Into the Storm

by Larry Correia

  “What?!” Schafer hadn’t expected that, he saw. Good.

  Bradher sat up sharply. frowning. “Are you sure you want to do that, Lieutenant? Your status as a knight does offer some protections, even in circumstances like this.”

  “If it gets the army to realize how much danger we are in, so be it. Now either send me to the gallows or let me get back to work, because I’m tired of this charade.”

  Clearly the commander hadn’t been expecting this turn of events. He pondered it for a minute, deep in thought, while Schafer gaped from the side. Finally he said, “I am moved by your display, Lieutenant. You have my word that this Culpin matter will not be dropped. I will speak with Lord Commander Stryker about the situation myself.”

  Madigan leaned forward in a small bow. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Since we are still embroiled in this conflict I will not yet convene a formal hearing on the inciting actions. However, in a time of war, insubordination is unforgivable and demands severe punishment. Lieutenant, you are relieved of your command and your rank. You will be returned to Caspia and placed in custody pending a hearing, including Lord Commander Stryker’s personal review of this incident. Since he is rather preoccupied with ending this war, that may take some time. I can promise that at a minimum you personally will be discharged.”

  His entire life had been devoted to the Cygnaran Army. This was the worst shame imaginable, but he remained stoic. “What of my men?”

  “Since you have accepted full responsibility, I assume the repercussions will fall on your head alone. Sixth Platoon has been rendered combat ineffective due to losses and injuries, so they will be reassigned to garrison duty in Caspia. Our best estimates suggest the current punitive expedition against the Menites will be over within the next week or two, so it shouldn’t matter anyway.” The commander gave him one last stern look. “Dismissed.”

  The enemy came again and again upon the Sword Knights lead by Sir Faraday, but he would not yield. For five days and five nights the knights stood, shoulder to shoulder, as the dark creatures continually sallied forth against them from the festering pit. The knights did not tire, nor did they ever waver, and their spirits remained high, certain in the rightness of their cause, for a knight is never troubled by the doubts and fears harbored by lesser men.

  —Records of Chivalry by Lord Percival Rainworth 486 AR

  PART III: THE DEFENDERS

  The Malcontents had been sent back to Caspia, but the war had followed them home.

  Hierarch Voyle was an unstoppable force. The Cygnarans who had seen him in action and survived spoke in hushed, fearful tones, as if shaken by his holy wrath. They said that the Protectorate hierarch possessed the strength of Menoth himself and that he was effortlessly cutting down everyone who got in his way. It was as if they had pushed too far, and Menoth himself had come to punish Cygnar for their sins. The might of what the Menites called the True Faith had finally been released, and the army of Cygnar had been pushed out of Sul, chased back across the broken wall. Now they were fighting across the streets of Caspia against a horde of Menites that never seemed to end. The punitive expedition had turned into a fight for Cygnar’s very survival.

  Their greatest leader had been struck down. Lord Commander Stryker had been badly wounded while fighting against the Protectorate warcaster Feora, crushed beneath a falling temple. Barely alive, his body had been rescued by a warjack, and he was currently in the Archcourt Cathedral, under the care of the best healers in the Church of Morrow. The official word was that their Lord Commander would live, but the citizens had their doubts. These were dark times for the kingdom.

  Kelvan Cleasby huddled in front of the pitiful fire to soak up whatever warmth he could. It was a bitterly cold morning and promised to be another miserable day. The leadership of the Sixth was assembled in the Barn, going over their current orders. It would be more of the same: herding refugees and guarding supplies.

  Thornbury had scrounged up some tea and a pot for boiling water. He passed a tin over. “Breakfast is served.” He’d been thin when they’d first met but looked positively gaunt at this point. The war had been hard on him.

  Cleasby looked at his tin. The entirety of their morning rations consisted of some hard tack and a bit of old salt pork, but at least they had food, which was more than they could say for their poor countrymen trapped in the eastern neighborhoods of Caspia. “I’m not hungry.” He pushed the tin away. “Give mine to the men.”

