INTO THE STORM
LARRY CORREIA
Cover by
MARCO MAZZONI
CONTENTS
MAP
PART I: THE RECRUITERS
PART II: THE INVADERS
PART III: THE DEFENDERS
GLOSSARY
MAP
A knight of Cygnar follows a strict moral code. His integrity is beyond reproach, he conducts himself as a gentleman at all times whether dealing with friend or foe, and he values honor above all. For a man to be knighted by the King of Cygnar is to place the eyes of the entire kingdom upon him, as if to say, “Behold this stalwart hero, for he is all that a warrior should aspire to be.”
—Records of Chivalry by Lord Percival Rainworth 486 AR
PART I: THE RECRUITERS
Spring, 606 AR
He hadn’t been dealt a very good hand, but when you make a habit of gambling with your life, you learned to make your own luck.
Considering that the tavern was a seedy little place on the outskirts of a tiny village deep in the Thornwood, it was fairly crowded. The patrons were rough folk, gathered here to spend their ill-gotten gains on poor quality ale, bad food, and ugly prostitutes. The tavern was the center of a lawless, wild settlement. The entire village consisted of a handful of huts on stilts to keep them out of the mud, a flea-ridden stable, and this sorry excuse for a tavern. It was made of logs slowly being devoured by moss and was so ramshackle it didn’t even warrant a name. This place was still within the borders of Cygnar, but only in the loosest sense of where lines fell on a map. The village was a forgotten place and a haven for bandits, though he was only looking for one bandit in particular.
“You been pondering on those cards a long time . . . What’s your play, stranger?”
“I’m in. Knights over jacks.”
One of the other players scoffed. “Not bloody likely odds, that.”
“I’m feeling lucky.” He slid three farthings across the table “Give me one more.”
“Bold move, gambler.” The dealer shoved another card at him. He was a big, thick-armed man, with a bushy black beard that would make any Khadoran proud. The dealer matched the description of a certain bandit leader with a hefty price on his head. “If you’re so confident, how come only three coppers?”
“Well, after losing the last few rounds to you boys, I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got left to my name.”
“Times are lean,” the dealer agreed. His armored great coat opened a bit as he leaned back, revealing a holstered repeater. That confirmed every man at the table was packing at least one weapon, a reasonable precaution in the Thornwood. “You looking for work, gambler?”
The two other players exchanged knowing glances. Of course, they were all with the same gang, so they would know what was coming next. The Thornwood Blades needed recruits. He’d made sure he looked the part. These types always fit a certain mold.
The gambler picked up the card. It was the Black Knight. Appropriate. “I’m between jobs.”
“You strike me as a fella that knows how to handle himself.” The dealer gestured at the Caspian battle blade leaning against their table. “Seems like that sword has seen some use.”
“A bit.” He looked down at his sword. The metal grip had been polished smooth by hundreds of hours beneath callused hands. The cross guard was nicked and dented from countless impacts. “It’s gotten me by.”
“You’re a sight older than most of my men, but I figure a fella don’t get to be your age wandering around places like this without knowing how to take of himself. Marks on your face say you’re no stranger to getting cut.” The dealer ran his finger across his jawline, or at least where he probably had a jaw under all of that beard. “There’s work to be had here, good work, if you’ve got the guts for it.”
“When there’s enough crowns involved, I find the guts.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Their current round of Fellig’s Fortunes was forgotten. Their hands of cards were laid on the table, and now it was time to talk business. The dealer leaned over the table conspiratorially, though everybody in the tavern either already knew or suspected his identity, and they were all too crooked themselves to try and collect a bounty. “The name’s Devlin. You heard of me?”
Devlin Norwick. Leader of the Thornwood Blades. Killer of men, women, and children. “Can’t say that I have, but I’m just passing through.”
“My trade is on the roads to the east. Take what I want. Make a tidy profit doing so. Locals get a piece too, so they’re keen on keeping us around. I’ve got an outfit, and I could always use a good swordsman. I’m short a few hands—”
One of the other bandits loudly interrupted. “Only because of that bastard Madigan killing them!”
