Into the Storm

by Larry Correia

  Madigan raised one fist. The column came to a halt. The Storm Knights quickly spread out into defensive positions. The lieutenant signaled for his squad leaders to come forward. They were nervous but excited—all but Acosta, of course, who seemed as calm as ever. He wasn’t a squad leader, but nobody ever corrected him.

  “We’ve been seen. If this is an ambush they will know we’re coming.” Wilkins said.

  “They’ve known for a while. It’s hard to hide a Stormclad.” Headhunter was thumping along at the rear of the column, running hot and leaving a cloud of coal smoke behind it. “But if there are Exemplars up there, I wasn’t about to leave it behind.”

  “If they really are about to blow up that tower, wouldn’t they have evacuated all their civilians first?” Cleasby asked.

  “And risk tipping off their targets?” Wilkins snorted. “Not very likely. They’ll sacrifice them all to get at us.”

  Cleasby looked to Rains, who nodded. “I wouldn’t put it past them.”

  Madigan gave a low chuckle. “Give me a moment . . . I’m not used to seeing you two agreeing.”

  “I’ll try not to make a habit of it sir, but Wilkins could be right. If there is a scrutator in command of this operation, he might not care. The loss of civilians might be deemed a reasonable sacrifice for a greater cause. Ultimately the presence of civilians proves nothing.”

  “That’s what I figured.” Madigan turned and pointed toward the water tower. “One block left between us and our objective. If we’re going to get hit, we’re getting hit here. The street’s too open. There’s an old warehouse and a factory over there . . . You remember what that place was for, Rains?”

  “It was closed long before I was around. Textiles of some kind I think, sir. Why?”

  “I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t going to explode the first time we trigger a storm thrower inside of it. If the doors are big enough for a laborjack they’re big enough for Headhunter. We hit that building, push through, and that’ll put us at the base of the tower . Questions?” He glanced between them. “Good. Move out. Wilkins, your boys are on point. Halberds hold back by the ’jack; I don’t know how much room we’ll have to maneuver in there. The rest stay close together. Move.” The others left. Madigan grabbed Cleasby by the visor before he could get away. “Hang on. You look more nervous than usual, and that’s saying something.”

  “We’re all nervous, sir. There were Exemplars spotted nearby.”

  “The others are worried about getting killed. You’re more worried about getting court-martialed.”

  Cleasby sighed; it wasn’t like you could hide anything from Madigan. “That’s because the others don’t realize the NCOs of the Sixth just followed you in disobeying a direct order to hold our position.”

  “Our useless position.”

  “We could be hung for this! Your superiors already think Groller Culpin is a figment of your imagination.”

  “And if we’re right, they’ll pin all sorts of medals on you, Cleasby.”

  “I’ll take comfort from that thought during my walk to the gallows, sir.”

  Madigan smiled. “Don’t worry. The note I sent to Laddermore said this was all my doing and I’d coerced the rest of you into it against your vehement protests.”

  Cleasby took a deep breath. Madigan’s tack may have been dishonest, which certainly wasn’t a knightly virtue, but it did make him feel better. “Thank you.”

  “Now see to your men. They can’t hang us if those Exemplars kill us all first.”

  Thornbury, Watersford, Dunfield, and Allsop were waiting for him. Acosta had attached himself to their squad again, though he tended to wander to wherever the fighting was thickest once things got started, and Cleasby certainly wasn’t going to attempt to give that human threshing machine any orders. Cleasby quickly outlined the plan as Wilkins’ men sprinted across the street. The others held their breath, but there was no enemy fire. There was a crash as Wilkins’ squad breached the ’jack door. Then Rains’ men were across.

  “Make sure those blades are charged,” Cleasby said to the remaining knights. He turned the hilt of his galvanic blade until it clicked and felt the storm chamber hum. “Let’s go!”

  He ran across the street as fast as he could go, insulated boots hammering on the cobblestones. Cleasby hit the wall next to the open ’jack door. His squad stacked up behind him.

  CRACK-BOOM!

  The flinch was instinctive, and one small part of his brain wondered if a water tower full of Menoth’s Fury Special Blend had just detonated, but the noise had come from inside the factory. “Storm thrower engaging!” But he couldn’t tell what it was firing at. “Move! Move!” he told his squad before throwing himself through the door.

