Into the Storm

by Larry Correia

  The world stopped spinning long enough for Cleasby to realize the unfocused light in front of his face was the meager sunrise coming through his visor. He raised one shaking hand and pushed up the visor so he could see. The sky was filled with black smoke, but the first weak bits of orange daylight were poking over the horizon. He was covered in bits of rocks, splintered boards, and shards of glass, but it all fell off as struggled to his feet. He looked back and saw a smoking hole where the Great Dome of Caspia had once stood.

  Their stolen wagon was on its side, bodies lying all around it. Some were moving. Most were not. He limped toward them. Men were groaning, coughing. A horse was crying. Another one was loose and running in circles.

  Their wounded had been thrown from the overturned wagon. He had no idea what state any of them were in. They were deep behind enemy lines, surrounded by Protectorate forces. Cleasby didn’t know what to do.

  The others began to stir. It was almost like the heat and pressure of the explosion had blown out their consciousness like a candle, but it was coming back now. Langston had been thrown from the seat and was cursing as he realized his landing had broken his leg. Watersford had been hit with a piece of flying pipe, and it had crushed his helmet so badly that Cleasby didn’t need to check to know he was dead. But he couldn’t find the one he needed to find, the one man who would know what to do, because he always knew what to do.

  “Madigan?” Cleasby shouted. “Where’s Madigan?”

  “He’s over here,” Acosta said.

  Cleasby limped over to the other side of the wagon. Madigan was lying on his back. The straps of his armor had been cut away and his breast plate removed. Acosta moved aside, and Cleasby saw that Madigan had a ghastly laceration deep on one side of his abdomen and a large-caliber bullet hole on the other. The lieutenant was ghostly pale, his skin a weak grey. Acosta gave him a sad look and shook his head in the negative.

  Cleasby knelt next to him. “Madigan?” His voice cracked. “Can you hear me, sir?”

  Madigan opened his eyes. One was bloodshot solid red. “Cleasby . . .,” he whispered. “Glad to see my . . . conscience made it . . . through.”

  “Not through yet, old friend,” Acosta said, nodding down the street. “We have company.” Through the settling dust, shapes appeared, and as clarity grew, hope died. They were Protectorate soldiers—hundreds upon hundreds of them. There was no escape.

  “Make the bastards work for it,” Madigan gasped.

  Cleasby found his sword in the debris. He walked toward the advancing Menites, stopped in the middle of the road, and waited, prepared to die like a true Storm Knight.

  Rains stood at his right hand.

  “Did you ever find what it was you were looking behind those masks?” Cleasby asked.

  “Yes,” Rains answered. “But it wasn’t what I thought.” He readied his Precursor shield.

  Thornbury came up on his left. “You should get out of here, Thorny,” Cleasby suggested. “You might be able to escape in the confusion.”

  “The noble blood of Cygnar won’t run thin today . . . Besides,” Thorny grinned. “I’m too damned tired to run.”

  Pangborn joined them. He put his storm thrower over one shoulder, took a look at the approaching troops and chuckled. “They don’t know what they’re getting themselves into, picking a fight with the Malcontents.”

  “No they don’t,” Acosta said as he walked up behind Rains, still armed with a pair of storm glaives. He spun them both through the air. “Let’s show them.”

  There were only five of them able to stand against an army.

  The marching Protectorate force was being led by two full squads of Exemplar knights. They were followed by an untold number of Temple Flameguard, their upright spears so numerous it was like a field of waving grass. A shout went up, and a horn was blown. The Protectorate came to a stop a mere fifty yards away.

  The street was quiet as the two sides studied each other. Five men should have been nothing more than a bump in the road, but the Protectorate commander must have recognized there was more to these men than that.

  A lone Exemplar broke from the Protectorate line and walked toward them. It was a remarkably brave maneuver, as there was nothing his fellows could do to protect him. He stopped ten yards away and lifted off his helmet, revealing the face of a weathered, tired soldier.

  “What happened here?” he asked without preamble, nodding toward the flaming wreck of the Great Dome.