Devlin just shook his head. “We’ll deal with him in time, Rolf.”
But the outburst had attracted the attention of some of the other patrons, who had begun muttering as well. The name seemed to be well known by many of the local cutthroats and invoked either nervousness or anger.
“Madigan, eh? Never heard of him either. He seems like a beloved sort.”
“Sir Madigan. Cygnaran Army. He’s been hunting our gang all up and down the Thornwood. Latches on like a war dog and won’t let go.”
Another bandit pounded the table for emphasis. “Makes life miserable for the workin’ man, he does!”
“Cage it, Nash,” Devlin ordered. The bandit shut his mouth. “We had us a nice arrangement with the authorities before this Madigan came along. Even the army don’t like him. They say he’s an evil type, brings bad luck wherever he goes. So they sent him out here to fight farrow or some scut work, but he had to go sticking his nose into other folks’ dealings. You know how them knights are.”
“Pushy know-it-alls, the lot of them,” he agreed. “But I’ve got an empty coin purse, an empty stomach, and an empty mug, so why don’t you buy us some dinner and a round of drinks, and tell me more about this job of yours, Mr. Devlin?”
“I like that attitu—”
“Attention, villagers!” The tavern fell silent as everyone turned to see who had shouted. The newcomer was a tall, handsome young man who was obviously, painfully out of place. Though his expensive wool great coat had recently picked up some traveling grime, it was probably the cleanest thing the tavern had ever seen. When he got a lungful of the thick smoke filling the room, he began to cough, then covered his mouth with a clean, white handkerchief. “Thank you. Pardon my interruption, villagers, but I am here to deliver an urgent message and would appreciate your assistance.”
The well-spoken young man might as well have entered holding a sign that read Rob me and leave my corpse in a ditch. Rolf turned to Devlin and whispered, “I reckon he’s not from around these parts.”
“I am looking for someone. I was told at the fort that I could find Lieutenant Hugh Madigan here.”
Bloody hell!
It was silent for a long few seconds, and then nearly everyone in the room began to laugh uproariously.
“What’s so funny?” The room was uncomfortably hot from the roaring fireplace, so the newcomer unbuttoned his great coat, revealing the bright blue uniform of the Cygnaran Army. The laughter slowly died and hands moved toward guns or blades as the patrons realized this was no joke. “This is no laughing matter. I have an important message for Lieutenant Madigan.”
“Sorry, young sir.” The tavern owner approached cautiously. “I think you’ve got the wrong place and should be going now before anything bad happens.”
“Bad? What? This is important. Once again, I’m looking for Lieutenant Hugh Madigan, Third Platoon, 22nd Company. I’ve got priority orders straight from Corvis.”
“Ha, ha! Yes, very amusing.” The proprietor took the young man by
the sleeve, trying to hustle him out the door before his establishment had yet another killing inside of it. “Please, sir. Right this way.”
“Are you daft, man?” The oblivious soldier pushed the tavern owner away. “I’m Sergeant Cleasby, and I’m on important business on behalf of the crown. This is a priority. You probably don’t get that much out here in the backwoods.”
“Hold on, now!” shouted a rat-faced man from the opposite corner. “What’s all this about Madigan being here?”
“I was told the lieutenant was in this village hunting for a bandit gang.”
Oh, you dithering imbecile. The gambler reached slowly for his sword. The bandits in the room were glancing about nervously now. The tavern owner retreated for safety.
“I’ve not met him, but he was described as being in his late forties, in excellent health, of average height, grey haired . . .” Sergeant Cleasby was glancing about the room as well but found he was the only person dressed in blue and gold. “He may not be in uniform.”
Devlin turned to study the newest addition to their game of Fellig’s Fortunes.
“He is a swordsman of some renown, favors a Caspian blade . . . Let’s see, what else?”