  It was much darker inside the factory, making it even harder to see through the perforations of his visor. The light leaked sluggishly through banks of dusty, leaded windows. The prevalent mold and cobwebs indicated that the factory had been closed for years. The interior was so big he couldn’t make out the far side in the dim light. Machines sat long unused, many of them covered in dusty, old fabric. Bundles of material spilled from pallets where they had been stacked haphazardly.

  He could barely make out the blue and gold shapes of the other Stormblades ahead of them. Steel rang against steel. There was a terrible blue flash from a galvanic blade. One of the great windows shattered, raining dingy glass down on them as sunlight poured inside. The place was a veritable maze, and amid this mess Stormblades were clashing against—

  “Exemplar!” Private Allsop warned, pointing upward.

  A metal catwalk was overhead. There was a flash of white armor and a sanguine cloak as a crossbow was lifted. Cleasby moved, lifting his buckler as the Exemplar fired. It was pure instinct. The crossbow bolt slammed into the rounded shield and ricocheted away, inches from Allsop’s face. Cleasby extended his storm glaive and triggered the release. The electrical discharge roared, leaping and crackling down the metal catwalk. The Exemplar stumbled back, sparks flying around him. Two other Stormblades fired as well, and the Exemplar crashed into a railing. The rail broke, and he fell, his heavily armored form tumbling toward the wooden floor. He hit hard, smashing into and then through the rotting wood to disappear into the basement below.

  “Drat!” Cleasby said, already thinking ahead. He could feel the termite-infested wood squishing beneath his feet. Glancing through the hole, all he could see was darkness. It was a good drop. He grabbed Allsop by the shoulder plate. “Tell MacKay that Headhunter needs to find another way around. Go!” He shoved the burly soldier back out the door.

  Acosta had his visor down, but he was easy to identify from the leering skull he’d painted on his helmet. That was certainly against uniform regulations. “Wise call, young sir,” the Ordsman said approvingly.

  “Acosta, you go do whatever it is you do,” Cleasby ordered. “The rest of you, on me!” He ran after Rains’ and Wilkins’ squads. More lightning discharged, leaping across rusty metal fittings mounted in the walls. Old moth-eaten bundles of cloth burst into flames. The fighting was close and disorganized. There was no room for formations. Seemingly everywhere between the old machines, Exemplars were clashing against Stormblades. He picked out an Exemplar Errant, armed with shield and sword, moving to engage his compatriots. “For Cygnar!”

  The Exemplar roared his own battle cry in response and turned to meet him.

  Cleasby’s storm glaive fell, and lightning danced off the intricately engraved shield. The Menite’s sword moved with unbelievable speed in response. The buckler barely turned it aside in time. Pain shot up his arm. Egads, but these Exemplars are strong! Cleasby struck again, aiming for the legs, trying to take the heavily armored man down.

  A clean hit and the charged storm glaive could blast through armor, but the Exemplar would not do him a favor and hold still. Despite the weight of steel resting on him, the Exemplar danced back. The expressionless mask betrayed nothing. He swung, and Cleasby barely avoided the heavy blade.
They struck at each other over and over, two heavily armored foes, but the Exemplar was faster and stronger, practically built like a warjack, and he fought with a holy fervor. They ran into each other, blade locked against blade, slipping on the moldering wood. Their helmets crashed into each other.

  “You’re no match for the righteous!” the Exemplar shouted as he threw Cleasby back.

  He crashed into an old machine, a twisted mechanism of gears and pulleys. The Menite attacked with a vicious overhead blow, but Cleasby rolled aside and the sword cleaved through old ropes instead. Cleasby ducked his shoulder and launched his body into the Exemplar’s legs, driving him back, off balance. Now the Exemplar fell against another machine, but he immediately drove the edge of his shield into Cleasby’s helmet and knocked him back.

  Cleasby’s boot broke through a soft spot in the floor and he tripped, falling on his back with a grunt. The Exemplar grabbed hold of the machine, pushing himself up. Flat on his back, he’d have no chance.

