Into the Storm

by Larry Correia

  Acosta was looking out the window. “They’re almost on us.”

  “Shut it down or the smoke will give us away. Hurry!” Madigan ordered. Pangborn gave a command, then opened the boiler plate and began turning a valve. Madigan dragged a tarp over and threw it across the scaffolding. The warjack’s galvanic blade stuck out, but Rains draped rope over it. Thornbury ran up and tossed some chain over the ’jack as well. It made a terrible racket as it hit the steel.

  “Quiet, fool!” Acosta snapped.

  Most of the men were hidden in the shadows beneath the boat, where they’d be helpless in a fight. A few of them were still above ground, and they quickly tried to find hiding places around the shipwright’s materials. Madigan crouched next to Acosta, deep in the shadows behind some suspended fishing nets. The smell reminded him of his youth. He could see a bit through the dusty, leaded windows. Dozens of torches appeared around the bend in the road, bouncing quickly.

  “They’re moving fast,” Madigan whispered. “Good. They’ll pass right by.”

  “Zealots,” Acosta responded. Then more torches appeared, and more, and more after that, until the whole block seemed to be aglow.

  There weren’t hundreds of Protectorate soldiers. There were thousands.

  The army was marching past the shipwright’s with so many stamping boots that the building shook. “They’re heading for those trenchers we saw dug in.” Acosta didn’t look away from the glass, as any movement might be spotted. “They’re outnumbered ten to one. The trenchers will be slaughtered.”

  “I know . . .” Madigan answered. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

  “Good. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t going to try some futile noble gesture and get us all killed . . . Shhh.”

  Scouts.

  The doors opened with a creak. Shadows flickered through the hanging nets as torches were waved about.

  “Empty,” Acosta said.

  They didn’t have time to stop and gawk. Excellent. The Malcontents would hold here until the force passed, and then they’d make one final push—

  “Wait. What’s that?” asked a voice with a rough Idrian accent. “Is that a warjack?”

  Damn. Madigan shifted slightly to better reach his sword. Acosta slowly shook his head. He dragged one finger across his throat. Madigan nodded. The Ordsman would try to do it quietly.

  There was the whisp of soft-soled leather boots across the floor as the Idrian approached the deactivated Headhunter. He passed within feet of the suspended fishing boat. Madigan could only imagine the helplessness the soldiers hiding beneath it had to be feeling.

  Clank. Chains hit the floor. There was a loud click as a rifle was readied. The tarp was pulled aside. “It’s a ’jack all right . . .” He said something in their language.

  The Stormclad’s hull would still be hot to the touch . . .

  Acosta moved slowly, his grimace visible through his open visor. It was impossible to move quietly in storm armor. Even if he managed to silence the Idrians quickly, the whole Protectorate would swarm like a kicked hive when the scouts didn’t return.

  “Son of dogs, it’s beaten to pieces.” There was a loud noise as the scout threw something at Headhunter. “I don’t know much about ’jacks, but what a pile of dung.”

  He laughed, then said something else in Idrian that sounded profane. “Such charcoal wouldn’t be fit to pull a wagon in Voyle’s army. Let’s go.”

  The two scouts rushed back outside. Madigan listened carefully, trying to ascertain if it was a trick. There were still hundreds of soldiers marching by, so he really hoped it wasn’t. The doors swung closed. Troops kept on marching by, followed by the rumble of several warjacks, then more support troops, and then wagons and pack animals.

  The rapid gunfire of a trencher’s chain gun filled the night air, followed by the crack of rifles. The battle seemed to go on forever, taunting him. He knew it had to be just as hard for the men to listen as their fellows were overrun. The gunfire tapered off and was finally silenced. The zealots began a mighty chant of supplication and thanks to Menoth. Madigan was sick to his stomach. And still, the enemy marched by.

  An hour later, he could move again. The streets seemed quiet. The battle had moved on.

  “Everybody out. Time to go.”

  The Storm Knights came out from their hiding places, covered in dust. Some could barely move because their limbs had fallen asleep from being trapped in awkward positions. The men who’d been beneath the boat were shivering, their lower bodies having been submersed in water the entire time.

