Into the Storm

  “For a second I thought you’d gone all mushy on us, big fella,” Thorny said. “I’m sick of herding refugees. I’m with you.”

  Rains smiled. “What do you want us to do, Lieutenant?” he asked again.

  Cleasby felt a huge sense of relief. “Thank you . . . Get back to the Barn. Rains, give the remaining men the choice to come or not, but be sure to let them know there’s no shame in saying no to this mission. Thornbury, beg, borrow, or steal any piece of equipment we’re short of. I don’t care if you have to rob the quartermaster’s office at gunpoint.”

  Thornbury saluted. “I like you more all the time, Cleasby.”

  “What about me?” Pangborn asked.

  “The mechaniks said he was only good for scrap, but I’ve noticed you’ve never given up on Headhunter.”

  “I figured that’s what this unit was all about, sir.”

  “Damned right it is. Is he ready?”

  “I’m not half the mechanik—or man—that Neel MacKay was, but I swear Headhunter will make him proud. You’ve got my word.”

  “Fire him up then. I’ll meet you at the Barn as soon as I can.” Cleasby began running the other direction.

  “What are you going to do?” Rains called after him.

  “I’m getting this platoon’s leader back.”

  A door banged open. “You can’t go in there!” one of the guards shouted.

  Madigan sat up on his cot. His head was clear for the first time in days. The fever had broken. He was starving, dehydrated, and dizzy, but he was coherent. He rubbed his face in his hands and found a week’s worth of beard.

  “Sir! Please, you can’t—”

  “I’ve got orders from Major Laddermore. Madigan is to be remanded into my custody immediately.”

  Cleasby?

  “Sorry, Lieutenant Cleasby. All of the prisoners are to be transferred to a stockade outside of the city as soon as our wagons get here. We’ve not been informed about moving one in particular. Do you have the proper forms?”

  “Forms? Forms? Are you daft, man? Look outside. The city is about to fall and Voyle is marching through the city shattering everything in his way, and you think our commanders have time to fill out paperwork?”

  “I’m sorry. If you’ll just wait a minute we’ll send a runner and—”

  “We don’t have minutes. This is war. You hear how close those Skyhammers are? If one falls on this building and kills Major Laddermore’s prisoner, it will be on your head . . .” There was a pause as a nameplate on a desk was read. “Corporal Ludwig. You will be personally responsible for hurting the defenses of the city in our direst hour. Wrap your head around that, Corporal. You won’t be guarding a cell, you’ll be in one, and that’s if you’re lucky and she doesn’t just leave you to the Protectorate. Do you understand?” Another pause. “Excellent. Now where is my prisoner?”

  He heard the rattle of a ring of keys being taken from its peg on the wall. Light flooded the corridor as another door was thrown wide. A very nervous guard walked quickly to Madigan’s cell and unlocked it. “Sir?” the guard asked. “Are you awake?”

  He managed to stand and was spared the indignity of falling over. “I heard the exchange.”

  “Your fever has passed. Thank Solovin. I was afraid I’d come down here and find you dead,” the guard whispered. “And then that lieutenant would have me flogged!”

  “Best keep your head down. I hear Cleasby’s a hard one,” Madigan agreed as the guard led him out.

  The guard was ashamed. “We called for physicians and priests, but they were all too busy—”

  “No need to apologize. You did your best with what you had.” The sunlight in the main room was blinding. Madigan lifted one shaking hand to shield his eyes.

  “You are to come with me, prisoner. Major Laddermore needs to speak with you, immediately.” Cleasby went to take him roughly by the arm but then saw the filthy state of his clothing and gestured at the door instead. They went down the steps as fast as Madigan could manage. “I must say, you’re in a rather disheveled state, sir.”

  “They actually made you lieutenant? Spend a few months in prison and everything falls apart.”

  “My promotion should tell you how poorly the war effort is going. This way. We’ve got to get to the Barn.”

  “So all that about Laddermore wanting to speak to me . . .”

  “I made it up. I’m breaking you out of prison. Now walk quickly before the guards decide to confirm my story.”

  Madigan chuckled. “And to think, I asked for you to be assigned to me because I thought it might be helpful to have a conscience.”

  The military district was in a state of pandemonium. The two of them passed through the main gate without incident, but then Cleasby chose a smaller side street. For once, Madigan was the one who had to struggle to keep up.

  “As you’re well aware, normally I’d be rather flustered at the idea of breaking so many regulations, but I’m fully not expecting to live through the day. I believe I’ve figured out Groller Culpin’s objective.”

  “He means to do something terrible to Caspia. I knew that’s why I’d be freed.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Lord Durham told me as much during one of his visits.”

  Cleasby stopped in the middle of the street with a quizzical look on his face. “Lord Durham, the retired general? He visited you in the brig?”

  “Yes. We used to serve together. He kept me company while I suffered from the fever sickness.”