  The storm chamber of the glaive hummed, warning him it was charged for another release. Thinking quickly, he spied a chain suspended between the machines, shoved his storm glaive against it and pulled the trigger stud. Electricity arced and snapped, through the chain, into the machine, and right into the Exemplar’s steel-covered hand. There was a pop and a flash as the Menite was slammed aside.

  Ripping his boot free, Cleasby struggled back up and drove himself at his fallen opponent. Already the elite Exemplar was coming to, somehow ignoring the mass of his cumbersome great armor and rising, but Cleasby flung his body on top of the Exemplar’s shield. He went over it, savagely smashing the hilt of his storm glaive into the Exemplar’s helmet, pushing the Menite back down. Cleasby dropped a knee on top of the Exemplar’s shield. The man was struggling, trying to angle his sword to pierce Cleasby’s guts, but he jammed the tip of his storm glaive beneath the Menite’s helmet and shoved as hard as he could.

  Steel was pierced. Cleasby wrenched the blade back and forth as the Exemplar thrashed. He sought flesh. One gauntlet landed on the glaive and he shoved with all his might, throwing his weight on top of the hand guard, and was rewarded as blood sprayed. The Menite’s sword was freed, but it was already too late, and the next attack was weak and ineffectual, scraping down Cleasby’s armor as the Exemplar’s life poured out.

  Gasping for breath, Cleasby shoved himself to his feet. His armor seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. He had to find his men. That was his duty. That was all that mattered. He picked them out of the chaos. They were engaged, every last one of them fighting for their lives amid the piles of old junk and broken iron. He roared incoherently as he picked an Exemplar that had just shield-slammed Dunfield into the floor. He hacked at the back of the man’s knee, striking through the narrow gap to cripple the man. The smoke smelled like burning flesh. The Exemplar collapsed, and within a heartbeat Thornbury was on him, hammering away with his glaive.

  Madigan had entered the warehouse and was shouting orders. “Push through! Push through!”

  The tower! It was easy to lose track of the big picture when one was fighting for one’s life.

  “You heard the lieutenant! Onward! On—” Cleasby gasped as something hit him in the chest, and then he was flailing back, off balance. He hit a wooden wall, but the rotting mess barely slowed him, and he crashed through and fell in a cloud of choking dust.

  A huge shape appeared through the cloud. It loomed so massive that at first Cleasby thought it was a light warjack, but it was only a man, albeit the biggest man he’d ever seen. The figure wore the heaviest, most intricate, most intimidating armor imaginable and wielded a two-handed polearm that supported a wickedly curved blade on one end.

  “Bastion!” He tried to shout the warning, but the blow had knocked the air from his lungs and all that came out was a hiss. The polearm had left a mighty dent in his breastplate.

  The Exemplar Bastions were the elite of the elite. Their resilience was legendary, their ranks filled only with the strongest and most faithful warriors in the whole of the Protectorate.

  The polearm spun effortlessly between his hands, so quickly it made a whistling noise through the air. The blade flashed toward the rising Dunfield, and the Storm Knight bellowed as it accurately avoided steel and struck through the joint of his elbow instead. Dunfield fell away streaming blood, leaving half his arm behind. The bastion barely slowed, and the haft of the mighty weapon came around and clubbed Thorny off the fallen Exemplar. The aristocrat was sent flying.

  Air be damned, Cleasby wasn’t done yet. Those were his men. He didn’t need to breathe when he was this angry. He grabbed a board and pulled himself up as the bastion turned to finish him. The polearm flashed, but it met his storm glaive. Cleasby turned it aside like he was parrying a rapier in a gentlemen’s dueling class in Corvis.

  The bastion’s helmeted head seemed too small for the armored shell of his torso. The helmet turned a bit, as if surprised Cleasby had managed to stop that attack.

  But then it was on.

  The polearm spun. His buckler absorbed another hit, but the haft came right back around and slammed into his side. Cleasby grimaced, but he countered, lunging forward. The glaive struck the bastion in the stomach, scoring deeply into the steel. It was like hitting a boulder. Even with lightning crackling across his body, it barely moved the man.