  “You’d better eat, Lieutenant,” Rains said.

  Lieutenant. He was still getting used to that. They’d lost their real leader, to military discipline rather than combat, but Cleasby had been a battlefield commission nonetheless. He was the commanding officer of the Sixth now, though there wasn’t much left to command.

  There weren’t many of the Malcontents remaining. They’d been sent to the Sixth as dregs, but they had proven themselves real soldiers in Sul and had regained their honor. Though their commander had made a regrettable choice, the word was that the knights of the Sixth had fought well, so one by one they had been reassigned as replacements to other Storm Knight units in desperate need of soldiers. With only a handful of the Sixth remaining, they were a shadow of the fighting force Madigan had once whipped them into.

  “Come on, Rains. A unit that only exists on paper gets a paper lieutenant.”

  Rains had seemed distant ever since the fight at the water tower, but the one thing he was focused on was keeping the remains of their unit running. “We’ve still got a job to do, and you’ll need your strength.”

  Cleasby picked up the tin and began eating. Rains was right. They were on light duty at the rear of the action, but watching over refugees and supplies was still work. “Any word, Thorny?”

  “Most of my sources have fled the capital, I’m afraid. If the internal walls keep falling and we keep giving up neighborhoods at this rate, we’ll have to evacuate the whole city within a month.”

  That was nothing new. “I meant in a more political arena . . .”

  The aristocrat concentrated on his tea. “Nothing new on Madigan, if that’s what you’re wondering. I figure they’ve forgotten about him, with everybody too busy scrambling.”

  “It’s a waste,” Rains muttered. “This city needs every capable defender it can get. At least give the man a sword and point him at the enemy.”

  “Just his scowl would buy the city a day or two.” Thorny laughed. “I never thought I’d find myself saying I miss that cold-hearted bastard.”

  The constant hammering outside the Barn paused a moment and then restarted with a slightly different pitch. Pangborn had been working on Headhunter every spare moment since their return. The mechaniks had taken one look at the badly burned Stormclad and pronounced it an unsalvageable wreck, but the big man hadn’t given up on it yet, and it seemed like he’d rather work on that ’jack than sleep. At one point a supply officer had sent some gobbers with a wagon to take the ruined machine away to be dismantled for parts, but Pangborn had threatened them with a storm thrower and chased them off.

  There’s another one for the list.

  Cleasby smiled to himself. He still thought occasionally about the extensive list of infractions and rules violations he’d kept. It had gotten rather long. It was amazing the lengths Madigan had gone to ensure his men were as ready as possible.

  He’d burned the list for warmth months ago.

  There was a knock on the door. It was Acosta. “May I speak with you, Lieutenant?” the Ordsman asked. He looked at Rains and Thornbury for a moment. “In private?”

  Cleasby nodded, and the other two Storm Knights got up. Rains took up the battered Precursor shield he’d been carrying since they’d lost Wilkins, and they left the room. “What do you need?”

  Acosta waited for the others to leave, then closed the door. The Ordsman was probably the only man in the unit who seemed physically unchanged by the war. It was like he was hewn from stone. “I will be leaving now.” It wasn’t a reque
st.

  “What about your deal with Madigan?”

  “Madigan is rotting in a prison while the Protectorate destroys your city.”

  “And you’d abandon us?”

  He shrugged. “It is not my city.”

  “So you’re just a mercenary.” There was no doubt Acosta could easily kill him, but Cleasby wasn’t really afraid of dying anymore. “You don’t give a damn about these people. You’re a coward.”

  “We both know that isn’t true.” Acosta came over and spread his hands to warm them over the fire. “Do not fling careless insults, Cleasby. It doesn’t suit you. Leave the angry outbursts to Rains or Pangborn. You are a thinker. Act like it.”

  “I can think you are a coward, then,” he snapped.

  “Such words . . .” Acosta raised an eyebrow. “Does command weigh so heavily upon you, then, that you would commit suicide by challenging me to a duel?”

  Cleasby exhaled, attempting to control his anger. “I never asked to be in command.”

