Into the Storm

by Larry Correia

  Headhunter walked in the middle of the column, stacks smoking, being guided carefully through the wreckage by his MacKay. Pangborn was with them, learning how marshaling was done. The big man was smarter than he looked, and he’d taken to the task. The white legs of an enemy warjack stuck out from beneath a heavy stone where it had been crushed. Ignoring MacKay’s order, Headhunter clanged over and poked at the foot with the end of its giant galvanic blade. It seemed almost disappointed that the enemy warjack was already disabled. Rains didn’t understand how a cortex functioned, but he knew their ’jack just wasn’t right.

  He heard a shout from ahead in the line. He looked and saw a private running along, looking for someone. When the man caught sight of him he called, “Sergeant Rains! Sergeant Wilkins wants to talk to you.”

  “Langston, you’re in charge of the squad until I get back,” Rains ordered his most experienced knight. Then he turned back toward the runner and shouted, “Where’s he at?” The soldier pointed at a nearby chapel, where Wilkins was waiting for him, alone on the steps. Storm armor clanking, Rains jogged over.

  The Radiance of Morrow on Wilkins’ Precursor shield looked out of place beneath the Menofix suspended over the doorway. Rains glanced over the building quickly. The scorch marks on the stone, the wooden door lying broken into splinters, and the blood spatter told a story. The enemy had tried to hold this position, and one of the platoons of Stormblades ahead of them had blasted their way in.

  “What do you need?”

  Wilkins’ visor was open, and he was scowling. “First, I have a question for you. Why do you pull the masks off the vassals?”

  Rains stopped at the base of the steps. “You called me over here to ask about that? I’ve had enough of your suspicions, Wilkins. If you still think I’m a spy even after all we’ve been through, you’re an imbecile. Bugger off.” Disgusted, he turned and started walking back to his squad.

  “Hold on, you Idrian bastard! If you’re a spy, you’re not a very good one. Sixth Platoon doesn’t have a single secret you could share that would come close to making up for how many Protectorate soldiers you’ve killed. You’ve ended more of them than damn near anyone in this unit.”

  Rains paused. That was true. The only ones among them that had killed more of the enemy were the Stormclad, because it was a gigantic steam-powered killing machine, and perhaps Acosta, who was frankly the most efficient combatant any of them had ever seen. “Maybe I’m just trying really hard to convince you.”

  “Perhaps.” Wilkins paused as if collecting himself. “I’m guilty of making an unrighteous judgment.”

  “You’re admitting you’re wrong?” Rains was surprised. “After all this time you’ve been turning the platoon against me, making my job damn near impossible, and insinuating I’m an assassin?”

  “Perhaps I’m just worn out. Mistrusting you and fighting these crazed zealots at the same time takes far too much energy. I’m done, Rains. Besides, I have seen how real Menite assassins work, and you could only wish you were as dangerous. Those women are frightening.”

  They hadn’t known much about the mysterious Protectorate order called the Daughters of the Flame, but Wilkins had nearly been murdered by one of them recently and had narrowly escaped with his life. “They seem to have a particular hatred for you.”

  “They say the ranks of the Daughters of Flame are made up entirely of widows.” Wilkins shrugged. “I have killed a lot of husbands.”

  “It’s probably that shield of yours.” Rains pointed at the battered old thing. “It offends them.”

  “This?” Wilkins held up the shield and gestured at the Radiance of Morrow on it. “Good. This shield is special, a holy relic. One of Ascendant Markus’ finger bones is sealed inside.” He gazed at it in adoration for a moment, then turned to Rains suddenly. “Enough of this. Let me show you why I sent for you.” Wilkins went inside the chapel.

  Rains sighed, shook his head, and then followed. He didn’t know if he believed Wilkins’ change of heart, but he could understand the idea of simply being too worn out to care anymore. A skirmish had clearly taken place within the small chapel. The interior had been torn apart, the pews broken and scattered. The floors had been washed in blood. A handful of Protectorate dead lay among the wreckage. Cygnarans left no man behind, so there was no way to know if any had perished in the fight.