Rolf and Nash turned to stare at the big sword leaning against the table. Devlin’s eyes narrowed dangerously, then he shook his head slowly in the negative. “Easy there, gambler,” Devlin whispered. “Let’s hear the lad out.”
He stopped reaching for his sword and calmly placed his hands on his lap. There was bad luck, and then there was military incompetence. The two often went hand in hand.
“Oh yes, Madigan has distinctive scars on his face from the Scharde Invasions, sustained in an action for which he received the Star of Valor and knighthood—”
“Where’s these scars on his face at, boy?” Rolf asked as he pulled the hand cannon from his belt.
“Boy?” Cleasby grew indignant. “How dare—”
“Where are the scars?” Devlin demanded.
Several other men had risen from their seats. Knives and guns had been drawn. Many eyes were now focused on Devlin’s table and followed his gaze. Madigan had been a plague on every bandit in this part of the Thornwood for months. Other toughs were approaching Cleasby, who only now was realizing what he had blundered into. Cleasby raised his hands defensively as several weapons were pointed his way. “Gentlemen, calm down, please . . . I must have the wrong village. I’ll be on my way.”
This time Devlin roared. “Where are Madigan’s scars?”
Cleasby swallowed hard. “On his cheek and jaw.”
Everyone in the tavern was looking at him now. The gambler’s eyes flashed back and forth, a movement most would take for fear but a few would recognize as an experienced combatant assessing every potential threat. There were a lot of threats.
Devlin grinned, showing off blackened teeth. “Pleasure to meet you finally, Sir Madigan. Good thing you got yourself uglied up to such a noteworthy degree.”
“I was marked by a Satyxis whip. Left me a face only a mother could love.” The gambler’s voice was cold, and he no longer sounded like a hungry bandit, but rather a commander of men. “Devlin Norwick, in the name of the crown, I hereby arrest you for murder, banditry, general lawlessness, and the theft of military supplies. Surrender your arms and stand down. Resist and I’ll kill you.”
“By yourself?”
“What do you think, Devlin?”
“I think if you’d brought help, they would’ve stopped this idiot from coming in here and mouthing off.” Devlin moved his head from side to side, making a big show of taking in the many well-armed and surly patrons. “You’re as mad as they say, coming in here alone, demanding my surrender.”
“I’ll take that as a no. Sergeant Cleasby, take these men into custody.”
“Uh . . .” The young soldier had been surrounded by a few members of the Thornwood Blades and was slowly being backed into a corner. “That’ll be just a moment, sir!”
“I’ll hand it to you, old man. You’ve got a pair on you.” Devlin chuckled. The great battle blade was still sheathed, resting against the table, only a foot from Madigan. Devlin eyed the sword. “But nobody’s that fast.”
Madigan raised his voice so every occupant of the tavern could hear him clearly. “I’m only here for Devlin Norwick. He’s not worth dying for. I don’t give a damn about the rest of you or what you may have done, but if you raise so much as a finger in my way, I swear I will begin to give a damn, and none of us want that.”
Devlin’s snarl displayed his rotten teeth. “Shoot him, Rolf. Shoot the knight in his big, stupid mouth.”
Rolf lifted the hand cannon.
POP.
The noise came from beneath the table. Rolf gasped as the bullet hit him in the pelvis.
When you leave a big sword in the open, people tended to focus on it rather than on the tiny hideout pistol hidden in your coat sleeve. Madigan dropped the pistol, stuck his hands beneath the heavy wooden table, and flipped it end over end, throwing cards, money, and drinks in every direction. Devlin was faster than he looked and managed to get mostly out of the way. Nash stumbled, tangling his feet with his chair. Distracted by pain, Rolf fired. His single heavy round blew a hole through the table before pulverizing several bricks of the fireplace. Madigan went for his sword.
The entire room had exploded into motion, but for Madigan time seemed to slow to a crawl. His blade was falling toward the ground. Devlin was going for his repeating pistol and represented the most imminent threat. Nash was still toppling backward. Thugs were rushing Cleasby, who was now in a full-blown retreat. There were a dozen other potential combatants in the tavern, but they weren’t committed yet. The best way to convince them to stay that way would be a show of overwhelming force.
