Days passed in a haze of broken dreams, tossing and turning, his skin so hot he felt like the bedding would catch fire and then he’d burn to a crisp, like Neel MacKay, his face all black and broken apart in red lines. Then he would be freezing cold, shivering, but still hot to the touch. In the mornings there would be water, and he’d gulp it down as fast as he could. There were no physician’s visits. They were busy tending to the casualties of war; there was no time for mere prisoners.
He had been there for months of terrible boredom before the fever had taken over the brig. To sleep, he’d counted the sounds of distant explosions like a child would count sheep. He could tell if each one indicated artillery, a warjack’s cannon, or a Protectorate Skyhammer. Every night the explosions drew a little bit closer. He made a map of the city in his mind, and he could tell just by the noise that the war was going badly for Cygnar.
The supply lines were suffering. The last rations he could remember before the fever had rendered him incoherent had been a single raw potato.
After an unknown number of days, the fever lessened enough for him to think a bit again. The guards had looked in, seen that he was still breathing, and slid his rations beneath the door. The water was cool, and there was a bone with some meat on it. He couldn’t tell what animal that had come from, but the rats hadn’t gotten to it much, so he gnawed it as fast as he could. The explosions were much closer now; the army would need to move them, abandon them to the Menites, or let them go free. Madigan had already promised himself that if they let him go, he’d find a weapon and get to killing those bastards until his last breath. If the army were truly ruthless, though, they’d just leave the prisoners here in the hopes that the Menite conquerors would contract this awful fever.
It was daytime. Not that he could see light. The guards didn’t even have oil sufficient to keep the lanterns in the hall lit. Rather, he could tell it was day by the shaking of the floor. It was easier to move warjacks about safely during the daytime, and the military district was extremely busy. But the mighty tremors were moving west. The military district was being evacuated.
Hearing footsteps in the hall, Madigan stumbled to the door. “Let me out. Give me a sword and let me do my duty.” His voice sounded weak and thin and cracked as he tried to speak. “I will defend this city, I swear before Morrow and all the ascendants. I will defend this city to my last.”
“You’re hardly in any shape for that now.”
“I am a knight of Cygnar. Let me fulfill my oath.”
“But you gave up your knighthood. You threw it away to make a point. And in these dark hours, when a man fights with the power of the Creator, you are forgotten.”
Madigan could barely make out the thin form standing there. “Lord Durham? What’re you doing here?”
The old knight came closer to the bars. “I came to see that one of the finest soldiers I’ve ever known has come to a pathetic, wretched end. Here you rot, imprisoned by your pride while your city is burned to the ground around you. Your fellow citizens are dying by the score. Families are fleeing for their lives while shopkeepers and merchants throw their bodies against Protectorate spears.”
“I was trying to defend the army against an attack.”
“You were wrong. Culpin was too smart for you. You saw the obvious. Do you really think Culpin is so stupid? While you were spending your men’s lives in vain, he struck somewhere else.”
“And First Platoon died because of it. That guilt is mine to bear.”
“How much guilt can one man carry before it destroys him? How many lives must he take in order to make up for such guilt? Can you slaughter your way to redemption?”
“Let me free and find out,” Madigan snarled.
He must have passed out from the fever, because he found himself lying on the cot, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the chittering of the rats in the walls. The Skyhammerss fell at a steady pace, obliterating the city that had once been his home.
“Did you really expect to outwit one of the greatest minds the kingdom has ever produced?” Lord Durham asked.
Madigan turned his aching head. A candle had been lit. The old knight, all in black worn thin but still bearing his most sacred medal, sat on a stool next to the cot. The guards must have let him into the cell. Madigan tried to answer, but his throat was too sore.
“Come now, Hugh. You were a starving orphan while he had the finest education imaginable. Groller Culpin was redesigning whole districts of the city while you were picking sailors’ pockets. When you joined the army, he was building Cygnar’s greatest public works. He tagged along when Vinter sent you to murder Hartcliff because your known barbarity was a curiosity to his scientific mind. He went with you because he knew you would provide him with the opportunity to test his latest weapons. What are you to someone like him?”
