Into the Storm

by Larry Correia

  “It isn’t just hitting with steel. The mechanika augments the blade itself. A proper swing when the storm chamber is fully charged will slice regular armor like cloth and put a hurt on even the finest plate. A real good blow can even crack a warjack open. I tell you, Nemo’s a genius.”

  “No wonder we lost in the coup,” Madigan muttered.

  MacKay laughed. “We? Speak for yourself, boy! I was on leave, drunk as could be for a week, when all that happened. I woke up hung over, and when I heard the news my response was all hail the new king! But I suppose some of us are smart enough to know when to stay out of trouble.”

  “I was never good at avoiding trouble, and I don’t suppose much has changed.” Madigan studied the storm glaive and smiled. “Except maybe the volume of trouble . . .”

  Rains waited for the Morrowan ceremony to finish before entering the Barn. It wouldn’t do any good to rile up the others. He’d been in enough fights already. Tempers would flare and words would be exchanged, then blows, though he was a capable enough swordsman that nobody had been so stupid as to cause an actual duel over it yet. At least here in his adopted kingdom people enjoyed the freedom to have differences in their beliefs. In his homeland all differences were considered heresy, and heresy always led to the wrack.

  Sergeant Wilkins was leading the prayer. Unlike many Morrowans he had met, Wilkins really was as pious as he acted. He was a true devout with absolute faith in the rightness of his beliefs. Rains recognized such individuals because he’d grown up in a city filled with them. Someone so devout would never waver in his suspicions.

  I should have stayed in Llael.

  At least there it had been straightforward. His heritage hadn’t mattered. He’d been one Stormblade of many, united against the fearsome Khadorans. His unit had fought as one, and even then the toll had been terrible. What was coming would be far worse. Rains feared what would happen to this motley band once they crossed into Sul, for only he truly understood the absolute commitment of the men and women they would be facing.

  Because he’d felt such commitment himself once.

  Someone joined him at the doorway. “They’re not done yet?” It was the mysterious Ordsman, Acosta. He watched the other soldiers continue their service for a time, his dark face scowling. “I too, tire of their nattering.”

  “I really don’t mind it so much,” Rains said truthfully. In a way, it reminded him of his youth. “People take comfort in their rituals.”

  “If it helps them to fight better, so be it. Whatever gives a man more strength is right. To be strong when the steel is drawn, that is all that matters. If words read from an old book over little statues and trinkets gives them fire in their bellies, then good. Let them have their prayers.” Acosta studied Rains for a moment. “You do not pray because you despise your old god . . . Don’t be surprised; your bitterness is easy to see. But it doesn’t matter, because your strength comes from anger and old hurts. You’ve killed men already, no?”

  Not enough yet. There were rumors about Acosta’s background. All Rains knew for sure was that the man could spar far better than anyone else in the platoon—and even then he always seemed to be holding back—and that Madigan trusted him completely. “What do you know of such things?”

  “I’ve seen the Rhulfolk pray to their Great Fathers and I’ve seen the druids pray to their trees.” Acosta was contemptuous. “There are gatormen who pray to dark things that dwell deep in the swamps. The Cryxians pray to their Dragonfather, and they have overcome death itself. All can fight well in their own ways, all paths have something to offer, so all can be learned from.”

  “Perhaps I am only remembering the traditions of my youth, but some things are best left unlearned.”

  “A good philosophy . . . for a coward.”

  That made Rains uneasy. Ord was a civilized kingdom, mostly of the Morrowan faith, much like Cygnar, but Acosta certainly didn’t talk like a Morrowan. They tended to shy away from the dark secrets almost as much as those of the Menite faith did. “Who do you pray to then, Acosta?”

  “Does it matter?” Acosta looked him in the eyes. In the darkness, it was like staring into two black pits. “One who prays speaks the words to his god, but who else is listening? You should try it again sometime. You might be surprised who answers.”

  The prayer was concluded. The pious were returning to their bunks. Wilkins had seen the pair standing in the doorway and was walking their way. “I’d be careful saying such potentially blasphemous things in front of our would-be witch hunter,” Rains warned before Wilkins got within earshot.