The bandit leader had been right about one thing: you didn’t get to his age in a world like this without learning how to take care of yourself.
Madigan caught his sword by the handle and tugged, freeing three feet of hardened steel from the sheath in one practiced motion. He struck. The muzzle of Devlin’s repeater was coming his way, but Devlin cried out as the sword split his hand in half. The pistol went flying.
Nash hit the ground on his back but didn’t lose his grip on his pistol. The Caspian battle blade was designed for slashing rather than stabbing, but it made no difference when the wide, rounded point was driven with a great deal of force into a fallen opponent’s trachea. Nash made a horrible gurgling noise as he died.
Devlin stumbled away, holding his ruined hand to his chest, blood pouring down his arm. “Get him!” The command was pointless, as the other Thornwood Blades had already launched themselves in Madigan’s direction.
He turned to intercept two new attackers. A tankard was flung at his head, but he simply knocked it aside with his sword. He stepped back, avoiding the clumsy lunge of a man with a dagger, then used the superior reach of his sword to counterattack low, striking for the leg. Flesh parted until the sword removed a chunk of bone. The bandit howled and collapsed as his ruined leg buckled beneath him.
The second man had a banded club. Extremely strong, he struck with great enthusiasm. Strength and enthusiasm were no match for experience, however; with a flick of the wrist Madigan deflected the club to the side and then sliced through the bandit’s throat on the backswing. He was searching for the next threat long before the club-wielding bandit realized his life was pouring down his shirt.
The hideout pistol wasn’t a particularly powerful firearm, so Rolf was still alive. The hand cannon was broken open, and the wounded bandit was struggling to shove a fresh paper case into the chamber with badly shaking hands. Madigan brought the sword down on Rolf’s head, ending another wretched existence.
Devlin had spied his dropped pistol and was reaching for it with his uninjured hand when Madigan simply lopped it off at the wrist.
In trained hands, the Caspian blade was faster than it looked.
Only a few seconds had passed. Five men were dea
d or dying. The one with the leg wound was a noisy one, but that sent a message to the crowd. Many of the other low-life scum had pulled their weapons, but the example had been set, and none of them felt like risking their lives on behalf of the Thornwood Blades. The bandit leader stared in shock at his severed hand lying among the spilled food and broken mugs before slowly sinking to his knees. Madigan turned his attention back to Sergeant Cleasby.
He was surprised to find that the young man was actually a capable fighter. Cleasby had been attacked by three of the Thornwood Blades. One was lying on the floor, moaning, with a stab wound through the guts, while Cleasby was holding off the other two with a rapier. He fought quickly and efficiently, like a man who had some proper dueling instruction, and the only reason it wasn’t over yet was because a gentleman’s tutor would never spend time teaching how to take on multiple wastrels whose individual swordsmanship wasn’t fit to butcher a cow. Cleasby had ingrained skills, but he wasn’t used to combating savagery.
“An upper-class man.” Madigan shook his head as he righted a chair and sat down next to the stunned Devlin. “That explains his incredible lack of common sense. What say you, Devlin?” There was no answer. The bandit was still staring at his hand, the fight in his belly having escaped along with much of his blood. The grey of his skin and his shallow breathing suggested he would pass out in a few moments. “I suppose I should help him.” Madigan reached down, pried Devlin’s fingers off the repeater, and took up the gun. He picked one of the remaining bandits, carefully centered the front sight between the bandit’s shoulder blades, and pulled the trigger. The gun roared and the man went down.
Cleasby took advantage of the last fighter’s momentary distraction and ran him through the heart. That bandit made a surprised, almost embarrassed face before going limp and sliding to the floor. Cleasby looked nearly as surprised as the bandit, but at least he retained his sword.
Devlin was whispering something, so Madigan returned his attention to the bandit leader. “Speak up, man.”
“Took both my hands . . . If you’re takin’ me alive, you better do something quick.”