  “That was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, lying still while some Menite worms insulted my warjack!” Pangborn went to the partially exposed Stormclad and yanked the tarp the rest of the way off. “The bad men didn’t hurt your feelings, did they, Headhunter?” He opened the boiler door and cranked the valve. “I wanted to snap their twig necks. Rains, you speak Idrian. What’d they say?”

  “You really don’t want to know.”

  “I’m gonna murder a bunch of god-blinded fanatics for that,” Pangborn muttered as he lit Headhunter’s boiler. “Damn it! Flange clamp broke again. Sorry, sir. It’s is going to take some time to get steam.”

  “How long?”

  “I don’t know,” Pangborn said. “I’ve had to work with bodged-together parts here.”

  Madigan looked to the east, toward Culpin’s Great Dome. They’d wasted too much time as it was. He didn’t like abandoning their heavy hitter, but the huge Stormclad could get them spotted anyway. “Leave it.”

  “If they’ve got a heavy of their own we’ll need Headhunter to buy us time.” The big man rushed to a nearby workbench and began sorting through the tools. He found a pry bar. “You go without me. I’ll catch up. I’ll get him working, I swear.”

  It was a damn hard call. “Time’s of the essence. The minute Headhunter’s ready, come after us. Don’t worry about being quiet, because by then they’ll all be trying to kill us.”

  Pangborn went to work. “I need another pair of hands.”

  Rains stepped forward. “I’ve helped before.”

  That leaves ten to assault the Great Dome. Madigan swore under his breath. “Stick with him, Sergeant. The rest of you, let’s move.”

  Thornbury thumped Rains on the shoulder. “Don’t leave us hanging.”

  Moving quickly, the Storm Knights ran through the narrow streets. The Ordsman went back on point without being told, running far ahead, until he could barely be seen in the shadows. Several times Acosta had to raise a fist, and the platoon came to a metal-rattling halt. Each time, he waited for the danger to pass, and then Acosta would wave for them to move up as he took off running again. They cut through tenements, homes, and places of business, avoiding Protectorate, until the Great Public Works was before them.

  The structure was a marvel of engineering. It looked almost like a dome lifted from a great cathedral, but far larger. The interior could fit a parade ground, only Cleasby had told him it was filled with thousands of great alchemical vats and tanks, plus miles and miles of pipe. It was a skeleton of curved iron beams covered in a skin of brass, tin, and glass, and sadly, it was swarming with Protectorate soldiers.

  Dozens of soldiers milled around the entrance of the Great Dome. Teams of draft horses were pulling wagons filled with wooden barrels. As each wagon came to a halt, the soldiers rushed up to unload the barrels and carry them inside. It appeared that some Cygnaran citizens had been captured and pressed into use as laborers as well. Madigan noted that the Flameguard who were serving as overseers were careful to keep their torches and their lanterns far away from the wooden barrels.

  Menoth’s Fury . . . Well done, Cleasby.

  Acosta crouched down next to Madigan in a garbage-strewn alley. The men were hidden behind them. “Most of the enemy appear to be militia irregulars, lightly armed.”

  Cygnar’s invasion of Sul had seemingly caused every able-bodied Menite in the Iron Kingdoms to rush to the fight.
“Culpin’s inside. That’s where the capable bodyguards will be,” Madigan said.

  “And so that’s where I will find a properly challenging battle. I didn’t come back just to slaughter Menite farm boys armed with pointy sticks.”

  “By the way, thank you for coming back,” Madigan whispered in Ordic. “Blame it on your dark lady’s whispers if you must, Savio, but I think when it comes to your few friends, you’re actually a very loyal man.”

  His smile was barely visible in the dark. “Please, Madigan . . . You’ll ruin my reputation.”

  Thornbury had moved up alongside them as quietly as possible. “There’s another door to the north. It’s not as guarded, and it appears to be already broken open.”

  “Lead the way, Corporal.” Sure enough, this entrance was far more vulnerable, being guarded by a squad of listless militia. Even then, there was no way to approach without being seen. “Charge blades,” Madigan hissed.

