Into the Storm

by Larry Correia

  “I’d better not see a Storm Knight helmet on that necklace of his anytime soon,” Madigan said. “So what have you found? What was the device for?”

  “It’s not too different than something I saw once. This crazy inventor made a machine that would suck the milk right out a cow.”

  “How does the cow feel about that?”

  “Don’t rightly know, sir. It was madness, using an expensive machine for something just as easy done by hand.” Pangborn squatted down next to the tarp. He picked up a badly burned tube. “But ’cause of that I know this was from a mechanized bellows pump.”

  “So the Protectorate is pulling ahead of us in milk cow–related technology,” Cleasby said. “I can’t imagine why Engines East hasn’t gotten right on this.”

  “They aren’t moving milk, lad.” MacKay corrected him. “They’re moving Menoth’s Fury.”

  “So it’s a weapon? But the Protectorate already has weapons that spray and ignite Menoth’s Fury. Those things will roast you right inside your armor. What’s different about this?”

  “There’s more to it,” Pangborn said as he held up a complicated-looking part far beyond Cleasby’s meager knowledge of engineering. “This clockwork bit is an agitator of some kind. I think it was to whip up Menoth’s Fury and some other ingredients, to get air into the mixture.”

  “I don’t get it,” Madigan said, “but I just need to know why Groller Culpin would be interested.”

  “You ever hear of a farm silo blowing up?”

  “Sure, the things go off like a bomb. Makes the broadsheets whenever it happens and some farmer blows himself to Urcaen.”

  “You know why silos blow up, though?” Pangborn asked. “It’s just grain dust inside of them.”

  “The rapid burn rate of aerated particulate,” Cleasby answered immediately.

  Madigan gave him a wry look. “And that means what, exactly?”

  Pangborn picked up a pouch. “I’ll show you. This is flour Thorny stole—” Pangborn looked suspiciously at Cleasby and quickly corrected himself. “I mean found. Unattended. Abandoned, even.” He poured some on the floor. He then took a candle and began poking at the pile. “It’ll burn, but it’s hard to get it going. But spread it out enough . . .” Pangborn set the candle on the floor, then held the pouch up at waist height and shook out a cloud of flour out. When the white haze hit the open flame, there was a sudden whoosh and an orange flash as all the flour ignited in the air at once. The big man actually giggled.

  “And that’s with wheat,” MacKay said. “Imagine what you could do with some kind of altered Menoth’s Fury instead. A bomb like that . . . well, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near it.”

  Madigan seemed deep in thought. “Good work, men. Carry on.”

  Hartcliff Manor burned to the ground in a matter of minutes. It burned so hot that metal turned molten and dripped down the facing. It burned so hot that the stones cracked and popped. It should have been impossible to hear the screaming of those trapped inside over the rushing hot wind, but somehow he did. He heard everything.

  There were faces in the windows. They were consumed. Innocents leapt to their deaths to avoid the flames. Lives were snuffed out.

  He had ordered the fire started, but he hadn’t expected this alchemical butchery.

  Groller Culpin watched the conflagration, giddy with excitement. Madigan grabbed him by the neck and slammed him into the wall. “What have you done?”

  “I’ve done as you asked me to do.” Culpin couldn’t tear his eyes away from his masterpiece. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Sir Madigan? So beautiful. Witness the future of warfare.”

  And the screaming continued.

  Hugh Madigan woke up with a start, covered in sweat, gasping for breath. His bedroll was spread on the cold stone floor of church. He had wadded up his cloak to use as a pillow. The giant Menofix upon the nearby altar loomed as if to remind him that he was the trespasser here.

  He rubbed his face in his hands. It would not be dawn for a few more hours, but there was no point in denying wakefulness now.

  Somebody approached in the dark. “Are you all right, sir?” It was Cleasby’s turn on watch. “I heard you wake.”

  “Status?”

  “Quiet. The perimeter is secure.” He kept his voice down so as to not wake any of the men. Their sleep was a precious commodity.

  “Good. Carry on.”

  Cleasby was concerned. “Can I fetch you anything?”