“I am a knight of the kingdom . . .” he croaked.
“Were. You were one of Vinter’s favorite killers. You were a prize-fighting dog the king hung a title on. A true knight understands the value of what he fights for. You fight merely because it is in you to fight. You win because you know no other way. A true knight does what he must to defend his lord, but he never forsakes his honor. He would forsake his life before he would forsake his honor!”
“What—” Madigan reached clumsily for Lord Durham, but he couldn’t quite reach, and he was too consumed by fever to sit up. He lowered his shaking hand back to his chest. “What are you—”
“All those years in exile, you were happy to be an outsider, because you’ve always been an outsider. The kingdom could have used you. The army could have used you. It could have used your skills and your mind, but you were too selfish and proud. You were like a son to me. Our current king is a forgiving man. There was only one thing you had to do to come back!” Durham banged his cane on the floor. “One simple thing!”
“What would you have me do?”
“You know what it is, but maybe it is too late now. Too late to wonder what might have been, if you’d become the knight you truly should have become. It is too late to wonder how many hundreds of young officers you could have taught and how much stronger our nation’s defenses could have been if you’d fulfilled your responsibilities.”
“How could I have chosen differently?”
Lord Durham stared at the candle for a long time, deep in thought.
“You’ve always been a determined killer, Madigan. I tried to help shape you into a leader. I tried to teach you, but I failed. Maybe I was the one who was wrong the whole time. I was an idealistic warrior, somebody who thought there could be goodness even in the midst of carnage. Maybe Vinter was right: we need terrible men willing to fight to survive, willing to sacrifice anything to achieve victory.”
“What would you have me do?” he asked again.
“Prepare yourself, Madigan.” There was an explosion, far too close. The brig shook and dust rained from the ceiling. “Maybe it is not too late after all. Good-bye, old friend.”
Madigan closed his eyes and let the fever take him.
From this vantage point, Cleasby could tell exactly how far the Protectorate had advanced into Caspia by the smoke rising across the city. The Cygnarans at least had done their best to avoid starting fires, which would quickly spread out of control. The Menites didn’t appear to share that same reservation, and it seemed as if they were burning whole blocks with impunity.
The chapel’s bell tower was the tallest structure for blocks, and Cleasby had climbed the ladder to get a good look at the city. He had a sinking feeling it would be one of his last, as they had just received some very grim news. Details were sparse, but King Leto himself had challenged Hierarch Voyle and been struck down that very morning. It was unclear whether their good king would live or die.
There was a lot of noise as somebody else scaled the ladder. It was hard to be quiet in a suit of storm armor. Cleasby extended his hand and helped the other soldier through the trapdoor. It was Thornbury. “Is something wrong
?” he asked the aristocrat.
“Besides the upcoming collapse of our nation?” Thornbury asked sarcastically. “Why, no, sir. It’s a fine day, positively coming up roses.”
Cleasby sighed. “I meant with the refugees, Thorny. The overall health of the nation is a bit beyond my ability to influence right now.”
“Their numbers are swelling as word of the king has spread. The docks and the train yards are overwhelmed, so more people are just abandoning their belongings and fleeing on foot.” The aristocrat leaned against the railing and took in the view. “Well, that’s damn near worth the climb after all. Caspia truly is a beauty, at least until these blasted Menites burn it to the ground.”
“We’ll stop them, Thorny. Don’t worry. Someone will find a way.”
“At this point, it’s going to take a miracle. We underestimated the Protectorate, Kelvan, and now we’re paying for it. If Leto dies . . . Well, the Protectorate will be the least of our problems. We’ve got enemies all around, just waiting for us to show weakness.”
“The kingdom will be fine. Worse things have happened in the past and Cygnar has always risen to the challenge and overcome.”