  The order was repeated down the line.

  “What’s that?”

  It was difficult to hear at first, a barely audible hum, but the sound slowly grew in intensity.

  The militiamen turned their heads nervously, side to side, scanning the darkness. They all saw it at the same time: a pale blue glow emanating from a nearby alley, and like the hum, the light slowly gained intensity.

  By the time the alarm was raised, the pale glow had turned into a crackling blue nimbus.

  Broad, hulking figures were walking toward them. Monsters cloaked in energy; faceless heretics, holding lightning bolts in their hands.

  “Menoth save us!”

  He didn’t.

  “About got it!” Pangborn said.

  There was a blue flash and a boom to the east. “Not a moment too soon,” Rains exclaimed.

  He pulled his hands out of Headhunter’s side and wiped them on a rag, then closed and latched the plate and started getting his gauntlets back on. “It’ll take a minute to get the steam pressure up before he can get moving.”

  He glimpsed movement outside the shipwright’s building. “Hold still,” Rains ordered. More enemies. The boiler was producing a bit of light already, but hopefully they were distracted by the storm glaives being discharged at the Great Dome.

  A lone figure walked along the main road heading east, away from the front. It was hard to see in the dark, but his sanguine robes were tattered, and he stumbled a bit, his footing unsure. He stopped at a basin meant for pack animals and the poor, knelt beside it, and dipped his hands into the water.

  His wrists were chained.

  He was wearing a mask.

  Rains glanced back and forth through the windows, but the street was otherwise empty. The odds are against it. But he had to try. “Stay here.”

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Something I have to do. Stay here, no matter what happens.” He looked at the big fighter. Giving him an order would have been pointless. “Please.”

  Pangborn nodded.

  Rains took up his storm glaive and walked slowly to the front door. He opened it a crack.

  The vassal of Menoth was washing his hands, scrubbing furiously, making his chains rattle. It was as if he couldn’t get himself clean.

  His armor creaked as Rains stepped outside.

  The vassal froze. He turned slowly and saw Rains’ shape standing in the shadows of the shipwright’s door. “Hail Exemplar.” In the darkness he must have mistaken him for one of the heavily armored Protectorate knights. When Rains didn’t respond, the vassal grew concerned. “I was sent to support a warjack, but it was destroyed, and I was separated from my escort, Allegiant Benedict.”

  That voice . . . Could it be? It had been so very long.

  “I am trying to find my way back. I was not trying to flee.” The vassal said, bowing his head. “I am a loyal servant of Menoth.”

  “No.” Rains stepped out of the shadows. “You are a slave of Menoth.”

  The vassal looked up, surprised, then lifted his hands defensively when he saw the Storm Knight.

  “Wait!” Rains commanded. “I’m not here to kill you.” But he didn’t lower his sword, knowing every vassal was capable of using deadly arcane energies. The Menite said nothing for a long time. His eyes could be seen, wide and unblinking white, through the holes. “Remove your mask,” Rains said.

  “That is forbidden.” There was so much familiar about the voice, but at the same time, it was older, distant, and broken. “I am not allowed—”

  “Do it!” Rains bellowed, heedless of the danger. He stepped forward and jabbed the point of his storm glaive against the vassal’s chest. “Take off that damned mask!”

  He reached up with one shaking hand and lifted the iron plate away from his face.

  Ezra.

  Rains slowly knelt and placed his sword and shield on the ground. The vassal shrank back, confused. Rains said, “I’m not here to kill you. I’m here to free you.” He placed his gauntlets on each side of his helmet and lifted it off.

  They stared at each other, only inches apart, like a darkened mirror.

  “Enoch? But you’re dead. The priests told me you were dead.”

  “No, little brother. Not dead, just gone. I had gone hunting, remember? I tried to get back to you as soon as I heard them approaching. I swear I tried, Ezra. But they were too swift, and I made it back only to see them take you. I had to flee. They knew I had hidden you from them; I couldn’t go back home. And I couldn’t stay in a nation that treated its people like criminals just for what they are.”