  Wilkins gave each of them a brief nod of greeting. It was coldly polite. “You did not join our service, but I wish you to know that all are welcome.” He looked to Rains. “Perhaps doing so would demonstrate your conviction to the men.”

  “Thank you for your concern, but in the upcoming battle I will demonstrate my conviction with my sword.” Rains was tired of having his patriotism questioned by this man.

  “What are you hoping to accomplish, Wilkins?” Acosta asked, seeming genuinely curious.

  “We were asking Ascendant Markus to hear our pleas.”

  Acosta shrugged. “I do not plead.”

  “So you are not devout, then?” There had been talk that Wilkins suspected Acosta of being a secret Thamarite. Holding such beliefs was distasteful but not illegal, as long as the believers didn’t congregate into cults or practice black magic.

  “Oh, I am very devout, my friend.” Acosta had an unnerving smile. “I have enjoyed our discussion. Good night.”

  They watched the Ordsman walk away.

  “I don’t know which one of you two worries me more,” Wilkins muttered under his breath.

  For once, Rains found himself in agreement with Wilkins. “Him. Definitely him.”

  No official word had come down yet about the date of the invasion, but it had to be growing close. The men of Sixth Platoon were as charged up as their voltaic blades. They had been training hard. Madigan was a ruthless taskmaster, driving his soldiers on, forcing them to practice from before dawn to long after sundown every day without fail. Their lightning-based weaponry had been getting a lot of use—so much, in fact, that the nearby livestock, so panicked early on, had all gone deaf from the constant thunder. Armor that had been awkward a month ago was now like a second skin, often worn for days at a time. Madigan even made the men sleep in it, which was a terribly uncomfortable experience.

  Whether it was hot or cold, wet or dry, they trained. Depending on the weather, the ground around the Barn was either packed hard as rock or churned into mud, but no matter what, they trained. It was after a continuous three-day stretch in the armor with very little sleep and constant physical exertion that Kelvan Cleasby found himself at his breaking point. He had never thought it was possible to be this exhausted, but still Madigan watched them, constantly shouting orders and corrections.

  The men were disgruntled. Many of them had wound up here because they had taken issue with authority, others because they were naturally quarrelsome. They were being kept in line by the sheer force of Madigan’s will, and sometimes Pangborn’s fists, but even those threats had their limitations.

  It was raining. Savio Acosta was leading the men through a series of drilled maneuvers. Whatever the Ordsman had been before—and the platoon had no problem coming up with all sorts of ideas and rumors, including bandit, mercenary, and even pirate—Acosta was an extremely knowledgeable warrior and seemed to enjoy teaching soldiers to fight as part of a cohesive unit. At the moment they were shoulder-to-shoulder, standing as a line, and Sergeant Wilkins was directing another squad to crash into them over and over and try to break through.

  From a scholarly point of view, Cleasby was delighted to discover he could actually be mostly asleep, yet his mind was still capable of giving and following orders and his arm was still capable of swinging a sword. It would have been fascinating if it hadn’t been so damned painful.

  Someone failed to pull
their blow and a padded halberd struck with far too much force, putting a soldier into the mud. Tempers flared, and soon friends of the fallen man were in a real fight with friends of the attacker. It was interesting to see all the practiced martial discipline quickly turn into a free-for-all of canvas-wrapped swords, steel gauntlets, and insulated boots.

  Cleasby was an NCO, but he was also too tired to care, so he stumbled to the side, sat on a log, and waited for the fight to resolve itself. He opened his visor and the interior of his helmet, already wet with sweat, began to fill with a cold rain.

  Lieutenant Madigan sat down next to him, seeming totally oblivious to the fisticuffs. “So how goes it, Cleasby?”

  “Not well, sir.” He gestured with one gauntlet toward the pile of muddy soldiers doing their best to murder each other. “It’s like you said. They’re made out of glass. Ready to shatter.”

  “Better that I break them here than the Menites break them in Sul. I’ll spill tears, but the Protectorate will spill blood. Your books about heroes didn’t cover this part, did they?”