  “What is it?”

  Wilkins pointed at the altar. “I don’t know what you are looking for beneath those iron masks, but I wish you luck in your search.” Another body lay at the base of the altar. It was a vassal of Menoth. Wilkins put one gauntleted hand on Rains’ shoulder. He was completely sincere. “Forgiveness is one of the tenets of the ascendants, which I clearly need to study more. I understand now that you have forsaken your old faith. I hope you can forgive me for not taking you at your word.” He walked out of the chapel, leaving Rains alone with the dead.

  Enoch hesitated only a moment before going to the body. The vassal had been hit by a close-range lightning discharge to the chest. It had arced into the floor and burnt the lower half of his body to a crisp. At least with the lightning leaping through his heart, he would have had a quick death.

  Ezra had been twelve years old when he had discovered his arcane gifts. The brothers had always been close, and when Enoch found out about Ezra’s power the younger boy had begged him to keep it secret. Both boys had heard stories of children being taken from their families after developing arcane abilities, sometimes never returning. Enoch had promised to shield Ezra, but he had failed. The Protectorate had found him. Enoch could still hear his little brother desperately crying his name as they took him away.

  Ezra would be eighteen now . . .

  For the briefest moment he felt the instinct to say a prayer, but he no longer had anyone to pray to. Pushing aside his dread, he knelt next to the corpse, took a deep breath. Then in one quick motion he reached out and pulled the mask free. As he stared at the face, the iron mask slipped from his fingers and landed on the stone floor with a clatter.

  It wasn’t Ezra. His brother was still out there.

  He found himself on his knees before an altar, with a Menofix—the old, familiar symbol of the Creator—looming over him. The morning sunlight streaming through one of the few unbroken stained glass windows colored the altar in purple and red hues, and for that one moment he was a child again. The emotional turmoil of the war, the stress of not knowing about his brother, the strain of living as an outsider all these years all weighed too heavily on him. He’d reached the end of his reserves. It all came rushing up, and he felt his own mask shatter. Enoch Rains broke down sobbing.

  The Menites had a chant for the dead. It was a mournful, plaintive dirge, to be sung after being anointed with ashes. Even more important than the ancient words was the tone, grief captured and released as raw noise. He had been taught that the chant would guide the spirits through the wilds of Urcaen to the safety of Menoth’s eternal city. Enoch found himself chanting it now, his voice choked with emotion as he intoned words that had not passed his lips in many years. He heard in them the reminder to the living that they were never on their own, that the brothers and sisters in the True Faith would always be present with them.

  But Rains was alone.

  He finished the traditional chant, pulled himself to his feet, and walked slowly from the chapel, boots echoing on the stone floor. Wilkins was waiting on the steps. He had heard the mournful chant, and Rains saw pity in his eyes.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then I will help you search until you find it.” Wilkins held out one hand. “Brother.” Rains didn’t know what to say. Steel clanked against steel as they grasped each other by the forearm. Wilkins gave him a nod that said this incident would never be spoken of again. “Enough lollygagging. The squads need us to keep them in line. We had best get back before the Malcontents lose control and begin looting the city.” The other soldier let go of his a
rm and walked down the stairs, heading back to his men.

  Maybe Rains wasn’t so alone after all.

  It was too quiet.

  Madigan stood atop a mound of broken stones, looking eastward through a spyglass.

  “What’s wrong, sir?” Cleasby asked from below.

  “The Protectorate forces fell back too quickly. If we take this neighborhood the whole army will be within striking distance of the Great Temple. There should have been far more resistance.” He collapsed the spyglass and slid down the rubble, careful not to trip on any loose debris. He hadn’t brought the Sixth this far to break a leg and miss out on the rest of the campaign. “The day’s objectives were seized hours ahead of schedule. They’re up to something. I can feel it.”

  “Maybe they’re preparing a counterattack?”

  “Maybe, but nobody ever tells us anything.” Madigan spotted a group of soldiers coming back from the front of the surge. “I want to know how it’s been going up there.”