  “I . . . I can’t . . .” Ezra’s eyes shone with tears. “They said you had left me. That they had killed you as you ran. I thought . . . I thought . . . ”

  “It’s all right. Everything’s all right now.” His voice cracked from the emotion. “I vowed I’d get you back.”

  There was a noise back at the shipwright’s. “Rains! Headhunter’s almost ready.”

  “I can’t believe you’re alive,” the vassal whispered. “They said we’d committed blasphemy and you’d given up your chance of redemption by running.”

  “Look at me.” Rains took his brother by the shoulders. “I’m going to get you out of here, away from them. They’re not going to torture you anymore. I’m going to free you from those chains.”

  “No!” Ezra shoved his hands away. “You don’t understand. I accept my burden.”

  “What—?!”

  “You can’t take me away. I shouldn’t have hidden! We were wrong, Enoch. We were stupid children, trying to avoid our responsibilities. I’m doing Menoth’s work. My chains are emblems of my submission to his will.”

  “What have they done to you?”

  “They showed me the glorious truth, Enoch.”

  More lightning crashed near the Great Dome. The light shifted as torches approached. Rains grabbed hold of the shackles and pulled. “There’s no time for this, Ezra. We have t—”

  Snap!

  A bolt of arcane energy leapt through his gauntlets, up his arms, and ripped into his chest. Rains crashed hard into the ground, his muscles contorting with unbelievable pain.

  Ezra stood. “It’s true, then. My own brother is a heretic.” He shook his head sadly. “My heart is broken. You came to free me, but it is I who will free you.” Ezra extended one clenched fist and a shimmering ring of runes formed in the air around it, glowing with arcane power. Tears streamed down his face. “May your soul find the Creator in Urcaen, freed from the doubts of flesh.”

  Rains reached out desperately, and one smoking gauntlet fell on the Precursor shield. Immediately the crippling pain ceased and his body was his own again. “Stop!” He dragged the shield over his chest just as Ezra opened his hand and released the terrible magic.

  The bolt struck the symbol of Morrow in a blinding flash.

  His ears were ringing. “Ezra!” Rains lurched to his feet and tottered toward his brother, trying to blink the purple spots from his vision. “Ezra!”

  He was too late.

 
; The killing bolt meant for Rains had been somehow reflected back by the Radiance of Morrow. Ezra was sitting on the edge of the trough, staring down at the smoking ruin of his chest. Rains went to him, his boot knocking the iron mask across the dirt. Ezra looked up. “Enoch?” he whispered. “Am I done, then?” Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he was gone.

  Torchlight filled the street and he heard angry shouts. The shouts turned to cries of terror as the wall of the shipwright’s exploded and a furious Stormclad blasted lightning through the approaching Protectorate troops.

  Rains lowered his brother’s body gently to the ground.

  A giant hand fell on his shoulder. “We’ve got to move, Rains!”

  Ezra’s dead. “Go on, Nestor. I’ll hold them.”

  But Pangborn simply lifted him right off the ground and spun him around so they were eye to eye. “Remember when I said you wouldn’t be a whole man until you did what needed doing? Well, now you are, and Cygnar needs that man, right now.”

  Ezra was dead, but at least his torment was over. He took one last look at his brother. “You’re right.”

  “Usually am.” Pangborn whistled, and Headhunter looked up from smashing militia into paste. “Run!”

  The Malcontents entered the Great Dome in a cloud of lightning and slaughter.

  Militia rushed to meet them, but the barely trained rabble was no match for Storm Knight steel.

  Madigan cut off a man’s arm and then kicked him over a railing to tumble to his death. That was the last for now, but more would be coming. He scanned across his men. All were still standing. Then he took in the room they’d entered. It was so vast it was hard to think of it as a room, and the huge space was a confusing mass of catwalks, stairs, pipes, platforms, giant vats, and complex machines. The tangle of metal stretched several stories up, and the area beneath their feet stretched just as far. Jets of steam obscured their vision. The roar of steam engines made it difficult to hear.

  Thornbury flipped up his visor and looked around, trying to understand the complex environment. “Wow . . .”

  “Orders?” Cleasby asked.

  “Find Culpin and stop his attack,” Madigan said.