Into the Storm

by Larry Correia

  “I get it! I get it! Where are we dumping it?”

  “Uh, well . . .” Cleasby hadn’t thought that part through. He looked back at the instructions. He’d been focused on saving the palace and its surrounding quarter. More than likely it was going to pour back into the tanks below the Great Dome itself and then overflow into the Black River, which meant that as soon as Culpin set off his magical ignition system, this whole section of the dock district would probably be obliterated, but there was no use dwelling on that. “Just keep turning valves!”

  Madigan pulled himself up the grate. He had to let go of his storm glaive so he could use both hands to get up the slick surface. The sword slid off the edge and disappeared. The Reckoner raised its club, and he had nowhere to go.

  “I told you to hold.”

  The Reckoner heeded its marshal, but it watched the Storm Knight through its glowing vision slit, waiting for the order to smash.

  “You ruined it, Madigan. I don’t think you realized what a mess you’ve made of things.” Culpin walked up behind the Warjack, but he was smart enough to not get any closer than that. “I’ll accomplish what I told the Protectorate I’d do when I offered them my services to begin with. Their honorable hierarch turned me down, but luckily there were others with power in Sul far more pliable. As we speak, my marvelous invention is collecting beneath the most vital parts of Caspia. The palace will be destroyed, taking the usurper king with it. So, too, the Sancteum; the heart of the Church of Morrow, gone. The War Council? Gone. Any members of the Royal Assembly still in the vicinity? Dead. All those who conspired to cast down King Vinter, and all who’d bowed their heads to Leto afterward, all of them burned to ash and scattered on the winds, just like traitors deserve.”

  “You’ll kill thousands.”

  “I’d kill millions if I thought it would make a difference! This is for the greater good of Cygnar, after all. I’m looking at the broad view. Of course, a decade ago when I presented this plan to the Protectorate, hoping for a new home and funds to continue my research, the plan was to do this when they invaded Caspia, not when you invaded Sul, but things worked out. This way I got a good field test beforehand. That explosion in central Sul? That was done with a mere five hundred gallons of my mixture. Whereas I just released thirty thousand gallons of it into Caspia.” Culpin clapped his hands. “Oh joy, I can’t wait to see how it lights up the sky. It’ll be marvelous.”

  Madigan pulled against the grate, struggling upward. His wounds left him unsteady. His legs were hanging off in space. The Reckoner watched him, waiting for the order to club the Storm Knight flat.

  “I’d love to see the look on Leto’s face for the brief instant before the pressure strips the flesh from his bones. If the Protectorate were to start another war, Leto and his lackeys would die in a horrendous fire, but the invading Protectorate troops would all be killed when the pipes beneath their lines detonated as well. By their own mistake, most would reckon. Then King Vinter could return, triumphant, and his people would cheer as he rallied them around his banner, entered Sul, and destroyed the Menites forever.”

  “Caspia would be destroyed.”

  “It’s old. New is better!” Culpin spread his hands wide. “Imagine the modern city I could build in its place . . . But now I’m only going to blow up part of Caspia, so neither of us gets our way. Except for the Protectorate. I’m sure those backward, superstitious dolts will have a splendid time rooting like pigs through the ruin of civilization. Perhaps in another hundred years they’ll reinvent the sundial, or maybe the wheel.”

  Though he couldn’t see any of them, Madigan could still hear his men fighting in the maze of pipes below, so maybe all wasn’t lost. “Vinter’s done. He’ll never return.”

  “We shall see.” Culpin pointed to Madigan and spoke to the ’jack. “If this man gets any closer, hit him with your club.” He then walked away to get a better view through one of the windows. “My alchemical solution is rather stable. It has to be at the correct density to detonate at its full potential. Any minute now the steadily increasing pressure of my mixture will reach its ignition point.” Culpin pulled out a pocket watch and glanced at it. “Hmmm . . . This is taking a bit longer than expected. I’d check my instruments, if you hadn’t just set them afire.”

  CRASH!

  The noise had come from the main floor. Madigan twisted around in time to see a huge chunk of the wall fall inward, followed by one ugly warjack. Headhunter had plowed right through the militia guarding the building, squishing them underfoot. Its huge blade swept through the building, tearing soldiers in half. Pangborn and Rains were right behind, shouting and firing their weapons.

