The others hesitated, looking to her. “Nicia?” one of them asked hesitantly. “Is this—”
“He must be the one . . . Wilkins.”
Like he’d said, Wilkins had killed a whole lot of husbands.
“That’s Sergeant Aiden Wilkins, Sixth Platoon, Madigan’s Malcontents, humble servant of holy Morrow, blessed be his name. Now come get some, you fanatics!” Wilkins charged with a roar.
Rains ran for it, hating himself every step of the way. He should have been there at his companion’s side, fighting until the end, even with his bare hands, but Wilkins was right. Culpin had to be stopped, and Rains had the better chance of making it to their platoon. Wilkins was willing to die to give him that chance. Lightning flashed, but he couldn’t risk the time to turn back to look. Damn them!
He made it to the next alley and turned right. This was one part of the city Rains had never been in, and it was a rat’s warren of narrow paths. He pointed himself in the direction of the Stormclad and pushed on with all his might. His lungs still had smoke in them, and it burned like an unholy fire pumping through his veins. The Daughters would be far swifter on foot than a man in plate armor, and he couldn’t afford to waste Wilkins’ sacrifice.
He caught a flash of blue metal on the other side of a wooden fence. “MacKay! Pangborn!” Rains shouted. He crashed through the gate and into the wider street. He waved his arms over his head. “Over here!”
They’d heard Wilkins’ galvanic discharge and were all on edge, ready to fight. One of the storm gunners appeared ready to shoot Rains—he’d not realized he was so dirty his colors couldn’t even be seen—but Pangborn cuffed the man on the helmet and made him lower the thrower. “That’s one of ours, idiot!”
“Rains!” MacKay called as he stumbled up to them. Headhunter shifted, but MacKay calmed the big ’jack. “We’ve been trying to find a path through this—”
“No time!” Rains gasped. He pointed back the way he’d come. “Squad of Daughters fighting Wilkins. That way. The rest of you, this way! Come on! I found Culpin.” He turned to run once more.
Nobody followed.
Some of the soldiers exchanged nervous glances, and he caught a few whispers.
“Menite . . . spy . . . apostate . . . trap . . .”
The suspicious refugee from the Protectorate was by himself. These men were cut off from their unit and their leadership. In a sad way, it was understandable.
Let them believe me. Please let them trust me. He didn’t even know who he was praying to, but pray he did.
The Stormguard looked to MacKay, and to his credit the old mechanik didn’t hesitate. “You heard the sergeant. Ten halberds and a thrower, go fetch Wilkins. The rest of you get behind Headhunter!” He clapped his hands and the mighty Stormclad perked up, severed ’jack heads jangling from chains. MacKay made a few simple hand gestures, then pointed. “Full speed, boy! Charge up.”
Thank you, MacKay. Thank you.
“Where’s this fire bombing bastard at, lad?”
“This way!”
There weren’t very many of them now. The platoon had been divided and divided again. Only a handful of them remained, and they were going after several Exemplars, an arcane mechanik, and a ’jack of unknown capabilities. Still, they had the heavy-hitting Stormclad, and hopefully that would be enough.
By the time they caught up, Rains was exhausted. Fighting and running in plate was exhausting, especially when your lungs were filled with poison, but he wasn’t going to fail. He owed it to Wilkins for saving his life, and he owed it to Madigan for giving him a chance. He caught sight of black smoke rising over one of the tenements, a sure sign of the enemy ’jack. MacKay saw it as well and gestured for Headhunter to move up.
They were close now. The enemy ’jack was right on the other side of this building. Once they reached the end of the street the two forces would be right on top of each other. Rains saw a lead pipe lying in the gutter and picked it up. It was no storm glaive, but it was a better weapon than his fists.
MacKay took one look at the size of his force and made a decision. “I’ll take Headhunter ’round first. He’ll take the heat, then the rest of you rush up while they’re distracted.”
“That puts you in a lot of danger,” Rains said.
“You might outrank me, lad, but I was doing this sort of thing before you were born.” MacKay turned to Pangborn. “If I go down, Headhunter will listen to you. Got that, boy?”
