“Who is that, sir?”
“That, Cleasby, is the continued stacking of our deck.” Madigan turned to shout at their visitor. “I didn’t expect you so soon.”
“Five Fingers is far away.” He was a very dark-skinned Tordoran, in his thirties, and he spoke with a thick Ordic accent. The man removed his hat, revealing that he’d gone completely bald. “Lucky for you I wasn’t home.”
“I figured the postmaster in Ramarck would know where you were working.” Traveling dust was knocked free as Madigan shook the man’s hand. “I’m glad you came, Savio.”
“You always manage to pick the best battles. So who is in need of killing this time?”
“The Protectorate of Menoth.”
“Excellent.” The Ordsman’s smile was eerie, even predatory. “I have never had the opportunity to kill them before. It should be enlightening.” He looked at Cleasby. “This is your second?”
Madigan nodded. “This is Sergeant Cleasby. Cleasby, this is Acosta. He’s an old friend of mine. Take care of whatever he needs.”
There was something frightening about the way the Ordsman immediately sized up Cleasby, like he was seeing if there were any possible challenge there. “You are a duelist, no?”
How did he know that? Cleasby shook his head. “I’ve had some training.”
“Not enough to be worth my time to fight. I am Savio Montero Acosta. I will require this . . . how you say? Storm armor. And one of the swords which makes lightning.”
“A storm glaive?” Cleasby asked.
“Madigan promised I would have the opportunity to master these lightning things in exchange for killing his enemies. I will need this storm glaive immediately so I may begin practicing.” He turned back to Madigan. “Where do I sleep?” Madigan nodded at the Barn. “Good. I have been awake for three days. Have someone care for my horse and bring me the rest of my firearms.” Then the Ordsman just walked away.
Cleasby watched as Acosta entered the barracks. “Uh . . . sir? I don’t think he’s from Cygnar, let alone the Cygnaran Army. I can’t—”
“Just give that man whatever he asks for.”
Cleasby held up the clipboard. “I know he’s not on here.”
“Sure he is.” Madigan took the clipboard and scanned the list until he found a deserter they hadn’t been able to track down. “As far as the army is concerned, that’s Private Aldous Whitman from Bainsmarket.” Madigan handed the clipboard back. “His friends call him Savio.”
Had Madigan just hired a mercenary? “I can’t even count how many regulations this breaks,” Cleasby stammered.
“Once we get into combat, you’ll thank me.”
It was a few days later when a commotion woke everyone in the Barn. Cleasby snapped awake, sleepily unsure if he should reach for his boots or his sword first, when he realized the sound was cheering.
He stumbled into the yard to discover Thornbury had returned, and he’d done so in style, driving a train of four big wagons. The guards were hooting and clapping as Thorny pulled away tarps, revealing . . . plunder was probably the correct word. There were weapons, armor, and all the equipment necessary for a unit of Storm Knights.
The men were streaming out of the Barn, and when they saw their gear had arrived, they became excited. Cleasby was surprised to see that they were actually enthusiastic. Madigan was there in full uniform, holding a lantern. Does that man ever sleep?
“See that, Cleasby? Treat a soldier like a soldier, and soon enough he’ll act like one. Now grab Wilkins and Rains and have them make sure nobody starts playing around and electrocutes themselves.”
Cleasby found the other sergeants and passed along the order. Sure enough, ten seconds later a private managed to charge up a storm thrower, and the resulting bolt into the sky temporarily deafened everyone and startled the nearby cows enough to make some of them crash through the fence to escape.
After a few moments of chaos, Wilkins shouted for order while Pangborn and a few soldiers ran to herd the cows back into their enclosure and Rains berated the private. Cleasby found the lieutenant talking to an agitated Neel MacKay, who was gesturing wildly. Cleasby followed the hand signals and saw that the last wagon’s huge load remained covered. Whatever it was, it was so heavy it needed to be pulled by twice as many oxen as the other wagons. He went to his commander’s side.
“You’re a genius, old man,” Madigan said as he clapped the mechanik on the back.
“Don’t get too excited. He’s got a few issues that might require some work around, but he’s a Stormclad, just like you asked.”