  “Up here!” Madigan shouted. “Shoot this ’jack!”

  Rains heard him, grabbed Pangborn, and pointed. The ’jack marshal shouted a command at Headhunter. It swiveled toward the target.

  It was as if time slowed down when the two warjacks saw each other. He knew it was impossible for a ’jack to actually have an expression, but Madigan could have sworn Headhunter got excited. It ran across the Great Dome, plowing through soldiers, pipes, and tanks, leaving a trail of blood and steam in its wake. Once it was within range, Pangborn shouted another command, and Headhunter’s massive galvanic blade rose, buzzing with charge. It fired, electricity forming an instant bond between the two warjacks, which then turned into a blast of sound that swept over them all.

  He could taste the electricity.

  The Reckoner stumbled back, crashing through the smoldering maps. Madigan held on as tight as he could as the grate shook under the impact, threatening to shake him loose to fall to his death.

  “Destroy that ’jack!” Culpin shouted. “Destroy it!”

  The Reckoner didn’t go to the freight elevator. Rather it went to the edge, missing Madigan by inches, and stepped off. It fell to the next landing with a terrible impact. Beams bent, and the interior pyramid of the Great Dome shuddered. It went off another floor and landed on the main.

  Without hesitation, the two warjacks launched themselves across the space, crashing through anything helpless enough to get in their way. Culpin has said he’d rated each floor for an extra ten tons of stress, except with the two of them, there was closer to thirteen tons of angry warjack going at it. The interior structure of the Great Dome swayed as if it were experiencing an earthquake.

  Madigan climbed. The wounds in his side and back had drained him of strength, but he found more and pushed on.

  Headhunter’s blade crashed into the Reckoner’s chassis in a shower of sparks. The club came around and tore their Stormclad’s damaged shield arm clean off. Pangborn had to dive for cover as the huge arm flew past. Headhunter simply lowered its shoulder and rammed its body into the Reckoner. The Protectorate ’jack hit a water tank, which burst under the onslaught, and a wave swept through the running Menite soldiers, sweeping them from their feet.

  Madigan stood up and shouted at his men below. “Sergeant! Retreat! Get the Malcontents out of here!” Rains signaled that he’d heard and began repeating the order. Madigan turned back to the thing that had brought him here.

  Culpin was checking his pocket watch again, annoyed. “It should have detonated by now. Something has thrown off my calculations.” The arcane mechanik saw Madigan coming toward him and calmly drew a hand cannon. “I’ve no time for you.”

  He fired.

  The heavy bullet hit Madigan low in the torso. He stumbled but didn’t fall. Raising one hand to his abdomen, Madigan found a perfect round hole in the plate. Struggling to breathe, he took a halting step forward.

  Culpin scowled at the pistol.

  The pain hit then, piercing through his side, but Madigan kept walking. The armor hadn’t stopped the extremely powerful round, but it had slowed the bullet enough that it didn’t kill him on the spot. It would be enough.

  “Damn you, Madigan! It’s too late. Even if my calculations are off, it’ll still detonate. You’ll see,” he sneered. “But you’re too stubborn to accept d
efeat, even when it’s obvious. Vinter was right about you. He must’ve known all was lost when he sent you to murder Hartcliff and his spawn, because a lesser man wouldn’t have had the stomach for it.”

  His platoon was still fighting, and more Protectorate were sure to converge on the noise. Headhunter and the Reckoner were pounding the daylights out of each other. A pipe was split open and fire came belching out. A purple liquid splattered across both of the warjacks and shimmered with arcane energy as it caught fire. A chain of small explosions shook the main floor of the Great Dome. It felt as if the whole place was about to collapse in on itself.

  Madigan took another halting step forward. “In the name of the crown, I hereby arrest you for high treason. Surrender your arms and stand down. Resist and I’ll kill you.”

  The old alchemist knew he was no match for Madigan in a fight. The hand cannon was dropped on the metal floor. “I yield.”

  Madigan looked down at the pistol lying on the grate between them. Then he looked back up and smiled, showing bloody teeth. “Nobody wants you alive, Culpin . . .”