  “Superiors that understand how dangerous the situation is, or perhaps an intelligence command smart enough to listen to a washed-up old knight.”

  “I’ll get right on that, sir . . . You’re concerned about this device?”

  “I’m concerned about what somebody like Groller Culpin could do with such a thing. The man was a genius. A deranged genius, but a genius all the same.”

  “I remember that he wrote several important treatises on various topics, but we didn’t study those much in my field. I do know King Vinter appointed him to be one of the chief architects of Caspia’s remodeling and modernization. The Great Public Works was his design.”

  “Yes, he was a regular hero of the kingdom. There was even talk of naming the central building after him, but they settled on calling it just the Great Dome. Maybe in a hundred years idealistic young students will still be reading about what a civic-minded, kind-hearted man he was, but that doesn’t make it true. Just like how your prized books about chivalrous knights leave out the fear and death.”

  “That’s not necessary, Lieutenant.” It was dark, so it was difficult to tell, but it appeared that Cleasby hung his head. “The last month has already demonstrated to me some of the flaws in my previous view of the world.”

  Madigan was surprised to find Cleasby’s admission made him a little sad—there should be some idealism in the world—but it was for the best. “Culpin was brilliant, and he accomplished a lot for the good of Cygnar, no doubt, but at the same time he was as ruthless and heartless as any man our nation has ever produced. Elemental magic fascinated him, but fire was his true love. Some of his machines were invented for Vinter’s torturers during the Inquisition. I should know . . . Sometimes I guarded the doors while they did their work.”

  “They didn’t teach that part.”

  “I took up smoking a pipe so I wouldn’t have to smell the burning skin and blood. The odor really lingers with you. Did they ever tell you how Culpin died?”

  “Only that he was a loyalist who died during the coup.”

  “After the coup, actually. Leto had won and Vinter had fled. Most of the loyalists surrendered for the good of the kingdom. I was among them. There had been enough Cygnaran blood spilled already, and if we’d continued to fight, we would have just weakened Cygnar in the eyes of the other kingdoms. Some fools stayed loyal to Vinter, just as they stay loyal to him to this day, but Culpin bent his knee to the old king’s brother like the rest of us and swore fealty. Most of us meant it, but not Culpin. He thought himself too clever.”

  “The bitterness in your tone suggests it didn’t end well.”

  “He smuggled a fire bomb into the castle to assassinate King Leto, but he was caught. The bomb went off, burning him and several others to ash. Our new king, being a good man, kept the event quiet to avoid more anger being directed at the former loyalists.”

  “So he’s tried to kill the king before. No wonder you’re concerned with him having a much more effective weapon.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not just that, Cleasby. If Culpin really is alive, he’s had twelve years to dwell on what happened then, to think about his actions and his failures, how he could have done things differently.” Madigan realized he could have just as easily been taking about himself.

  One thing Captain Schafer was good at was giving briefings. Sadly, Madigan didn’t think he was good for much else.

  “The invasion goes slowly but surely. For months we have made steady progress into Sul despite resistance that has been much great
er than expected. The CRS believes the Protectorate was preparing for their own invasion of Caspia, which explains our foe’s numbers and readiness. So our timing was fortuitous. Lord Commander Stryker is confident we will be within striking distance of their Great Temple within a matter of days. I know it has been hard going, but we’re almost there. Once we capture the symbolic center of their nation, we are confident Sul will surrender.”

  Madigan wasn’t so sure, as the Menites certainly didn’t strike him as quitters, but whatever made the warmaster general happy. It was half an hour until dawn, nearly time to move out, so Madigan just sipped his morning tea and waited for the posturing to be over so he could get back to work.

  Captain Schafer moved to a map of Sul that had been pinned to the wall. “For today’s offensive Major Laddermore’s cavalry, supported by Arcane Tempest gun mages as well as trenchers and heavy infantry, will make a push up this main avenue. The 47th is to advance on their flank and hold the neighborhoods on the south side. First, Third, and Fifth platoons will be here. Second and Fourth here.” He stabbed at the map.