  “The best leaders seldom do. As for what you do now, it is a simple choice. You can attempt to treat me like any other soldier, call the guards, and accuse me of desertion, but I do not think either of us would like how that would turn out. Or we can simply part as friends. I told Madigan I would fight for him as long as it suited my purposes. That time has passed, and so I will move on.”

  Cleasby studied him, thoughtful. “I don’t think Madigan was paying you anything more than that deserter’s salary, so you’re not motivated by coin. You’re not motivated by country or even by loyalty to the men you’ve fought alongside all this time. So what motivates a man like you, Acosta? What is this purpose of yours?”

  Acosta gave him that familiar, eerie smile. “Now that is the curious scholar I’ve come to know . . . It is a fair question. I came here to learn of new tactics and new technology and to fight against a foe I was unfamiliar with. I am collecting knowledge in order to become the most proficient warrior on all of Caen. I will either succeed and my legend will be known forever, or I will fail and soon be forgotten. I will be the best, or I will die trying.” His words held no boasting, only simple, matter-of-fact truth. “I will do whatever I must to achieve this goal.”

  “Achieving perfection through killing? Doing whatever you must? It sounds like a dark path to ascension. Are you a would-be scion? Are you really a Thamarite like they say, then?”

  “Draw your own conclusions, scholar. I am merely a seeker of challenges.”

  “If you want a real challenge, they say Hierarch Voyle has the actual power of Menoth upon him.”

  “I’m not ready to face a god . . . yet.” Acosta chuckled. “A good try, though. Farewell, Cleasby.” He began walking away.

  “One last question, if I may,” Cleasby said. Acosta paused at the door and waited respectfully. “You could’ve just ridden off in the middle of the night. Why’d you tell me all this?”

  “I once had this same conversation with Madigan back when he was a young officer. You remind me of him. I have found that some men are just good at picking the best fights. I think you will prove to be such a man, Lieutenant Cleasby. When you come across another interesting war, let me know. Maybe our paths will merge again for a time.”

  “And if our paths put us on opposite sides?”

  “Then that would be a terrible shame and I would weep at your funeral. Farewell, Cleasby.”

  “Good luck, Acosta.”

  “I make my own luck.” And then the Ordsman was gone.

  “Where do you want me?” Rains asked Pangborn.

  The big man jerked his head at the warjack’s open side. “See the thick silver bar? I need you to pull back on that hard as you can while I get this spanner in there.” Headhunter turned to study him curiously. It shuddered a bit, which caused the severed ’jack heads he bore to rattle on their chain. Pangborn soothed him, saying, “You shush now. Your secondary capacitor is busted and just drawing power for nothing. Pulling it will make you faster. It’s for your own good.”

  That seemed to placate the warjack.

  “This thing is off in the cortex. You know that, right?” Rains carefully placed the Precursor shield off to the side where it wouldn’t be accidently scraped or hit with sparks. “Ready.”

  “That’s why me and him get along so well,” Pangborn said. He jerked his head toward the old shield. “You paying respect to Morrow now?”

  Rains snorted. “Of course not.”

  “Then how come you carry around his symbol?”

  He didn’t have a good answer for that. “It’s Wilkins’ shield. I thought he’d be proud to see it still getting use.”

  Pangborn raised an eyebrow. “It’s a good shield, and sturdy . . . Now pull.” Rains strained against the bar with all his might. It flexed, and Pangborn plunged his thick arms into the gap and began working on the stuck nut. “Oh, I should’ve warned you: hold onto it tight. You slip and it’ll break my hands.”

  Rains gritted his teeth. This was taking all of his strength. “Make it quick.”

  Pangborn chatted nonchalantly while he worked. “I ever tell you I’m from up in the north country? Lots of Morridanes up in them parts. Me personally, I’m from Midlunder stock, but my mum’s mum was a Morridane. You know any Morridanes?”

  Sweat was forming on his face and veins were standing out in his arms. “Now’s not the time for your life story, Pangborn!”