  “Wha—”

  Madigan stepped close enough to put his gauntlets around the old man’s neck and squeeze. Eyes bulging, Culpin clawed futilely at the gauntlets. “Those are the exact words I told Earl Hartcliff all those years ago. At least he had the guts to fight for what he believed in,” Madigan said as he dragged the struggling man to the broken edge of the platform. He saw a spreading puddle of the flammable purple ooze far below, seeping up through the grates.

  He released his grip a bit, and Culpin gasped for breath. “Let me live. I have information! Valuable information!” He looked down at the bubbling alchemical mix. “Let me live. I beg you. Have mercy.”

  “You long for a return to Vinter’s rule?” Madigan snarled. “Then receive his brand of mercy.” And he hurled Culpin over the side.

  Culpin’s scream cut off sharply when he landed on a metal catwalk several floors down. Madigan leaned over to watch. The fall hadn’t killed him, but it had obviously shattered bones. He lay there, groaning, and the groan turned into a long sob. Then the flooding mixture reached him, and he must have realized what it was. Culpin splashed and wailed, thrashing in the rising alchemical soup. A rainbow sheen had formed across the surface of the purple ooze, and Culpin desperately tried to claw his way out of it, but it was stuck to his skin and had seeped through his clothes.

  Sparks and burning debris fell into the mix, and the surface ignited. The fire spread rapidly, hissing and sputtering. Culpin was engulfed in licking flames, his body consumed by the fruits of his mind. The base of the Great Dome turned into a sea of fire.

  Madigan stumbled for the stairs, weak with blood loss. He felt a coldness inside his chest. His life was drizzling out through his wounds. He did not remember falling, but he found himself lying facedown on the floor. There was nothing left to give, no final reserve of strength, just the blessed darkness of unconsciousness, and then the fire would take him. It was a fitting end.

  I hope the men got out. Morrow preserve them. This kingdom needs good men.

  Noxious smoke surrounded him. Somebody coughed. Boots struck the stairs. “Madigan!” he heard. Hands latched onto the straps of his armor and pulled. “Pangborn! Up here.”

  He grimaced in pain as he was lifted. Something was tearing inside. “Rains?” Madigan gasped. “I ordered you to flee.”

  “Madigan’s Malcontents are notoriously bad at following orders, sir.” Rains hoisted him up and began dragging him down the stairs. “Now hold on.”

  The Great Dome was collapsing all around them.

  Cleasby had saved the palace district, but he’d doomed this place. Back pressure had built up in the big pipes, and they were bulging dangerously. Rivets popped and shot out like bullets. Thornbury had found a ladder to the next level up and already started climbing. “Acosta! We’ve got to go.”

  The Ordsman was circling the dangerous Madra Zevrhan. “I’ll be along.” They’d clashed repeatedly, with the much bigger and stronger Zevrhan chasing Acosta around the room. But Acosta was far too quick and had used their complex environment to his advantage, constantly keeping machinery between himself and the flaming swords. “I still have more to learn.”

  “Whatever the lesson, you’ll get to analyze it in Urcaen if you don’t hurry, because this whole place is about to explode,” Cleasby warned as he began climbing the ladder. “Wrap it up!”

  Acosta sighed. “Very well.”

  “Your skills are great, but they will not be enough to overcome mine, child of murder,” Zevrhan said to Acosta. He circled, keeping one flaming sword between them defensively and the other low at his side, ready to disembowel at the first careless mistake. “My power comes from Menoth.”

  “That is your mistake, relying on another for strength.” Acosta stepped a few feet to the side, and shifted his grip on the pair of storm glaives. “My power is my own.”

  Zevrhan roared as he struck, lunging forward, driving the tip of his blade at Acosta’s chest. He dodged at the last possible instant, raising a glaive to smoothly deflect the flaming sword—so fluidly it was almost as if Acosta were guiding his opponent’s sword himself. Too late, the Protectorate warrior realized his mistake. The flaming sword was guided directly into a bulging pipe and pierced the metal. Acosta stepped back as a pressurized jet shot from the hole. It ignited as it rolled down Zevrhan’s flaming blade, a rolling ball of liquid death, and the giant was almost instantly covered in sticky, consuming doom. He went spinning away, thrashing and beating his hands at his own body.