  “We killed everyone and broke everything,” Cleasby answered. The others laughed. “Just following orders.”

  “I see.” The Exemplar looked back at the overturned wagon. “You have many wounded. Are your orders for this few of you to block my company from passing?”

  “I suppose that depends on where you’re passing to.”

  “We are returning to Sul. The war is over.”

  “What?” Cleasby looked at the others. “I don’t—”

  “You have not heard?” The Exemplar held his head high. “Menoth has let his will be known through his holy voice. Hierarch Voyle is dead, slain by the sword of Menoth’s Harbinger. The war is over. Each nation is to return to their own borders. Caspia is yours for now. Sul belongs to Menoth forever.”

  They’d been fighting for a year. They’d given so much, they’d lost so many . . . It couldn’t be. This had to be a trick.

  He could sense their mistrust. “When I was told the news, I fell to my knees and gave thanks. I poured out my heart, and wept for my dead brothers and sisters, and I wept for their families and their children who would never know their love. I thanked the Creator for this respite, and I rejoiced I didn’t have to spill any more blood.” For a moment, the Exemplar wasn’t a fanatical enemy, he was just another tired soldier. “Please, step aside, Storm Knights. My men just want to go home.”

  Cleasby nodded. “Very well, Exemplar. You may pass.”

  “Thank you.” The officer put his helmet back on and returned to his column.

  They returned to Madigan. The lieutenant was barely conscious. His breathing was shallow and weak.

  Cleasby knelt at his side. “The war’s over. The Protectorate is retreating back to Sul.”

  “Good. Good work, lads. You’ve made me so proud.”

  “You saved the city,” Cleasby said. “You saved Caspia. You saved the king.”

  “No . . . I only saved you soldiers from yourselves, and you saved the city.” Madigan smiled weakly.

  The Malcontents looked at each other. They knew it wouldn’t be long now.

  “My last orders,” Madigan whispered. “See to the men. Save who . . . whoever you can. Get them home.” Cleasby looked up and nodded. The other four moved away. “Last requests . . . Those books about knights . . .”

  “I know they’re foolish now, Madigan.” Real knighthood wasn’t about chivalry, or glory, it was about battle brothers doing whatever they had to in order to protect what they loved and each other.

  “No. People need heroes, even if you’ve got to make them up . . .” Madigan coughed. “The Sixth were real. Tell . . . their story.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  “Last . . . Deliver this message . . .” Madigan’s voice had become dangerously quiet, and Cleasby had to lean in close to hear his whispered final words. He listened carefully until Madigan trailed off into silence.

  Cleasby leaned back. Madigan was staring up at the sky. He removed his gauntlet so he could gently close his commanding officer’s eyes.

  The Protectorate troops were marching past in formation. Cleasby looked up to see the Knight Exemplar watching him. As the last of his men went by, the Exemplar moved on after them without a word. He had left a wagon and horses so the Storm Knights could carry home their wounded and their dead.

  It was one last show of respect between capable foes.

  Kelvan Cleasby patiently waited his turn. There were far more important people than him coming and going about the War Council. The uneasy armistice with the Prote
ctorate was holding, but already Khador had taken advantage of Cygnar’s distraction and stepped up their efforts in the north. Cryxians were raiding up and down the coast and had been spotted deeper inland in northern Cygnar. There was word that more of the trollkin kriels within their borders were in open revolt, and the skorne raiders were staging out of the Bloodstone Marches.

  These were dark times for the kingdom. As for Cleasby, he would go wherever they sent him, because that’s what you did when you were a soldier living in a time of war.

  The interior of the royal palace was more beautiful than he’d expected. This was a much better place to pass the time than the Barn. Because the Sixth was back up to a full complement of troops, it was rather crowded. His request for most of the original Malcontents to be returned had been granted, and they’d had a steady stream of new recruits and replacements to fill in the gaps.

  In fact, they’d lost only one man since the end of the war. One morning he’d woken up and found Acosta’s bunk empty and his kit missing. There had been a note. Let me know when you find another good war. I know you will.