“You’re still an idealist at heart.” Thornbury shook his head. “You don’t know the aristocracy like I do. If Leto dies they’ll be like buzzards swooping in to get their piece. There are the factions, and then there are factions within factions, all willing to cut a deal. Leto came to power through a coup; feelings are still tender and succession is unclear. This could be ugly. They whisper that Vinter is still alive, exiled out there somewhere, and some of the old families will surely use the loss of our capital as an excuse to put that evil bastard back on the throne.”
It was a troubling thought. “Why, Thorny, I didn’t know you paid attention to such dealings. I thought your family name simply enabled you to drink for free and pick up women.”
“Heh . . . I wish. Maybe this war has turned me cynical.”
The two of them stayed there for a while, smelling the smoke, listening to the hum of thousands fleeing, and watching the city burn. Cleasby broke the silence. “You know, the very first time I ever saw Caspia was when I came in on the train from Corvis with Madigan. I can’t believe that was only last year. I’d read so much about this place that I thought I knew it, but reading about something in a book is nothing like seeing it with your own eyes.”
“Caspia truly is beautiful.”
“There’s so much history here,” Cleasby said wistfully. “Over there is the courthouse where they ratified the founding of the Steam and Iron Workers Union in 211. That’s the holy marker commemorating where Morrow performed the miracle of oxen.” He pointed out the landmarks as he recalled his history lessons. “The top floors of that building hold the workshop where Janus Leopold invented the magnifying rifle scope.”
“You’re quite the tour guide.”
“This is one of the most important cities ever built, a wonder of the ancient world, arguably the greatest achievement of the early Menites. Golivant’s grandson had the great walls built a hundred and fifty years before the ascension of Morrow and Thamar! But now it seems the Menites don’t care about preserving anything that wasn’t handed to them by the Creator. So much learning, and history, and culture . . . It’s such a shame. That’s the street where King Woldred gave his famous speech about the rights of man. That building with the crooked spire is where Elias Decklan stood to witness the first steps of the first colossal built during the Rebellion. That big dome is where . . .” Cleasby paused, pointing at one of the landmarks nearest the river, far to the east. “That’s where . . .”
Thorny squinted at the distant building. It was a large structure near where the Black River entered the Gulf of Cygnar. “That’s where what?”
Cleasby scowled. “That’s the center of the modernization of Caspia’s infrastructure, the Great Public Works. It had been started under Vinter II but was never completed. Vinter IV picked it up after the Scharde Invasions, and it was one of the few positive legacies of his reign. Its goal was to improve the capital’s sanitation and prevent the spread of diseases. The ancient sewer system below the city was dug up and new pipe laid through the city’s major residential areas, starting with Castle Raelthorne and the better parts of town immediately adjacent. King Leto vastly expanded the project and incorporated alchemical treatment to the sewage as a safeguard against disease. Then that facility was broadened to include alchemical processing of river water for the city’s water supply. Now those pipes reach every neighborhood in the city, so that even the poorest among us could have the same advantages. Better sewers, better drinking water. It was one of the most ambitious construction projects ever undertaken. A real credit to the Raelthornes, past and present.”
“That’s fascinating and all, but what—”
“The chief architect of the Great Public Works under Vinter IV was Groller Culpin.”
“Gorax balls. The same Culpin Madigan figured blew up First Platoon?”
“I never got to see the blast site and they’ve been far too busy to respond to any of my requests, but I can only assume there was some sort of tunnel or sewer beneath Griggs’ position that day. The ’jack we found had already delivered its payload. Madigan’s hypothesis was correct, only we got the location wrong. We looked up, when we should have been looking down . . . The bomb that took out First Platoon was just an experiment.”
“I’m not following. That public works building fell to the Protectorate days ago. We already know the water’s been shut off—Morrow knows we’ve heard the refugees complaining about that nonstop. That dome is blocks behind their front lines. If Culpin blew it up now, he’d be doing us a favor.”