  Acosta walked toward the ladder, muttering. “Menoth should have taught him how to pay better attention.”

  Climbing a ladder for several stories while wearing heavy armor was not for the weak, and Cleasby was thankful for all the hours Madigan had worked them like dogs. It didn’t help that something was shaking the ladder. With aching limbs, Cleasby heaved himself onto the main level.

  Headhunter and a Protectorate Reckoner were throwing each other through vital supports, and every impact made the whole building sway dangerously.

  Private Langston waved his arms overhead, getting their attention. A new, warjack-sized exit had been made for them. The wounded had been gathered, and it was almost all of the platoon. He quickly counted, noting they were a few bodies short, but he’d seen Debney and Newman killed for certain earlier. Allsop was somehow still breathing even with a hole in his neck. Cleasby caught sight of Pangborn running through the flames, carrying the limp form of another Storm Knight in his arms. Madigan! Rains appeared right behind him, slowing just enough to blast apart a zealot.

  “That’s everybody. Move out!”

  They rushed through the hole, nearly everyone wounded and only half moving under their own power. They were in the middle of thousands of Protectorate, but the fire, explosions, and smoke provided some cover. Half a block away, a wagon team was thrashing and tearing at their ropes, trying to get away from the crumbling dome.

  “Seize that wagon,” Cleasby ordered. “Get the wounded in back.”

  There was a high-pitched whine. It came from the south, growing steadily louder. “Incoming!” Rains shouted. An artillery shell struck just to the north of the Great Dome.

  Cleasby looked to the river and saw a flash. He heard the boom a second later. It was a Cygnaran warship. “The navy’s bombarding the Great Dome.” Well, at least Commander Bradher believed my message . . . That would have been a small comfort, if it hadn’t been too late to stop Culpin. The solution was just as liable to kill all the Malcontents as any Protectorate, and worst of all, the first cannonball that hit one of the big tanks was going to blow this whole neighborhood apart.

  Thornbury had gotten to the horses. When he cut the legs out from under one of the Menites guarding them, the other ran for his life. Their aristocrat slashed through the ropes tying the team to a fence, grabbed hold of the reins, and began pulling the terrified animals along. A cannonball landed less than a hundr
ed yards away, and the horses rose and kicked, but Thornbury held on and kept them from bolting. Luckily they were yoked together and appeared to be mostly deaf. They had probably spent the war hauling artillery.

  Dirt and chunks of rock were falling from the sky as more cannonballs landed. Wounded Storm Knights were shoved onto the bed of the wagon. Langston got in the seat and took up the reins. “Move!” Cleasby shouted. Only half of the platoon were onboard, but the rest would have to run for it. It wouldn’t take the navy long to zero in on the dome, and when one of the main tanks of Culpin’s lethal concoction was hit . . . Thornbury got out of the way, and Langston cracked the whip—not that it mattered, as the team was desperate to get away from the fire.

  Cleasby ran alongside the wagon. A dazed Temple Flameguard stumbled into their path, but the horses just crunched him underfoot and the wagon wheels finished the job. Pangborn gave a sharp whistle, trying to signal for Headhunter to follow them, but he doubted their Stormclad would hear it.

  “Faster!” Cleasby shouted. “It’s going to blow!”

  They passed surprised Protectorate troops who were busy taking cover from what they thought was an ordinary naval bombardment. They had no reason to expect to see a wagonload of bedraggled Storm Knights come tearing down the main avenue. A cannonball struck the Great Dome. A huge section of the curved roof collapsed in on itself. A pillar of fire shot into the night sky. The navy had found their target . . .

  A series of flashes lit up the haze-covered river. The booms came a split second later, and then cannonballs were falling like rain. Holes appeared all across the top of the Great Public Works.

  One of the big holding tanks was hit.

  The whole of the world seemed to fly to pieces as the shockwave washed over them. The team of horses came apart and the wagon crashed, its rear rising as the front plowed into the dirt, and then the whole thing flipped over, flinging wounded Storm Knights like leaves on the hot wind.