  “Recently.”

  “In the last few days. Why?”

  “We’ve got to get some food and drink in you.” Cleasby tilted his head to the side. “You’re not well.”

  “I’ll be fine. And you’d be a terrible card player, with a face that betrays emotions so easily. What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know how to tell you this. Lord Durham is gone. He took up his sword again when the Protectorate broke into Caspia. He was killed defending his estate in East Gate.”

  “That can’t be . . .”

  “Lord Durham has been dead for weeks.”

  Madigan took a deep breath and steadied himself. Durham had been real. They’d spoken one to another, just as he and Cleasby were speaking now. Durham couldn’t be dead. Still, he’d had stranger things happen in his life. “Forgive me. It must have been the fever dreams, then. I’m fine now. Where’s Culpin?”

  “On the wrong side of an army of Protectorate soldiers. You don’t seem surprised.”

  “If it were easy, you wouldn’t have needed me, lad.”

  There were only nine men waiting at the Barn when they arrived.

  “Suicide mission or not, I was hoping more of them would have stepped up,” Madigan whispered.

  “The army has picked us clean for replacements. This is all that’s left of the Sixth . . . and it appears they’ve volunteered to the last man.”

  “Impressive,” Madigan said loudly enough for them all to hear. The men looked up to see their former commander standing at the gate, filthy, unkempt, and dressed in rags. “Hello, lads.”

  “The lieutenant’s back!” A cheer went up that would have been loud enough to scare the livestock, if they hadn’t already been slaughtered to feed the army.

  “How’s that supposed to make me feel?” Cleasby asked in mock indignation.

  Madigan gave them a sharp salute. The men returned it as one. He lowered his arm. “Status?”

  “The men are ready. Equipment and weapons are in top shape,” Rains reported.

  “It took a bit of trading is all,” Thornbury said. “No outright robbery.”

  “We’ve got rations for a single day.”

  “You’re not expecting to have to march back out?” Madigan asked.

  “No, sir,” Rains answered. “That’ll just slow us down.”

  “If we live, we’ll improvise.” He glanced over at MacKay’s old work area. Their Stormclad was in pitiable shape. Its armor was cracked and blackened,
and its shield arm was obviously useless. “How’s Headhunter?”

  “Better than he looks, sir. I learned from you that if I made him too pretty the army would want to take him back.”

  “It’s only got one arm.”

  “I couldn’t salvage the other one, but that’s his swinging arm.”

  “Neel would be pleased.” Madigan reached up and patted the big man on the shoulder. “Now, let’s go get some more heads for that necklace of his.”

  They had what amounted to a lone squad of Storm Knights, but they were eager for the fight. These men had been kept out of the battle for too long. He could see the eagerness in their eyes. They were hungry.

  “Fetch me some soap and water. I’ll not go to my death smelling like a junker who died in a scrap heap. Where’s my kit?” The men hurried to fetch his armor. “And get me some food I can eat while we march. I’ve forgotten the last time I had food.”

  “Do you need some time to rest up first?” Cleasby asked. “You look like death.”

  “And keep Culpin waiting? Everyone gather inside. Cleasby will brief you on the nature of the threat. I’ll address the platoon before we move out.”

  Madigan still felt like a shadow of himself. His body was weak, but he tried not to let it show. He couldn’t let these men see weakness in their leader, especially not right now. He washed himself in the freezing water of the old cow trough. The water seemed to give clarity to his thoughts. Lord Durham had been real; Madigan knew that as well as he knew anything. And if his old mentor had been real, he’d been sent back with a message.

  His reflection stared back at him, a shadow of what could have been, and Madigan remembered another moment like this, washing the blood from his face in a fountain on the grounds of the palace during a brief lull in the fighting during the Lion’s Coup. The reflection that had stared back at him all those years ago had been so much younger, idealistic even, but ultimately a fool.

  King Vinter was possibly the mightiest swordsman who had ever lived, and none of Leto’s men had been able to touch him. He’d approached, still regal despite being drenched in blood, and placed one gauntlet on Madigan’s shoulder. My brother is a fool if he thinks he can defeat me. And Sir Madigan had believed his king with all his heart.

  What would you have me do?

  Because that was what a knight was supposed to say when his lord came to him. And with that he’d been sent on a mission to eliminate Leto’s greatest supporter in the House of Lords. It had been nothing but a final act of spite from a vengeful king, and Madigan had been his weapon.

  “What would you have me do?” Madigan whispered to his battered, scarred reflection.

  This time there was no answer.

  Dressed in the insulated underlayers of his armor, which would protect his skin from the lethal electricity of their galvanic weapons, he joined the men inside the Barn a few minutes later, hopefully looking at least a bit like a proper officer of Cygnar.