Cleasby’s eyes flicked back and forth, scanning the city, seeing it not as streets and buildings, but lines radiating outward on a grid. The whole city was connected. The idea made too much sense to not be true, and that filled his guts with fear.
“It’s not the dome, Thorny. It’s what’s beneath it.”
The headquarters of the Storm Division seemed to be in complete disarray. The battle for Caspia had grown so desperate that many of the officers who would normally be here, calling the shots from a position of safety and clarity, were out fighting in the streets. Cleasby was having a hard time even finding anyone in his chain of command to talk to.
“I’m looking for Captain Schafer or Major Laddermore,” he told the clerk. “Have you seen them?”
“Laddermore’s with the king . . .” the clerk answered, his eyes focused on something very far away. “She rode away with his body over her saddle. Did you hear? The king has been struck down. Even Morrow can’t help us now. Menoth is coming! Menoth is coming to burn us all!”
“You have been absolutely no help at all,” Cleasby snapped at the babbling clerk. He spotted a runner. “You! I’m looking for the commanding officer of the 47th!”
The runner didn’t slow. “I’ve no time!”
Cleasby grabbed him by the arm. “I need to talk to him!”
“The 47th is lost. They were cut off when Pier Street fell.” He smacked Cleasby’s hand away. “As was the 30th and 14th. It’s a complete rout. I’ve got to tell Commander Bradher.”
Cleasby’s mouth fell open. “Lost?” He had an important message to convey, and nobody to convey it to. “Wait. Give this to Bradher. It’s urgent.” He handed over the note he’d written. “Please.”
“Very well.” The runner saw the insignia on Cleasby’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.” Then he hurried on.
Stunned, Cleasby stood there for a moment as the headquarters continued to fall apart. The realization slowly came that this was what defeat looked like. Administrative officers were throwing their most important papers in boxes and putting the least important in barrels that would be burned as they evacuated the headquarters. Cleasby marveled that with so many lives being lost, there was still time for paperwork. The rear echelon flinched at every explosion, even the ones so small that Cleasby no longer r
egistered them as interesting.
How things change!
Commander Bradher would read the message, and he would either act or not, but by then it would probably be too late. The Storm Division was doing everything it could just to stay in the fight. He couldn’t reach his chain of command, but the 8th Division of the Second Army was also based in Caspia, so he wrote another note and sent it along with one of the clerks fleeing in that direction. They would be lucky if the army proved able to mount any sort of counteroffensive to seize the Great Dome at all, let alone in time to make a difference, since they were concentrating on defending important parts of Caspia, like the palace, the Sancteum, the Strategic Academy, or the Cygnaran Army.
Madigan had talked about Culpin’s nature. The Protectorate wouldn’t be keen on destroying a city they considered inherently holy, but Culpin wouldn’t give a damn about their priesthood and their goals. He saw himself as the architect, and his greatest creation, below the city of Caspia itself, had been stolen from him. Now that it had been sullied, Culpin would rather see it destroyed.
Cleasby hurried down the steps. Thornbury, Rains, and Pangborn were waiting for him outside. He gave them a quick report as panicked soldiers loaded nearby wagons and stray papers fluttered away on the wind.
“The king’s gonna die, Stryker’s gonna die, and the city’s gonna fall,” Pangborn spat. “I can’t believe the Protectorate is gonna win.”
“None of that talk,” Cleasby ordered. “This isn’t over yet. We might not be able to do anything about Voyle, but we’re the only ones who have a clue about Culpin. We’re it.”
The three of them shared a nervous glance. “What do you want us to do, Lieutenant?” Rains asked.
“Our orders haven’t changed, but I can’t sit at the gate and do nothing while Caspia falls around us. I’m going to the Great Dome to try to stop Culpin. I don’t expect any of you to come with me. It’s far behind Protectorate lines by now. Whoever goes probably won’t be coming back.”
“I’m in,” Pangborn said. “I’ve never turned down a fight, no matter how stupid.”
Into the Storm Page 20