  While the five other lieutenants studied the map, Madigan studied their faces. They were good men—solid, fine examples of the Cygnaran military tradition. Six weeks of brutal street-level combat had honed them, but they were obviously exhausted.

  The lieutenant over the Third had been brought in only a few weeks ago, after his predecessor had caught a crossbow bolt through the visor. The new lieutenant over the Fifth had been a squad leader up until a few days ago when his lieutenant had been crushed beneath a falling building and he’d received a field promotion. These Storm Knights had been in the thick of it since the beginning. The briefing had begun with an account of their roster and the prior day’s casualties. The numbers had made Madigan cringe. The slow grind of attrition was wearing them down.

  “What of the Sixth?” Madigan asked.

  “Your will continue to hold this intersection, here.” Schafer thumped the back of the map. It was the rear of the column, where they had been holding for several days already. “You will be sent for should the need arise.”

  Oh, the need will arise, because you’re too much of a blooming idiot to rotate through your roster, all in your search for glory. Schafer had done everything in his power to avoid fielding his “reject” platoon for fear of embarrassment.

  “Sir, the Sixth is rested. We’ve been without a significant fight for two weeks. My men are ready. Move us forward and let one of these other platoons rest.”

  “I’ve made up my mind,” Schafer stated.

  “If I may, sir,” Lieutenant Griggs of First Platoon interjected. “Yesterday’s slog through that canal has us bushed. Our Stormclad’s repaired but needs a shake out. We could use a day or two to recover.”

  “Are you implying your men aren’t up to the task, Griggs?” Schafer snapped.

  Griggs swallowed hard. “They’re just worn out, is all.”

  “Is it them, or are you losing the stomach for battle, Lieutenant?”

  “Of course not, sir.” Griggs lowered his head. “Never mind.”

  Captain Schafer had aged visibly during the campaign. The weight of command was a terrible thing, but his pride wouldn’t allow him to change tactics. He’d kept the Malcontents in reserve the whole time. Sure, they’d seen combat—almost every day in fact, as there really was no such thing as a front line in the battle for a city—but Schafer had kept them from the brunt of it, figuring that any victory of theirs would rob him and any loss would be a personal insult.

  “Don’t worry, men. I know the 47th has taken a beating, but there will be plenty of commendations and praise to go around once all is said and done,” the captain said.

  After all, war was merely a chance for glory . . . .

  Idiot.

  They reviewed a few other items of business, and then Captain Schafer dismissed the officers so they could return to their platoons. They all rose and shuffled out of the tent. Griggs caught Madigan at the flap and whispered, “Thanks for trying.” This was a man who was fighting for the future of his country, not for pretty ribbons, shiny medals, or bragging rights.

  These officers may have heard of the Malcontents’ bad reputation, but the last six weeks had demonstrated to all that were willing to see that the knights of the Sixth were prepared to get the job done. “Don’t hesitate to send a messenger if you need us,” Madigan whispered.

  Everyone else was gone, leaving him alone with the captain. Schafer seemed surprised to see Madigan still there. “I said you were dismissed.”

  “I was wondering if there was any word from the CRS about the remains of the device we found.”

  Schafer’s face soured even a bit more, and Madigan could see the man was disappointed he’d asked the question. “There has been. The CRS passed it on to the mechaniks in the Smoke District. They’re not concerned. It turns out we have tried such a weapon and failed to make it work. The Protectorate lags far behind us in industry and science. They rely on whatever blessings their god doles out instead, and their ’jacks are based upon designs stolen from us or bought from the Khadorans. If our best minds can’t make such a complex thing work, there is no reason to think the Protectorate will be able to utilize such a device as a weapon.”

  “The Protectorate might not, but what of Groller Culpin?”

  “Ah yes, your sighting of the legendary arcane mechanik.” Schafer’s snide tone indicated just what he thought of that. “The CRS thinks it is doubtful he’s even alive, let alone living in Sul. There is no evidence of any contact between him and the Protectorate, or he would have sought asylum there, and the CRS would know. You are aware of the Protectorate’s essential distrust of those gifted in magic, how they are treated there. Why would he turn to them?”