  “No, they seem to have left this part out. The soldiers need a rest . . .” Cleasby exhaled and it blew water out the front of his helmet. “We all need a rest.”

  “This is nothing compared to a real campaign, lad.”

  Wilkins and Rains were trying to break up the fight. It was funny; though the two still hated each other, they were both natural leaders. When their interference didn’t work, they called for Pangborn, who started muscling soldiers from the crowd. Then somebody got in a lucky swing and tagged Pangborn in the face, and the big man began tossing soldiers violently through the air.

  “If this were Khador these men would be flogged until they had no skin left on their backs,” Acosta said as he approached, shaking his head sadly. “It seems Cygnar’s finest has some troublemakers among its ranks. Would you like me to kill them for you, Madigan?”

  “That won’t be necessary, Acosta.”

  “As your Cygnaran Army frowns upon summary executions, I could make it look like a training accident . . . Or perhaps suffocate them in their sleep?”

  Cleasby was a bit befuddled, but he was fairly sure the Ordsman wasn’t joking. One of the rumors was that Acosta was secretly a devotee of the Dark Twin, but everyone other than Wilkins found the idea that Lieutenant Madigan would bring a murderous Thamar worshiper into their unit absurd. Probably.

  “Don’t worry. This is expected. These men are good soldiers, or they were good soldiers once. They just need to be reminded of it. Now, Sergeant Cleasby, I may soon be absent for a bit. If so, you’ll see to the organization while I’m away. Have the squad leaders continue the training.”

  He was very tired, but he was fairly sure he’d heard right. “Why would you be absent?”

  “With enough time I could mold these men into a properly functioning platoon, but time is a luxury we don’t have. You know what this unit really needs, Cleasby? They need to be like brothers, united as one, fighting for each other instead of against each other. Easiest way to do that is to give them something to be united against.” Madigan turned toward the gate. “This will do . . .”

  “What?” Cleasby turned his aching neck to see what Madigan was looking at and was surprised to see a large group of soldiers approaching on horseback. The man in the lead wore the insignia of a captain, and he certainly didn’t look happy to be here.

  “Right on time,” Madigan said, unsurprised.

  He realized it was Captain Schafer. “An inspection?” Cleasby looked around their practice yard. Their barracks, though repaired, was crumbling. MacKay had erected a rough shelter next to the Barn and their ’jack was visible inside, still rusty, battle damaged, and hideous. And their men were covered in mud and acting like buffoons. It certainly wasn’t looking good for the Sixth. “Why now?”

  “I had Thorny drop off a thank-you note for our warjack this morning. Schafer has a grudge against me, so I thought I’d poke him with a stick. And it appears he brought his entire staff. Good. The peacock will feel the need to strut.” Madigan stood up. “Remember what I said.”

  “This is your commanding officer, no?” Acosta asked, and when Madigan nodded, the Ordsman quickly closed his visor. “I will be elsewhere now.” He quickly walked away.

  “What are you doing?” Cleasby whispered to Madigan.

  “Getting in trouble,” Madigan whispered. before he stood, saluted, and shouted, “Good morning, Captain!”

  Captain Schafer rode up to the lieutenant and returned a brusque salute. One of his accompanying soldiers rode near him, and the others stopped their horses several paces back. “What’s all this?” Schafer snapped.

  “Some minor disciplinary issues, sir,” Madigan replied. In the background, Pangborn was being pulled off of another soldier by four men. Most of the others had realized they were being watched and were snapping to. Within a few seconds they had gotten themselves sorted out, as nobody particularly wanted to go back into the stocks. “And it would appear that my squad leaders have it well in hand.”

  “I see,” Schafer said dismissively as he looked over the muddy soldiers. “What a pathetic lot.”

  “So what brings you to the Sixth today?” Madigan asked.

  “I’ll ask the questions here, Lieutenant!” Schafer snapped. One of his junior officers snickered, and Cleasby was suddenly filled with an inexplicable urge to knock him off his horse. “It would seem there’s been a mistake made by the quartermaster’s office.”