  But the mechanik didn’t appear concerned that one slip could severely injure him. “Gram used to tell scary stories about the Morrdh. See, the Morridanes are descended from the Morrdh, and they were a dark, evil folk. Back in the olden days, the Morrdh used black magic and set all kinds of evil loose in the land. They had turned away from Menoth and would later reject both Twins. Some say they turned to infernals or other dark allies. After Morrdh got beat, the survivors turned to Morrow’s light. Now? Sure, there are still dark things buried out in the hollers and swamps, but for the most part, the Morridanes are good, honest, hardworking folk, same as most folks in Cygnar.”

  The bar was slipping. Rains tried to focus, but his grip was getting weaker and the muscles in his arms were burning. “I’m going to lose it!”

  “Way I figure it, you being an apostate ain’t so bad. Can’t judge a boy for what he’s born into, but what he chooses to be when he’s a man . . . And there we go.” He pulled the wrench out. Rains let go of the bar, and it sprang back into place with a bang. Pangborn reached into the warjack’s body and pulled out an oddly shaped chunk of brass, which he held in front of Headhunter’s vision slits. “See? This won’t be troubling you no more.” He tossed it over his shoulder onto the scrap pile.

  Headhunter shuddered, and a jet of steam shot from his boiler.

  “You sure know your way around a ’jack,” Rains said as he tried to rub the feeling back into his hands.

  “I learned from the best.”

  “But you don’t know a damn thing about me.”

  Pangborn gave Rains a hard look. “I come from simple folk. We don’t waste time with fancy words when there’s something that needs saying, even when it might give offense. I know why you’re carrying around that shield, only it won’t do you no good.”

  Rains was sick of these pious Morrowans and their guesses about his motivations. “Enlighten me with your homespun farm wisdom, then.”

  “You’re carrying that shield for the same reason I’m not giving up on this here ’jack. It meant something important to somebody who’s gone now, and neither of them can finish what they started, so we aim to see it through for them.”

  “That’s . . . well . . .” Rains thought about it. “Maybe.”

  “The thing is, you’ve got your own fight. Wilkins is fine. The sergeant died doing exactly what he knew he was supposed to do. There’s a freedom in that. Wilkins believed in sacrifice more than anything, so that’s exactly what he did, and then he went to serve his god. You, now—you don’t have a god. It ain’t you helping Wilkins finish this, it’s Wi
lkins helping you. You left some part of yourself back in Sul, and you won’t be a whole man until you find it.”

  Rains frowned. Every night his dreams had been haunted by faces hidden behind masks. “You’re smarter than you look.”

  “Most problems can be solved if you hit them hard enough, but not all of them.” Pangborn tapped the side of his head, leaving a grease stain there. “Rest of the time, you gotta use the old noggin.”

  It was time to return to guard duty. Rains picked up his shield. Their pugilist-farmer-philosopher-mechanik had given him much to think about.

  The rats lurked in the corners, watching him, waiting to see if the fever would kill him—or at least weaken him too much to stop them when they came in to nibble on his flesh. The rat catchers they had bragged about during his previous stay had probably evacuated. And that thought made Madigan laugh out loud. The noise startled the rodents, which disappeared through a crack in the wall.

  The fever was making him delirious. It had swept through the brig and had already taken the lives of several other prisoners. The guards had done their best to control the outbreak, but they were sorely understaffed. Most of their old roster had been sent to help in the city’s defenses. He’d heard the skeleton crew of guards rumormongering. The tables had turned. Caspia had been breached. Voyle was on the march. The army was in disarray. Stryker was either badly wounded or dead. King Leto was personally involved with the defenses.

  “Let me out of here!” Madigan shouted. He found himself pounding on the door, yelling through the narrow, barred window. “Let me fight these Menite sods. I’ll gut them like fish!” There was no answer. “You hear me? Give me a sword. Caspia is my home!” The hall was empty. The fever had made him imagine there were guards talking in the hall. The prisoners in other cells who weren’t yet incapacitated by the fever shouted at him to quiet down.