“Let’s see this mighty warjack of yours.” Madigan put one hand on the tarp.
MacKay sighed. “I’ve got to warn you—”
“You see how much the morale has improved just because these soldiers know they won’t be fighting with planks? Let me show them they’ve got a ’jack.”
“If it’s morale you’re worried about, Madigan, I’d leave the tarp on until they get inside. He’s one powerful ugly warjack.”
Madigan let go of the tarp. “Wilkins!” he shouted. “Have the men secure all these crates in the Barn and then lights out. Busy day tomorrow.” Wilkins began barking orders, and the men fell into line, quickly dragging their weapons and armor inside.
The rest of the foundation drifted over without being summoned. Cleasby wasn’t exactly shocked to see Acosta appear, and Madigan seemed to expect him to be there. With his beard shaved except for a Tordoran-style goatee and now wearing Cygnaran dress blues, the Ordsman no longer looked like a mercenary.
Thornbury joined them, proud as could be. “I worked my magic, Lieutenant. The opera wasn’t half bad, either, though I did get into a fight afterward when I had to protect the young lady’s honor from some thugs I am totally certain I’ve never met before in my life. It was convenient how I chased those rogues off like that and impressed her so.”
“Good man,” Madigan said. “Captain Schafer hasn’t had you arrested, so I’m assuming all went well.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but at least my new friend at the quartermaster’s will make sure Captain Schafer won’t see this requisition paperwork cross his desk for a few days. It’s funny how his signature and seal wound up on this logistics order. He must have been distracted. Imagine him signing off on a shipment of munitions for Sixth Platoon instead of ordering himself that new horse.” Thornbury shrugged. “But such are the dangers of bureaucracy.”
Cleasby sighed. He’d left the clipboard inside the Barn.
A few minutes later Wilkins came back. “The men are settled inside. I told them the first one unable to resist the temptation to charge up a storm chamber gets to do pushups until his arms fall off. That should buy me ten minutes.”
Madigan lowered the shutters on the lantern, leaving them in relative shadow. Cleasby found he was extremely excited. Warjacks had always impressed him—there was something simply incredible about the huge steel war machines. He felt like a child about to unwrap a present. From the looks the NCOs were sharing, he wasn’t alone in the feeling.
“Just remember, I warned you . . .” MacKay pulled away the tarp to reveal the warjack.
They crowded in close to see. The warjack was in a sitting position, the soles of its giant feet pointing toward them. It was hunched over, but even in the dark it was obvious something was wrong. “Why is it painted red?” Cleasby asked, shocked at seeing Khadoran colors on a Cygnaran ’jack.
“That’s not paint. That’s rust,” MacKay answered. “Nothing a little tender love and care can’t fix up good as new.”
There were holes in it. Bullet holes from the look of it. The once-mighty Stormclad was dented, battered, scratched, and even burned. The furnace door was missing, and the boiler was cracked. Powered down, the ’jack looked like it had crawled onto the wagon and died.
“It’s all broken,” Pangborn said. “We had an old laborjack on the farm in better shape than this.”
MacKay was indignant. “This isn’t no lab
orjack, you big moron. This is a top-of-the-line warjack.”
Pangborn didn’t take insults well, but apparently he had enough respect for the old mechanik to let the comment slide. “Then how come its arm fell off?”
“Give me some strong lads and a small crane, and I’ll have that back on in no time.”
“If this machine were a horse, I would put it out of its misery,” Acosta stated flatly.
“He isn’t a horse!” MacKay was getting offended. “This is a fine ’jack who has just had a spot of bad luck!”
There was a long hesitation while everyone waited for Madigan’s response.
“You weren’t lying about hurting morale. What happened to it?”
“He took some damage from a Khadoran barrage in Llael, then got loaded onto a train car that was rerouted and got lost. He’s been sitting in a train yard forgotten and neglected, and the train car had a leaky roof. They found him and were going to scrap him for parts.” MacKay climbed up into the wagon. “That’s how come I was able to get him for you.”
“Honest answer, MacKay. Can you fix this thing in time for the invasion?”