  He wasn’t the only one. Several of his men had already clustered around the approaching troops, clamoring for news of the offensive. The group appeared to be mostly wounded trenchers being evacuated to the rear. The highest-ranking officer among them was a journeyman warcaster who was taking a badly burned Ironclad back for repairs. Even damaged, the warjack followed her far more smoothly than what MacKay could accomplish with their Stormclad, a benefit of directing the warjack with thoughts and magic rather than verbal orders and gestures.

  Madigan hailed the warcaster as she drew near and saluted. “I’m Lieutenant Madigan, Sixth of the 47th. Do you have any orders from Schafer for us?”

  The young officer returned the salute tiredly. “Lieutenant Cumberland, Eighteenth Heavy Infantry,” she answered, sounding as weary as she looked through the grime. She gestured for her Ironclad to continue on, guarding the stretcher bearing soldiers. “He said you were to hold here and await further orders.”

  Of course. “How goes it up there?”

  “Not too bad. Nothing like the grind of the last few days, that’s for sure. Some of us were unlucky and got caught out in a rocket strike. No fatalities, but it sure burned the heck out of my ’jack.”

  “Any enemy movement?”

  “Some activity. A few Exemplars were spotted hanging back near that big water tower to the south, but we’re not pushing that direction today so we were ordered to leave them alone for now.”

  Thornbury appeared with a big, stupid grin on his face and saluted smartly. The warcaster returned his salute with obvious surprise. “Thorny?”

  “That’s Corporal Thornbury now, serving king and country.” He made an exaggerated show of taking her armored hand, bowing like a gentleman, and kissing the back of her gauntlet. “What a pleasure to see you, Juliana!”

  She withdrew her hand firmly and shook her head. “Guilford Thornbury of the Mercir Thornburys, in the army? That’s desperation.” She turned to Madigan with the hint of a smile. “Sorry to say it, Lieutenant, but if this man’s wearing the blue and gold, the kingdom must be doomed.”

  “You two have met?”

  “Of course, sir,” Thornbury answered, unabashed. “Our families have been competitors in certain business endeavors in the past. The last time we spoke was at a royal ball, though.” He turned back to the young officer and mocked a hurt expression. “I do believe I asked for the honor of a dance and you declined.” In a very exaggerated whisper she could easily hear, he said to Madigan. “If ladies love a man in uniform like you said, what about the gifted few who can steer warjacks with their minds?”

  “Dream on, Thorny,” Cumberland laughed at him. “There aren’t enough gold crowns in Mercir for your father to arrange that wedding.”

  Aristocrats. Madigan shook his head. “Anything else to relay, Lieutenant?”

  “Nothing much . . . though we did spot the oddest Protectorate laborjack I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t identify it, but then it moved out of sight and I was ordered not to pursue and investigate. I’d have loved to chase it down and smash it to bits just to find out what it was made for.”

  “I’m glad to see that not all of today’s noble youth are completely useless,” Madigan said, giving Thorny a stern look. “Thank you for the update.” Something nagged at him. It was unlike the Menites to give such strategic ground so easily. “Wait, Cumberland, one last thing. That laborjack you saw. How did you know it was a laborjack, and what was so odd about it?” Most of the Protectorate’s warjacks had been disguised as laborjacks until recently. Now that they were at war, most of the great machines were outfitted for battle, with only those too structurally compromised reserved for labor.

  “No weapons I could see. Didn’t look very useful, honestly. It was round. Rotund, I mean, through the body. Like a fat man with disproportionately tiny legs.”

  “Like my dear Uncle Purvis,” Thorny said in mock embarrassment.

  Cumberland shook her head. “More like a big water tank on heavy ’jack legs. It was too far away for me to make out details, but it didn’t appear to be armed, so they decided it wasn’t enough of a threat to risk following it. I’d never seen anything like it.”

  “Where was it when you saw it?”