“Better not go down then, old man,” Pangborn answered.
“Ha! You sound like Madigan. Let’s go, Headhunter.”
Headhunter seemed as excited as MacKay. It lumbered up the street, galvanic blade glowing with stored energy. MacKay was behind it, staying close so it could hear his commands. Rains gave the Stormclad a bit of a head start and then waved for the rest of the squad to move out.
The strange enemy ’jack was waiting for them right in the middle of the intersection. It held its stubby arms at its side, seemingly at rest. Its handler and the Exemplar knights were nowhere to be seen.
Headhunter charged without being told.
“It’s a trap!” Rains shouted. “Get down!” The Stormguard threw themselves to the ground.
“Stop! Stop!” MacKay shouted at their Stormclad, gesturing madly. But it was too late.
Headhunter covered the distance in seconds. The enemy ’jack didn’t even try to get out of the way; it just stood there, its fate sealed, as Headhunter swung its mighty galvanic blade. The huge sword cleaved easily through one of the fuel tanks. Vapor spilled free. Lightning struck.
And the world was consumed in fire.
Madigan had been looking for the rest of Sixth Platoon, eager to get back to their lines and cursing himself as a fool, when the red fireball rolled into the sky.
The sick feeling in his gut told him things had just gotten worse.
It took them fifteen minutes of navigating narrow roads to reach the scene. Sergeant Rains was barely recognizable in his charred armor, but he gave an exhausted salute when he saw Madigan, then tried to give his report. The sergeant was shell-shocked and having trouble focusing, but one thing was clear: the news was bad.
There was a black circle where the Protectorate ’jack had detonated. Its torso had been blown to bits that lay spread across the intersection. Headhunter’s whole body had been burned an ashen black, but remarkably, it was still standing. It even appeared to be running, though something had snapped in its galvanic weapon and a continuous blue shower of sparks fell from it whenever the ’jack twitched.
Headhunter was standing protectively over a kneeling blue form. From the sheer size of the man, Madigan knew it was Pangborn. The giant was cradling someone in his arms.
“No . . .”
“He knew we were coming,” Rains said. “He knew it, and he left this ’jack as a suicide bomb. It was fire, sir. So much fire. Most of us got out of the way.”
Madigan went over and placed one hand on Pangborn’s shoulder. The big man looked up, tears cutting paths through his soot-blackened face. “He got burned bad, sir.”
MacKay was still alive, but barely. Madigan sank to the ground next to him. The old mechanik had been blinded, and his skin was blackened and blistered. “I’m sorry, old friend,” Madigan said.
MacKay slowly stretched out one damaged hand and placed it on Madigan’s arm, and then he was dead.
He’d been killed on Madigan’s fool errand. One of his oldest friends, who should’ve been retired and doting on his grandchildren, was dead, all because Madigan had brought him into this cursed unit . . . But there would be time for doubt and second-guessing later.
“We’ve got to save him, sir,” Pangborn said.
“He’s gone, Nestor,” Madigan told him softly. The big man began to sob. Headhunter leaned forward, confused. Blue sparks fell on MacKay’s body. “Listen to me, son. We’ll grieve later. Right now we need to evacuate back to our lines before we lose anybody else.”
“We’re not leaving him here!” Pangb
orn shouted.
“Of course not. We’re taking MacKay back to Caspia if I have to carry him myself. But right now, you’re the only one who can get Headhunter moving. That’s what Neel would’ve expected of you. Do you understand me?”
Pangborn’s eyes were squeezed shut tight, but he jerked his head in the affirmative.
“Good man.” Madigan thumped him on the shoulder. “Now get going.”
Pangborn gently lowered MacKay’s body, then rose and began gesturing at Headhunter. The ’jack responded with jerky, sluggish movements. Its shield arm was dangling useless and broken, but it could still walk, and that was the important thing.
They needed to get moving. They had wounded, they were deep in Protectorate territory, and the enemy knew their exact location. “Gather your squads,” Madigan called, looking around. He had Rains and Cleasby, but he was missing a squad leader. “Where’s Wilkins?”
