would be that. “What do you need?” he asked hesitantly.
“I need you to keep a detailed record of everything the members of the Sixth Platoon do that is against regulations. Everything. When Laddermore’s folly has totally embarrassed himself, I don’t just want Madigan drummed out of the army. I want him shamed. I want his title revoked. I want him hung. Do you understand?” Schafer’s composure had slipped a bit. “I want his head on a pike in front of the military district. You will record every wrongdoing, violation, and transgression, compile them, and present the report to me at the conclusion of the campaign.”
Cleasby didn’t like where this was going at all, but he was by nature an honest man. “Uh . . . well . . . I am already doing something like that.”
“Really? That’s what I like to hear. I knew I could count on you, Sergeant.”
“I bear no special animosity toward Lieutenant Madigan. I’m just following the regulations. They are rather clear on the matter, sir.”
Schafer leaned forward in his chair. “My, you really are a stickler, aren’t you? Very well, then. I will remember this favor.” The captain seemed very pleased. “Don’t let Madigan catch you. I hear he’s a crafty one. That will be all.” Schafer picked up some reports from a pile on his desk and began reading them. “Dismissed.”
Cleasby stood up, adjusted his uniform, and thought it through. He could just walk away and reap the career benefits later, but that wasn’t the proper knightly thing to do. It needed to be said, no matter how awkward it made things. “Sir, I’m afraid Madigan is already aware of my cataloging the transgressions.”
The captain tilted his head to the side. “What? How?”
“Uh . . . Well, because I told him.”
Schafer’s hands clenched, crumpling the report in his hands. “You told him?”
“Yes, sir. As per regulation fifteen dash two zero five of the handbook, I have alerted my superior as to any inadvertent violations. I have been rather open about it.”
The captain turned a funny shade of red when he was angr
y, Cleasby noted. Schafer pointed at the door. “Get out of my sight.”
Cleasby saluted and then ran for his life.
“It is the fifth of Cinten. If rumor’s to be believed, Brisbane’s bombardment against the walls of Sul will begin any day, and Stryker wants those walls down by late Rowen. That gives us less than two months to turn this rabble into a proper fighting unit.” Madigan and most of his “foundation” were watching the troops drill with wooden swords, which weighed slightly more than their still-to-be-issued galvanic blades.
“We’ve only been issued four storm glaives, six voltaic halberds, and eight suits of insulated armor for the entire platoon,” Cleasby said. “Not a single storm rod, either. So even if we don’t mind a couple of men risking electrocution, less than a quarter of us are actually combat effective.”
“From how hard Wilkins is pushing these men, I wouldn’t be surprised if we could kill a few Menites with just those planks at this point, but that won’t do. Pull eight men at a time and run them through the weapons in shifts. I want everyone to have a chance to practice on what issue equipment we have. Thorny?”
The aristocrat was leaning on the fence, eating a cupcake decorated with pink frosting. Cleasby had no idea where he’d found such a frivolous thing. “Yes, Lieutenant?” Thornbury asked, with his mouth still full.
“I’m tired of waiting for logistics. I think Schafer’s reaming us on principle. Get me the rest of my gear.”
“Challenge accepted!” He pondered a moment. “I may need to raid our operating budget, though. There’s a lass in the quartermaster’s office who is rather fond of the opera. It’s sold out, but I know the Ordic ambassador cancelled, so his box is open. I bet if I seduce the quartermaster’s assistant, I can get a few lightning swords out of the deal. I’m willing to take one for the platoon.”
Cleasby raised an eyebrow. He’d continued keeping meticulous notes about the many regulatory violations of the Sixth, but he didn’t even know what this would be categorized under. “That hardly seems like a sacrifice, Corporal.”
“You haven’t seen her!” Thornbury laughed. “She’s got a face like a Tharn. Don’t ever say I don’t give my all for this platoon.”
“Enjoy your opera,” Madigan said. “Then go see MacKay at the mechanik’s yard. If you can get him parts or broken weapons he can make us new ones. And I want my Stormclad! I don’t care if you have to back a wagon up to one, shove it in, and gallop off.”
Their scrounger saluted. “I’m on it.” Thornbury vaulted the fence and took off at a jog.
“He’s motivated,” Madigan said.
“You have that effect on people,” Cleasby said, and he meant it.
“I bet . . . Rains! Come here.”
The former Menite broke out of formation and ran over. “Yes, Lieutenant?”
“I’ve been watching you with the soldiers. Are you having any problems with them?”
“A few,” he answered truthfully. There had been some talk of the apostate Menite being a traitor, but Rains worked twice as hard as everyone else to make up for it. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“I’ve seen your swordplay. Bevy and Hellogand tried to spar you. They’re good, but you smacked them about easily. Some of these men, especially the ones sent from the long gunners, can’t fight worth a damn with a sword, but you’ve killed Khadorans using a glaive. You’ve been through real Storm Knight training at Fort Falk and know how to run storm equipment. I need another squad leader. Congratulations—you’ve just been field promoted.”
Rains looked shocked. “Thank you, sir, but I can’t accept this honor. I’m not a leader.”
“You are whatever I say you are, Sergeant. Next up, how much do you know about Protectorate troops and tactics?”
“Truthfully, not much.”
“Nobody here has faced them, so that’s more than the rest of us. Put together a briefing. Everything you know. What they field. How they fight. How they think.”