“I swear on my righteous mother that this here Stormclad will do you proud, sir. The cortex is undamaged. Everything else I can repair or bodge together. By the time the invasion rolls around he’ll be blasting thunder and calling down the lightning, stomping Menites underfoot like rats.”
Madigan nodded. “That’ll do. The rest of you are dismissed. MacKay, I want to talk to you for a minute.”
The foundation of the Sixth walked away. Their ’jack might be busted up, but at least they now had their individual load outs, so they were in good spirits. Cleasby was pleasantly surprised to find he was feeling optimistic. Sixth Platoon was actually starting to look like a real unit, on paper at least. Then he realized he needed to ask the lieutenant a question about issuing the equipment, so he returned to the wagons.
“All right, Madigan. You got me. I’ll come clean,” MacKay was saying. Cleasby stopped just outside the muted ring of lantern light and waited, not wanting to interrupt. “There’s more to it.”
“No matter how inefficient the army can be at times, they don’t lose Stormclads. This is too new and too advanced.”
“Maybe not lost, exactly. It would be more accurate to say he was willfully forgotten. Nobody really wanted to mess with him after his run of bad luck. Cortexes can get quirks, even high-quality ones from the Fraternal Order of Wizardry like this one. Warjacks are smart and dumb at the same time, and sometimes their cortexes get a little wonky on you, pick up bad habits, and need to get wiped clean, to start fresh.”
“And why didn’t they do that?”
“Oh, they did. They wiped it before they shipped it home. It’s ready for a fresh start, but we mechaniks can be a superstitious lot. The boys in Llael said this Stormclad was bad luck, and that sort of stuck.”
“What’s the problem with it?”
“Well . . . Keeping in mind this was before we wiped his cortex, he was kinda . . . homicidal.”
Madigan chuckled. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing in a war machine.”
MacKay took a deep breath. “Maybe a better term would be bloodthirsty. He was aggressive. Angry even, though I don’t know if that’s really possible. He has a hard time exercising restraint. He . . . well . . . how to put this gently? He got uppity and electrocuted his last controller for telling him to hold back. Just fried the poor ’jack marshal on the spot. They said there was nothing left but a black scorch mark and a pair of boots with feet still in them.”
“I see.”
“So you can understand why even though he’s got a clean cortex, the boys have been hesitant to fix him up and take him out for a spin. So that’s why I said ‘willfully forgotten.’”
Madigan seemed to think about it for a long time. “You’re the ’jack marshal. If this thing is going to obliterate anyone, it’ll be you. So if you’re fine with it, so am I.” MacKay’s shoulders relaxed as relief tinged his expression. “One more thing, though. I want you to leave this Stormclad ugly on the outside for now. Make sure it runs and is reliable, but don’t pretty up the exterior until I give you the go-ahead.”
The old mechanik’s eyes bugged. “You want me to what? That’s an insult to my skills as a mechanik. People will talk, me not keeping up a ’jack proper! A man can have an ugly wife and nobody will disrespect him to his face, but an ugly ’jack? Inconceivable.” Even in the dim light, Cleasby could see the mechanik’s argument wasn’t gaining any sympathy from the commander. MacKay tried another tack. “Fine, then. Let them talk bad about Old Neel’s skills. But what about the soldiers’ morale when they think the platoon’s heavy hitter is a walking pile of scrap?”
“I’m taking the long view on that. You’ll see.” Madigan turned and walked away. “And you still need to lose some weight if you plan on keeping up. Good night, Neel.”
MacKay kicked the wagon wheel. “The things I’m willing do to get back to the action,” he muttered.
Madigan saw Cleasby standing there and frowned. “Spying?”
“Of course not, sir. I’m rather overt in keeping records of our many indiscretions. I’d call this more eavesdropping. So I take it our new ’jack is a murderer with a bad reputation? It’ll fit right in.”
Madigan picked up the unfamiliar weapon from the rack. The storm glaive seemed slightly unbalanced compared to a proper Caspian blade, but its arcane capabilities would more than make up for that. Conductive elements ran through the center of the blade and connected to the large special accumulator set into its hilt, a complex and ingenious mechanikal apparatus made from layers of zinc, copper, and brass bathed in alchemical solutions and inscribed with runes. Somehow that mechanikal marvel generated and distributed arcane energy in the form of electricity, enabling the user to strike with the power of lightning.