  The Barn was also very loud, usually because of the hammering. Since Headhunter had been found in the rubble of the Great Dome, burned but still mostly in one piece and with a functioning cortex, Pangborn had been working on that undying warjack around the clock. This time, though, he had the army’s blessing, a couple of gobber assistants, and actual parts. Their ’jack was looking pretty good, complete with the Protectorate Reckoner’s severed head added to its chain.

  An aide approached. “He will receive you now.”

  Cleasby swallowed nervously, gathered up his gift, and followed the woman into the council room.

  King Leto Raelthorne was not well. That much was obvious. Though months had passed, the severe wound he’d taken while fighting Hierarch Voyle was not yet healed even with the ministrations of the finest physicians in all of Caspia. Cleasby could only assume the business of rebuilding a city and fortifying a nation could not wait, so Leto pushed on despite the pain, just like any other servant of Cygnar.

  “Lieutenant Kelvan Cleasby, Sixth Platoon of the 47th Storm Knights Company,” the aide announced.

  Cleasby entered and then knelt before his sovereign as he had been instructed. He’d never dreamed he would meet his king—and especially not under these circumstances. There was no pomp, no banners or trumpets, and especially no fancy throne room with the trappings of the kingdom. He was grateful for that. They were in a simple conference room, and the king sat in a regular chair at a table with a map of Cygnar upon it.

  “Please, be seated, Lieutenant.” Leto gestured at another chair.

  Cleasby did as he was told, careful to keep the bundle gripped tightly under his arm so it wouldn’t unravel. “It is an honor, your majesty.”

  Leto looked younger than he expected, though recent events had surely worn him thin. “I’ve already been briefed by Scout General Rebald about Groller Culpin’s plot and what happened at the Great Dome. The kingdom is thankful for your actions. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for your platoon.”

  Cleasby smiled. It wasn’t just because of his love of history and his interest in architecture that made him glad he’d kept this place from burning to the ground. “It was really Lieutenant Madigan’s platoon then.”

  Leto nodded slowly. “I am not normally so forthcoming on a matter of so personal a nature, but you are aware of my history with Sir Madigan?”

  “I believe I am.”

  The king seemed distant. Surely, rising up against his tyrannical brother had to still weigh on him. “Madigan was simply following the orders of his king, but he took from me a very dear friend and a family of whom I was deeply fond. It was only after a great deal of thought and reflection that I granted Madigan amnesty along with the other loyalists. I felt it was for the best if the kingdom moved past those events as quickly as possible.”

  “You thought about executing him but didn’t want to be thought of as a vengeful king,” Cleasby said. Sadly, he still suffered from speaking before thinking. Leto frowned. “Forgive me, your majesty. I don’t mean to speak out of turn.”

  Leto chuckled. “I’ve heard you can be a painfully honest man, Lieutenant. Yes. Madigan followed orders, but those orders wounded me to my core. He stole the lives of my good friends, and that’s a difficult thing for a king to let go.”

  “You are a good man, your majesty, but so was Madigan in his own way. His loyalty to his men and to Cygnar was unflinching.”

  The king gave him a very tired smile. “For today, your recent service has bought you a bit of leeway in your honesty, Lieutenant. Please, carry on.”

  “Thank you, your majesty.” They had already pinned a medal on his chest, but he and the king both knew that wasn’t why Cleasby had been summoned to the palace. “I’ve come bearing a message.”

  “I was told you were rather insistent that you would give it to me alone.”

  “I promised Madigan, and he gave it to me with his dying breath.” Cleasby paused and looked the King of Cygnar square in the eyes. “He told me to tell you . . . I am sorry.”

  Surprised, Leto blinked a few times. The blinking became faster. He put one hand over his mouth, and then the king had to look away for a moment to collect himself.

  “That was his entire message, your majesty. I am sorry to have troubled you, but I made a promise to a dying man.”

  Leto bit his lip, trying to conceal his emotions. “Thank you, Lieutenant. That will be all.”

  Cleasby stood and took the rolled banner from under his arm. “I know it is unworthy, but on behalf of the men of the Sixth, I’d like to give you this standard as a gift.” He unfurled it and set it on the table.