A Stormguard approached, carrying something. It was a blood-stained Precursor shield. “Sorry, sir. When we got there, this was all there was. They carried off his body.”
Rains snatched the shield away from the soldier, too stunned to speak. He stared at the symbol of Morrow for what seemed an eternity.
“Sergeant Rains, gather your men and see to Wilkins’ squad. Now!”
He snapped to. “Yes, sir!”
“Damn it! Where’s Cleasby?” Madigan spotted the scholar standing in the center of the smoking black circle, studying it. He strode over. There was no time for useless pondering now. “Cleasby, get your men and move out!”
Cleasby seemed distracted. “This isn’t right.”
“Of course it isn’t. I made a bad call, and we lost,” Madigan snapped.
“Not that. This explosion was too small. Everyone with Rains should’ve been killed. Headhunter should’ve been destroyed. This was just leftover vapors. The ’jack’s tanks were already empty.”
“You mean . . . ?”
“The water tower was never the target. Culpin dumped the mixture somewhere else. He was on his way back when Rains saw him. Culpin must have spotted them or been warned and left this thing to stop pursuit. He didn’t fight to save it because its job was already done.” Cleasby turned slowly, looking at the surrounding buildings. “The alchemical process is most certainly at work as we speak. He’s probably watching now, waiting to observe his handiwork.”
“Then where did—”
It was like the distant crash of thunder. Every head turned simultaneously in the direction of the noise. A wall of flame seemed to rise above the buildings far to the northeast, stretching for at least a block, before the entire scene disappeared behind the spreading curtain of smoke.
“That was close to the front!” Madigan snarled. “Move out!”
After the explosion the Protectorate had launched their counterattack. That had led to three days of brutal combat, but ultimately they had failed to dislodge Cygnar’s hold on the western half of Sul. The leadership had been too busy to see to his punishment during that time, but there had been a lull in the fighting, so now it was time to see to the inevitable.
Madigan entered the canvas tent where he had been summoned to meet with Captain Schafer and their superior officer, Commander Bradher, less than half a mile from the Great Temple of the Creator in Sul. The soldiers who had been sent to escort him entered as well and took positions on either side of the entrance. Madigan approached the officers and offered a crisp salute. Schafer sneered as he returned the salute. Bradher’s responding salute was quick and to the point; the man was all business. What that would mean for Madigan, he had no idea.
“At ease, Lieutenant,” the commander said. “Take a seat.”
Madigan took one of the simple chairs set before the table where Bradher was working. The table was covered with files, reports, and communications both to and from the war office in Caspia. Schafer leaned against another similarly burdened table nearby, his arms crossed and a smug expression on his face. This was almost certainly his doing.
Bradher’s assistant handed him a sheaf of papers, which he took with a grim expression and set before him. “Lieutenant Madigan, I’ve been reading about you. I was hoping you could explain your actions as commanding officer of the Sixth Platoon of the 47th Storm Knights in the invasion of Sul. Captain Schafer here asserts that you disobeyed his orders in moving your platoon into the city.”
When Madigan gave no reply, Bradher continued, “Information provided by Major Laddermore indicates you made that decision on your own, knowing full well it was not within your assignment. In fact, Lieutenant, it would appear you abandoned your assigned post and took your platoon behind enemy lines on a wild goose chase. Is this correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Madigan answered. Laddermore’s report had been neutral and completely truthful; in fact, this was exactly why he had sent her a communication taking all responsibility for his actions. Schafer’s report, however, had savaged him. He could only imagine the captain would be pushing for a court-martial as soon as it could be arranged. “I do not dispute those facts.”
“I would expect such overenthusiastic foolishness from a green officer, not a seasoned veteran.” Bradher was a stern leader with no patience for the frivolous. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. There wasn’t a man in the Storm Division who wasn’t mentally exhausted at this point of the campaign. “During this unauthorized excursion you lost twenty percent of your men, including one of your NCOs.”
“Sergeant Wilkins is missing in action.”
The commander shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I’m afraid Sergeant Wilkins was spotted during the last offensive, upon a Protectorate wrack. He’s gone.”