  She pointed down a narrow street to the south. “It was heading toward that big water tower where the Exemplars were spotted. Maybe it’s used to haul water.” Then she realized her Ironclad was getting out of range. “I’ve got to go. Good luck,” Cumberland said as she began running quickly after her limping warjack. After a few steps, she called back over her shoulder, “Tell you what, Thorny. If we live through this invasion, I’ll save a waltz for you.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.” He waited until she was farther away before speaking again. “Well, sir, it would seem you were correct about the uniform.” The aristocrat rubbed his knuckles on his battered breastplate as if to polish them.

  But Madigan was distracted and scratching at his scar. He turned to the east and studied the tall, bulbous tower that normally supplied drinking water to this section of Sul. It was a rather large structure, dating back to long before the civil war, and it dominated the skyline.

  “What’s wrong, sir?” Cleasby asked. He studied the tower as well. “Have you seen a sniper? We should be out of their range.”

  “I’ve no doubt they have a watchman up there, but that’s not what I’m worried about . . . Pangborn! MacKay!” Madigan shouted. A few seconds later he was joined by the two of them. He gestured at the water tower. “How would that structure compare to a grain silo?”

  “Shaped funny.” Pangborn shrugged. “But it would be a really, really big one. Why?”

  MacKay understood. “Because you told the lieutenant why silos blow up.”

  “If that tower were to be emptied of water, and used to hold this new mixture of Menoth’s Fury and air instead, how large would the blast be?”

  MacKay immediately grasped what Madigan was thinking. “We can only guess. We haven’t actually seen the mix ignite. From the machine debris we found, I’m thinking the concoction that blew up that alchemist’s lab would have fed from a container about the size of an ale pitcher. We found bits of it. The big explosion came after the gas had filled the room it was in.”

  “What do you think you could do with a large tank of that vile stuff, say about the size of a heavy laborjack, pumped into that?”

  “Morrow preserve us!” MacKay gasped. “That’s not far from the main front. The rest of the 47th is close enough they’d all be engulfed for sure. The explosion might even reach Laddermore’s main force.”

  “It could kill them all!” Pangborn exclaimed.

  “It would explain the lack of resistance. The army moves into the gap they leave and they spring the trap,” Cleasby said. The lad was a sharp one. “I know what you’re thinking, sir, but our orders are to stay put. We should send a runner to Captain Schafer.”

  The water tower was five blocks away, through territory that had yet to be cleared. What was more, if Culpin w
ere involved—assuming he was even alive to begin with—he would be well guarded, and the lieutenant who’d known Thorny had said there were at least some Exemplars present. Those were elite troops.

  “Time could be of the essence. MacKay, do you have any idea how long the alchemical process would take to make the explosive mixture?”

  “Not a one.”

  “Then by the time Schafer pulls his head out it could be too late. Send a runner,” the lieutenant ordered. Cleasby immediately began to signal for one, but Madigan stopped him. “Have the message go to Laddermore first.”

  “That’s outside our chain of command!” Cleasby said.

  “Not if our runner can’t find Schafer. War’s very confusing, you know.”

  The sergeant gulped and nodded. “I’ll be sure to send someone with bad eyes, sir.”

  It was only a hunch based on some burned ruins and the brief sighting of a familiar-looking old man in the heat of battle . . . If he was wrong, that would be all the excuse Schafer would need to beat him out of the army. Abandoning a post was a hanging offense. Or worse, he could be leading his platoon right into an Exemplar ambush.

  But if he was right, a ghost from Cygnar’s past could be preparing to murder an entire battalion in one fiery move.

  When a hard decision presented itself, an officer had to make a call.

  “Sixth Platoon! We’re moving out!”

  They were moving fast, double-timing it down an alley between four-story tenements. The only noises were their boots against the cobbles, the constant rattling of armor, and the whistling of the wind. A stray dog ran past them, trying to escape the strangers in blue. Most of the residents had fled, but not all. There was movement on the rooftops above and in some of the windows. Cleasby could feel eyes on them as uncomfortable prickling on his neck.