  “I’m unaware of what that would be, sir.” Madigan was being very polite. “We’ve put in requisitions for our basic table of equipment and those were recently fulfilled.”

  The men were listening intently now. Nervous eyes flicked between Madigan, the devil they knew, and Schafer, the one they knew only by reputation.

  “The Sixth wasn’t supposed to be issued a warjack, let alone a Stormclad. Those are valuable material items meant for real Storm Knights.”

  The men began to mutter. Madigan spread his hands apologetically. “We might not be pretty to look at, but I assure you, my men are a real Storm Knights.”

  Schafer laughed bitterly. “Please. These malcontents? If it weren’t for Lord Commander Stryker’s orders most of these men would either have been drummed out of the army or placed in a prison chain gang.”

  “Treat a man like a criminal, and don’t be surprised when he acts like one.” Madigan raised his voice so everyone around the Barn could hear him. “I prefer to think of my soldiers as soldiers. My men are Storm Knights and should be treated with the respect due to an elite unit of the kingdom.”

  The captain sneered. “Some were at one point, but look at them now!” The soldiers glanced at each other in their muddy, disheveled state. “They’re a disgrace! They’ve all embarrassed themselves, or they wouldn’t have wound up with you.”

  “Insult me if you want, but I will not abide you insulting these men.”

  Schafer didn’t seem shocked by the reply. It was almost as if he’d come expecting a bullheaded response from Madigan. “I’m their captain. I can say whatever I feel needs to be said. I can say this platoon is as sorry an excuse for soldiers as I’ve ever seen, and you’d have to like it.”

  “And you would be wrong, and I’d ask you to apologize to them.”

  Cleasby looked to the men. They all seemed as surprised as he was. They were not used to anyone standing up for them.

  “One more word of disagreement from you, Madigan, and I will have you officially reprimanded for insubordination!”

  “That’s Sir Madigan, you whelp.”

  “What?” His men shifted nervously. Even their horses sensed the sudden change. “What did you say?”

  “My patron king may have been a murderous tyrant, but I have not been relieved of my title yet,” Madigan explained in the most reasonable manner possible. A few of the men had to quickly stifle laughs.

  The captain turned to his nearest subordinate. “See to it that Lieutenant Madigan is
docked one month’s pay and issued an official reprimand for insubordination.”

  Madigan shrugged. “I’ll throw it on the pile with the others. These are good men, sir. Sixth Platoon is as fine a group of soldiers as I’ve ever known. You obviously misspoke when you said they weren’t Storm Knights. Some earned that appointment in the past, and regardless of their transgressions since, they are Storm Knights again today. Others were assigned to this post, and they will prove themselves Storm Knights in battle soon enough.” Madigan walked through the mud, gesturing at the men standing behind him, and as he did so, they pulled themselves up, a little straighter, a little prouder. “It is an honor to serve as their lieutenant, and you would be proud to be their captain if you hadn’t so quickly dismissed them.”

  “That’s enough out of you, Madigan,” Schafer snarled.

  “Of course, sir.” Madigan nodded. “Now will you be apologizing to my troops or not?”

  Cleasby hadn’t known it was possible for someone’s face to turn that red. “Trent, Dobbins! Take Madigan into custody.” Two of Schafer’s staff dismounted. “Have we ever put an officer in the stocks before? There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.”

  There was a lot of grumbling and some swearing at that. A few of the men started forward to help Madigan, and Cleasby surprised himself by shouting “Stand down!” Even more surprising, they did.

  The two staff soldiers seemed leery of the infamous knight, but Madigan offered no resistance. “Sergeant Cleasby, you have active command of the Sixth in my absence until otherwise directed.” Madigan nodded at the soldiers. “Carry on, lads.”

  “Now, where’s this stolen Stormclad?” Schafer demanded.

  “According to the table of equipment, a Stormclad warjack is to be standard issue equipment for a Stormblade infantry platoon. We can’t properly steal something that’s supposed to be our standard issue,” Madigan said. Schafer ignored him.