“Wracked?” Madigan’s composure broke for the first time as he thought of the loyal soldier strung up on one of the horrific Protectorate torture devices. It was a terrible way to die. He looked down.
“I am sorry.” Bradher leafed through his notes. “When there was a detonation of an unknown incendiary device beneath First Platoon’s position, killing Lieutenant Griggs and forty of her soldiers, your platoon was nowhere to be found.”
“No, sir. I mean, the device isn’t unknown . . . You have my report.”
Schafer made a contemptuous snort but said nothing. Biding his time, thought Madigan. He’s in his element now.
“Yes, I do. And I have the official report that says Groller Culpin has been dead for twelve years. Forgive me if the word of the CRS carries a little more weight than that of an exhausted soldier in a long offensive. They are studying the scene now to ascertain the nature of this device so we can be prepared for it in the future. Don’t worry, Lieutenant, we won’t be caught unawares again.”
Madigan nodded. He’d heard the rumors. Word of his assertion had spread, and right behind it was the speculation that he’d never even thought he saw Culpin, that the whole scenario was a fabrication, an attempted justification for his own lack of judgment.
Bradher leaned back in his chair. “Lord Commander Stryker is preparing for one last offensive. This campaign has been far more difficult than expected. We’ve flooded this city with tens of thousands of troops and drained our coffers, and yet these Menites dig in like ticks, and after months, when we’re finally within striking distance of their great temple, you pull this? What were you thinking?”
“You have my report,” Madigan stated flatly.
“I must admit, I am astounded. I’d heard of your exploits, Lieutenant Madigan; you’re an infamous man. When I found out Major Laddermore had given you this assignment, I for one expected your platoon to be a joke. We have over nine thousand Storm Knights in this division now, and you got the worst of the worst among them. Yet somehow you inspired a group of borderline convicts and drunkards to fight like the king’s personal guard.” The commander sighed. “Don’t you have anything to say in your defense?”
“You have my report,” he said again.
“You realize the potential penalty for disobeying a direct order durin
g wartime includes hanging?”
“I do.”
Bradher chuckled. “I’d heard you were a hard one, but I had no idea. I don’t want to court-martial someone knighted by a king, Lieutenant. Give me something to work with.”
Madigan pressed his lips in a line, then said, “Here is my defense: Groller Culpin is alive. I saw him with my own eyes. Do not underestimate this man, Commander. He’d see the kingdom burn, and he’s smart enough to pull it off. Some may say I’ve brought back a villain from Cygnar’s past in an attempt to excuse my own actions.” He glared at Schafer. “They would be incorrect. I accept my mistakes, sir. Culpin may have been present, but I am the one who gave the order to burn the Hartcliff manor during the coup. Not Culpin. Me.”
“That’s not why we’re here, Lieutenant.”
“I believe it is. Because I watched that madman dance with joy while his flames consumed innocent children. I know him. I understand him. The army needs to understand him as well, or the entire nation will pay the price. Sir.”
Schafer stood up. “Enough of your delusions!” he snapped. “It was my First Platoon that was killed by that Menite bomb, yet you still seek to blame it on a ghost.”
“Culpin doesn’t give a damn about the Protectorate cause, and he’d rather spit in Menoth’s eye than bend his knee. He cares about revenge. In Culpin’s mind, King Leto ruined his life, and I promise you he’s kept that thought in mind for twelve long years.”
“Culpin? Or you, Madigan?” Schafer said, growing red-faced. “Someone like you should never have been given the honor of a Stormblade command. You are a disgrace to the very concept of knighthood! You think Vinter’s folly in knighting you makes you special? You think it makes you one of us? You are a fraud and a villain, and you make others pay with their lives just to serve your vanity.”
Of course, he would never be seen as one of “Leto’s Boys.” He noted that Bradher watched the exchange with steepled fingers, clearly weighing every word. He had one last chance to make him pay attention to this very real threat.
“Then allow me to demonstrate my conviction,” Madigan said coldly. “Commander Bradher, I hereby give up my title and lands and forsake the commission bestowed upon me by King Vinter Raelthorne.”