“I never served in the Protectorate military, sir,” he protested. “I fled when I was a teenager—” He stopped, as if realizing that was the most he’d ever said about his past. “I apologize. Many in my family served, and I’m familiar with how they move about Sul. I’ll do my best.”
“If what you share now saves even one of these men’s lives during the invasion, then it will be time well spent. Get to work, Rains.”
He saluted. “I’ll get right on it, sir.”
Madigan returned the salute and moved on to the next problem. “Wilkins!”
Cleasby smiled. “I can’t wait to see the look on his face when you tell him you just promoted Rains. That was a violation of the rules of conduct, by the way. You needed Captain Schafer’s permission to do that, and it has to be approved by the Bureau of Personnel.”
“Throw it on the list,” Madigan snapped. Cleasby made another note on the clipboard. Wilkins arrived and saluted. “How are the men shaping up?” the lieutenant asked.
“Most of the ones who have been through real Storm Knight training will do well, provided they are able to resist drink and they don’t give in to anger and try to murder each other over imagined slights and bruised pride. The trenchers are quite fit, but they have been trained to duck and look for a protective hole, and they are having trouble fighting that instinct. The long gunners? Most of them can get their boots on the right feet, I suppose, but as far as combat effectiveness as heavy infantry goes . . .”
“You’ve got two months.”
“It will be done.” Wilkins nodded. “But it would help a great deal if we could train with our actual equipment. I’m having the storm gunners point sticks and yell ‘Boom!’ Also, we both know it takes time to get used to maneuvering in plate armor, let alone fighting in it, and some of these soldiers have never done that.”
“Thorny’s working on it.”
“That boy’s manipulative soul is in grave danger of corruption . . .” Wilkins muttered, then continued in a rush before Madigan could correct him. “And I thank Morrow every day that Thornbury is on our side. Speaking of which . . . if I may be so bold, Lieutenant, it has been a few weeks. I sincerely believe a shrine to Ascendant Markus will give us a proper soldier’s blessing. I’d lead a nightly prayer—but only for volunteers, you have my word.”
Madigan scratched at his scar. “My answer depends entirely on how well you handle what I tell you next. I just promoted Enoch Rains to sergeant.”
“The Apostate?” Wilkins blinked rapidly for several seconds. For a moment Cleasby thought he might have broken something inside his brain. “Very well, sir . . . That’s . . . Well . . . Huh.”
Madigan folded his arms. “Is that all you have to say, Sergeant?”
“Rains fights well. He’s probably one of the best among us, but he’s a Menite—or was a Menite.”
“That’s not against the law, and there are soldiers in this army fighting and dying for Cygnar this very minute wearing Menofixes beneath their shirts, keeping their faith secret so as to not draw the ire of people like you.”
Wilkins swallowed hard. “I will defer to your judgment of his character. I am certain Morrow has inspired you, and perhaps it is our righteous destiny to be led into an ambush and have our throats slit by Menite assassins, and you are my commanding officer, so I’ll be quiet now.”
“Good enough. Build your shrine. You can have a short ceremony for the pious before lanterns out. First day of the week you may have a brief sermon. Before you ask, if my tea has time to get cold it has gone on far too long. And no dirges—so help me, I can’t abide mournful singing. Dismissed.”
“Thank you, sir.” Wilkins ran back to the drills with a renewed spring in his step. His bellowed orders seemed to have even more enthusiasm than before, if that were possible.
Cleasby had to smile. “All things considered, sir, that went better than I expected.”
“They all may all have problems now, but they have to have shown some potential at some point to be assigned to the Stor
m Knights. We just need to remind them of that. In the meantime, I’m just happy we’ve kept the stabbings to a minimum.” Madigan rubbed his face with both hands, an unusual display of fatigue from the normally stoic lieutenant. Cleasby had noticed he never allowed himself to show weakness in front of the men. “They’ve got a long way to go,” Madigan continued. “We have some solid men here, but a soldier is only as strong as the ones watching his flanks. They need loyalty to each other. What little they’ve got is as fragile as glass. They’ve got potential. I can see it, even if nobody else can, but I don’t want to see this unit shatter the first time it faces a test. If that happens, men die.”
“You said yourself it’s doubtful the War Council’s plans will put us in any place of importance.”
Madigan gave a sardonic laugh. “War has a funny way of changing plans. Time’s not on our side, but our job is to get this unit as ready as it can be regardless. Building a unit is like playing Fellig’s Fortunes. You stack your deck with every card you can get, but it’s hard to win a hand when all you can draw from is the discard pile.”
There was some commotion at the front gate. A visitor on horseback was hailing them and asking for directions to the Sixth. Madigan glanced over, and a broad smile formed on his face when he saw the visitor. “Well, I’ll be . . .”
Cleasby didn’t recognize the man. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, unshaven fellow wearing a battered, dusty great coat and a wide-brimmed hat. The coat looked like it might have been part of a military uniform once, but it was so faded Cleasby couldn’t hazard a guess as to which kingdom had issued it, and it bore no insignia now. The visitor carried a rifle on one side of his saddle and a scattergun on the other. He dismounted—revealing that he was wearing at least one pistol, a sword, and a bandolier of ammunition—quickly tied his horse to the hitching post, and then walked their way.
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