  Sixth Platoon of the 47th Company.

  Madigan’s Malcontents.

  Most Storm Knight standards had more eloquent mottos, often long sayings relating to honor, duty, and valor or even quotes from kings or the wisdom of the ascendants, but the Malcontents’ motto consisted of a single word.

  Redemption.

  GLOSSARY

  Arcane Tempest, Militant Order of the: A branch of specialized and highly trained gun mages who serve in the Cygnaran Army after being trained at the Tempest Academy.

  archon: A holy angelic emissary of Morrow, said to be the soul of a deceased primarch. Archons may manifest to convey the will of Morrow, often conveyed through prophecy.

  Bainsmarket: The largest commercial hub in the north central region of Cygnar, located in a sizable fertile valley within the Dragonspire Peaks.

  Brisbane, Markus “Siege”: A major and warcaster in the Cygnaran Army with a long and highly decorated service record. Nicknamed “Siege” after earning a reputation for demolishing enemy fortifications.

  Caine, Allister: An infamous gun mage and warcaster in the Cygnaran Army with a reputation as a loner, a drifter, and a scoundrel. Unknown to most of his superior officers, he sometimes performs secret missions for the Cygnaran Reconnaissance Service.

  Caspian battle blade: A traditional wide, hefty double-edged blade suited for slashing and cleaving and descended from cleaving swords used by Caspians for many centuries.

  Cinten: The fifth month of the standard calendar of the Iron Kingdoms and Rhul, named after ancient Priest-King Cinot. This month is called Cinotes in the Protectorate calendar and Odul in the Rhulic calendar.

  Creator, the: See Menoth.

  CRS/Cygnaran Reconnaissance Service: Cygnar’s foremost intelligence-gathering body, which has the dual purpose of gathering military reconnaissance and spying on potential enemies both foreign and domestic. Most members are army rangers serving alongside other soldiers, while higher officers are agents supervising a large network of spies, contacts, and informants.

  Daughters of the Flame: An insular order in the Protectorate that reports directly to Feora and operates as the covert strike force of the military. Many of its core members count husbands, parents, or siblings among the thousands of soldiers
who have died in defense of the Menite faith.

  Defender: A formidable heavy Cygnaran warjack that entered service in 564 AR as a modification of the older Ironclad chassis. Its signature weapon is an intrinsic heavy barrel cannon offering unprecedented range and accuracy.

  deliverers: One of the mainstay ranged units of the Protectorate military, deliverers are easily replaceable troops armed with reinforced cylindrical tubes capable of launching Skyhammer rockets.

  Dragonfather/Dragon Lord: See Toruk, Lord.

  Engines East: A designer and manufacturer of machinery and steamjack chassis based in the Cygnaran city of Corvis. Widely respected for having designed the Ironclad warjack as well as the more recent Cyclone.

  Fort Falk: One of the largest of Cygnar’s eastern border fortresses and a major training facility for both trenchers and Storm Knights serving the Cygnaran Army.

  Fraternal Order of Wizardry: The foremost civilian arcane order in western Immoren, notable for its occult research and the production of steamjack cortexes. Most of its wealth and power derive from cortex production, both for commercial industry and to serve military contracts in Ord and Cygnar as well as formerly in Llael.

  gorax: Hulking, primitive creatures with long arms ending in oversized claws and faces distinguished by protruding jaws filled with fangs suited to tearing through flesh and bone alike. Gorax are known to appreciate the taste of human flesh, and some prefer it over all other fare.

  Great Crusade: The ongoing campaign initiated in 605 AR by Hierarch Voyle to unite all of western Immoren’s humanity in the worship of Menoth under the dominion of the Protectorate clergy.

  Great Fathers: The divine pantheon of the Rhulic people who are regarded by Rhulfolk as their actual and literal progenitors. Each of the ruling Stone Clans of Rhul is named after one of the thirteen Great Fathers.

  Great Temple of the Creator: The center of Menite worship in Sul and one of the most impressive temples in western Immoren. The exterior of the temple is a large step pyramid while the interior is a vast cathedral.