  “The Protectorate is pragmatic enough to take in a mad genius who’d like nothing more than to watch Cygnar burn. Culpin tried to blow up King Leto once.”

  “Yet failed and died in the process . . . I found out something else as well. It seems you were personally acquainted with this man. He was even present during your acts of butchery during the coup. Some might say your insistence that Culpin lives looks remarkably like some sort of scheme to divert blame for your past actions. Perhaps if you provide a new villain for your misdeeds, his name will be cursed rather than yours?”

  Schafer was a snide, petty man, so of course he suspected the same from those around him. “Culpin being alive or dead doesn’t change anything. I accept full responsibility for every decision I have ever made and every order I have ever given.”

  “Really, Madigan, I think this is just an attempt on your part to make yourself more important to the war effort. You would simply love for me to take you off of your leash. Your request to hunt for this phantom is denied.”

  “Very well . . .” He’d been expecting as much from the military bureaucracy, which was why he would take matters into his own hands and solve this problem himself. “Permission to speak freely.”

  “Denied.”

  “Then I’ll do it anyway for your own good. Let the Sixth take point today. Griggs is a good officer and he’s right to be concerned for his men. They’re combat-fatigued. They’ve had to consolidate down to only three squads. They need replacements. They lost four more men yesterday taking a bridge while having Skyhammer rockets dropped on them.”

  “I saw the report,” Schafer snapped.

  “And Griggs saw his men ripped apart by shrapnel. I can only assume it was a bit more moving in person.”

  The captain had been pushed too far. “Get out of my tent or I’ll have you removed.”

  Not before I could remove your head.

  He’d be doing the entire war effort a favor, but Madigan ground his teeth together, saluted, and walked from the command tent.

  The morning sun shone red through the smoke as Madigan’s Malcontents patrolled the street. Enoch Rains had his head up, alert. Tall buildings rose on both sides, and the cursed deliverers liked to ambush
from high spots. It was doubtful his platoon would run into any ambushes here, though, since Laddermore’s cavalry had already pushed through; the Sixth was just bringing up the southern flank to protect their supply line and escape routes. A coordinated counterattack seemed far more likely. Either way, the thought kept a soldier on his toes.

  The noise of the fighting had died down ahead of them. That meant either Stryker’s push had paid off or it was the quiet before the inevitable Protectorate counter. “Stay alert,” Rains told his squad.

  Corpses lay everywhere, Temple Flameguard mostly. The cavalry’s push had been effective. The resistance had not. His squad had to step carefully, but no one touched the dead; the enemy had already demonstrated they were not above booby trapping bodies with grenades. He alone approached any of the corpses, and he only cared about unmasking one particular type of enemy.

  Enemy . . .

  It was odd that he’d taken to calling them the enemy in his head. Only a handful of years ago they had been his people, his family. They had lived in the same neighborhoods, eaten the same food, and worshipped the same god.

  Enemy . . . Rains supposed the name just made killing his former countrymen easier. He’d lost track of how many lives he’d snuffed out over the prior months. In every fight, he’d given his all. His fellow Stormblades had stopped questioning his patriotism—most of them, at least.

  Many Protectorate troops wore masks or visors, which spared him from the sure knowledge that he was killing people he’d once known personally. Sul was one of the largest cities in the world, so it was doubtful, but with every life he took, Rains had to wonder, was that someone he’d known? Had he gone to school with that one? Worked in the foundry with that one? Played with that one as a boy?

  It didn’t matter. None of them mattered. They were the enemy, and they were faceless, without number, and prepared to serve Menoth in the afterlife. There was only one life that mattered enough to bring him back to this cursed city.

  A nearby building had collapsed. It had once been apartments for the families of the Great Temple’s workers. He’d walked this path many times. For just a moment the destruction seemed to fade away and he was walking on a clean, orderly, street, in the shadows of tall white stone buildings with red roofs. The sounds of an industrious people filled the air . . . And then he was back in the ruined city that had once been his home.