The storm chamber, as that accumulator was called, was one of Sebastian Nemo’s most famous inventions. How it worked was far over Madigan’s head, but his job wasn’t to understand it. All he needed to know was how best to kill people with it.
“How do I turn this damned thing on?”
“Twist the haft in opposite directions,” MacKay explained. “You’ll feel it click when it locks into the on position.”
Madigan knew he should have found the time to familiarize himself with their issue equipment sooner, but there hadn’t been much to work with, and he’d been too busy. Such was the burden of command. He put his insulated gauntlets in the indicated places and twisted. The storm chamber began to make a buzzing noise.
“Worse comes to worst, it always functions as a sword, but when you release the built-up arcane energy of the storm chamber, it is really something to see. It takes a moment to charge up between uses.”
“How will I know when it’s ready?”
“Trust me, Lieutenant.” MacKay lowered his visor. “You’ll know.”
The storm glaive was glowing blue. Energy began crackling down the steel. It felt unnatural. “I see what you mean.”
Madigan found the trigger stud beneath the guard, pointed it at the wooden stump the Sixth had been using as a target, and fired. The magical energy was hurled seemingly instantly across the space with an intense noise and flash. A flock of pigeons took off from the roof of the barn and fled. He blinked a few times, then cursed under his breath when he saw he’d missed the stump and blasted a hole in the ground instead. Dirt came raining down from the sky. “I suppose that’s why I’m doing this while the men aren’t watching.”
“Of course, lad,” MacKay said. “It takes some getting used to. It isn’t like aiming a firearm, and the electrical discharge isn’t real accurate either. Ideally, we’ll be using these together with one storm rod per squad, provided Thorny can get some for us, but those storm rods are in short supply. The storm rod augments the glaives around it, adding to power and range. Or if a target is hit by a storm thrower, the discharges from the less-accurate glaives will follow a
long, like water flowing into a gutter, to go the same way and hit the target. The weapons were meant to be used together, and each piece bolsters the others. Even our Stormclad feeds off the energy. Just being close to all these storm chambers charges him up. The squad with the voltaic halberds should have an NCO armed with a nexus generator, which will send electricity leaping from one man to another when they strike in close combat. Those halberds can absolutely lay waste to enemy ranks. Thorny got me most of the parts from a busted generator, so I’ll see what I can do to make one.”
The Sixth had a few different kinds of troops. Most were Stormblades armed with glaives like this, but Madigan also had a squad of Stormguard armed with the voltaic halberds and a handful of men armed with the longer-range storm throwers.
“The more equipment we can scrounge, the better off we’ll be. I’ve got faith in you, Neel.”
“Glad somebody does. Evie thinks I’m mad, volunteering for this.”
Madigan lifted the storm glaive again. Arcane energy flickered down the blade, leaping across his hands. It was strange, as the insulated layer of his armor was the only thing protecting his body from the deadly force. It took a moment for the power to build back up, but even then he realized the storm glaive actually felt quicker in his hands, like a proper sword.
MacKay noticed the way he was holding the sword. “Runes make if feel lighter when they’re powered up by the accumulator.”
“Impressive.” Madigan fired again. Lightning smashed into the stump, throwing chunks of smoking bark in every direction. “Very impressive.”
“Wait until you see what it does to a body when all that energy goes shooting through it. Blood flash boils into steam. Skin crisps up like a pig turning on a fire. Organs pop. A solid hit will blow chunks right off you . . . But you’re a swordsman, lad.” MacKay nodded at the stump. “You know you want to.”
Madigan walked forward as the storm chamber charged. Taking the storm glaive in both hands, he swung from the shoulder and struck the stump. There was a flash and he was pelted with bits of flaming wood. The shock traveled up his arms, but it was more muted than it should have been. The sword had cut far deeper than expected. Madigan wrenched it free, studying the charred gash. “That’s unexpected.”
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