  Using the blade and the haft as a seamless whole, the bastion demonstrated he was a master of his weapon. Cleasby was more worried about the lethal-looking end, but the bastion quickly demonstrated that both ends were deadly when he swept it along the floor and drove the haft into Cleasby’s shin. The plate bent, but it saved the bone. He grimaced but stayed standing. The storm chamber hummed, and Cleasby triggered the galvanic release without thought, scorching the bastion with a flash of electricity. The mighty warrior shrugged it off and kept coming.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  The polearm rose and fell. Cleasby barely got out of the way as it smashed a hole through the floor. Cleasby used the opportunity to hit the bastion again, cleaving deeply into the man’s armor with his glowing glaive. That had to have hit flesh. He could smell burning hair, but the Protectorate knight showed no weakness. The bastion wrenched his blade free, ripping up several of the decaying boards. Cleasby flailed, grasping for anything, as the floor broke open beneath him. He was falling into the basement! He lost hold of his glaive as he snagged one of the chains.

  Panicked, he kicked his feet; there was nothing below him except darkness.

  The bastion raised his polearm to finish him off, but then he lurched to the side. Lightning crackled through his body. Thorny had just fired his glaive. Then the bastion stumbled the other way as Wilkins slammed into him with his Precursor shield. More lightning flickered. Wilkins struck true, swinging his blade deep into the bastion’s side.

  Undeterred by the blood gushing through the rent in his armor, the bastion swept his polearm along the ground and knocked Wilkins off his feet.

  Won’t you die already?

  Pointing the polearm at the dangling, helpless Cleasby, the bastion took one step forward, prepared to finish him once and for all. Cleasby pulled himself up desperately, but it was all he could do to hold on. He’d be stabbed and then he’d fall, and he wasn’t sure which one would kill him first.

  But the expected pain didn’t come.

  The bastion’s lunge was awkward and off balance. The polearm missed. The bastion’s helmet twisted again, this time looking down, to where the point of a storm glaive was sticking through the armor of his chest, snapping and popping with energy. Blood burned away as smoke as the blade disappeared, along with most of his heart, and he fell forward, limp. There was a thump as the huge warrior crashed into him, sending Cleasby spinning about wildly on the chain. The bastion tumbled past him totally silent, falling into the hole and disappearing into the basement. There was a terrible crash a moment later.

  “Thanks,” Cleasby gasped.

  Savio Acosta was
standing where the bastion had been. He stepped carefully toward the edge of the hole, testing his weight on the walk so as to not follow the bastion to the basement. Acosta reached out, grabbed the chain, and dragged Cleasby back toward safety.

  Cleasby pulled himself up the chain, hand over hand, until he could get back onto the rotting wooden walk. If someone had asked the young scholar a year ago if he’d ever be strong enough to climb a chain while wearing a suit of armor, he would have laughed at them. Once he was relatively safe, he steadied himself against a beam and tried to catch his breath. The bastion had knocked the snot out of him.

  Wilkins reached them, limping. “That was a mighty shot, Acosta! Praise Morrow!”

  “Morrow had nothing to do with it,” Acosta muttered, low enough that Wilkins wouldn’t hear. “In the thousands of hours I’ve trained with a blade I never once saw your god there.”

  “What?” Wilkins asked.

  “Nothing,” Acosta answered clearly.

  Cleasby glanced around. The Storm Knights were winning. They’d outnumbered the Exemplars, but even so several of their number had fallen and many others had been wounded. Private Dunfield had lost an arm and was frantically searching for it. “Watersford! Calm him down and get a tourniquet on that.” There were still a few Exemplars left, every one of them a deadly fanatic who would never flee, but each one was now being attacked by multiple Storm Knights.

  He smelled smoke, then realized the factory had caught fire. Wilkins was ordering several of his men to gather the wounded to move them back to the ’jack entrance. He caught sight of Madigan heading toward the opposite side of the factory. They’d fought and bled for that damned tower, so they weren’t turning back now.

  “It’s stuck,” the Storm Knight told him.

  Culpin knew they were here. He’d be rushing his alchemical nightmare now. Assuming, of course, that Groller Culpin was even alive.

  “Break it down,” Madigan ordered. The men put their shoulders into it. The huge door creaked and dust rained from the ceiling. Headhunter could’ve easily broken through, but they’d been forced to send the Stormclad around the exterior.