  Cleasby was using a map of Caspia. “So that’s what it comes down to. The Great Public Works can pump Culpin’s explosive into any neighborhood in Caspia. We saw what happened to First Platoon. Now imagine if the entire western half of the city were to ignite at the same time in such a manner. Those tunnels run beneath the palace, the Sancteum, the great library, the hospitals, the armory—everything.” Cleasby thumped each location on the map as he named it. “Thousands, maybe tens of thousands would die instantaneously. There would be no way to stop that many alchemical fires from spreading. Our remaining defenses would crumble, but by that point it wouldn’t matter, because Caspia, the oldest surviving human city in the world, will have been destroyed. The City of Walls survived the Orgoth, but walls can’t hold back this threat. The only thing left would be the walls because everything inside them would be ash. Any questions?”

  The Barn was dead silent.

  “That’ll do.” Madigan was glad to see someone had kept up the shrine he’d allowed Wilkins to build. “Come over here, all of you,” he said as he went to the shrine to Ascendant Markus.

  There were several surprised glances exchanged as Madigan knelt before the little shrine. He picked up one of the golden coins bearing the symbol of Morrow and pressed it to his brow. The men quickly followed suit, and there was a great clamor as armored knees hit the floor. Even Rains knelt.

  Madigan stared at the altar and tried to find the words. It’s been a very long time . . .

  “We ask you, ascendant of soldiers, who stood at Midfast against invaders beyond number, to witness our plight. Please intervene and carry this message to the Prophet on our behalf. Morrow hear our prayers.”

  “Morrow hear our prayers,” said the men with one voice.

  “We go now into battle on behalf of king and country. We fight for our families and our land. We fight for our freedom. We willingly place our lives in your hands. Morrow, guide us so that we may strike true. Give strength to our limbs and clarity to our minds.”

  Madigan paused. That was as much as he could remember from the prayers of his youth, so he decided to speak from his heart. “We know the deck is not stacked in our favor, but the way I see it, you wouldn’t have it any other way. You put us here, a bunch of soldiers with bad names and worse luck, and the army expected us to fail, but we showed them, didn’t we? You’ve favored us and allowed these men to regain their honor and their good names. Now Cygnar needs us. So we’re calling on you one last time to help us kill the wretched fools who would menace your sacred city. Morrow hear our prayers.”

  “Morrow hear our prayers!”

  “With your blessing, a dozen men and a one-armed warjack will end Culpin’s threat once and for all. We ask for victory.” Madigan touched the coin to his lips then placed it back on the altar. “Amen.”

  Rains thumped his storm glaive into the old Precursor shield. “I think Wilkins would approve.”

  “Then it’ll do.” Madigan stood up. “My armor.” Several men rushed to help him into his suit.

  “You got one thing wrong,” Cleasby said as he held up the breastplate and Pangborn cinched it tightly to the back plate. It shifted uncomfortably. Madigan had lost some weight. “There are only eleven of us.”

  Madigan inclined his head toward the doorway. Savio Acosta was standing there, watching indifferently, already dressed in his storm armor. “I count twelve.”

  “What’re you doing here?” Cleasby asked, surprised to see the Ordsman.

  “The situation has changed.” Acosta’s shoulders lifted and fell in a heavily armored shrug. “I was leaving the city when a certain lady told me Madigan had found himself another worthy fight.”

  “I expected you’d not want to miss this one,” Madigan said as he checked his bracers. “All right, lads. Let’s end these Protectorate scum for Cygnar!”

  “For Cygnar!”

  They’d marched quickly through the streets of Caspia, pushing through crowds of refugees walking beside overladen wagons and their straining beasts of burden. Madigan had steered them toward the dock district, knowing there would be less foot traffic here. Those who fled in this area had less to begin with, and those who had nowhere else to go would simply hunker down and hope for the best.

  They reached the river at sundown. As a child he’d often watched the colors of the sunset on the Black River, blue to orange to shimmering gold and then to black. Now it was all stained with burning oil, flooded into the harbor by the Menites in an attempt to keep out Cygnaran resupply vessels.

  Caspia was crisscrossed with lesser walls, but even those lesser walls would have been considered mighty fortifications in most other cities. Luckily the platoon was allowed through the dock gate, even without written orders. It wasn’t under siege yet, but by this point the watch was happy to see any soldiers heading toward the fighting.

  They’d run through the narrow streets along the river, their path lit by Skyhammers exploding overhead. Acosta ranged ahead of the rest, keeping an eye out for Protectorate patrols. Headhunter was burning
hot, but Rains had made each man carry a sack of coal, and they kept their warjack’s boiler stoked.

  Soldiers watched them pass, curious but too exhausted to bother to question the small band of Storm Knights. Trenchers had dug holes in the road and set up their guns in the wreckage of bombed buildings. They received many hopeful glances, wondering if they were relief or reinforcements, but then they pushed past, leaving the brave soldiers to their fate.

  Acosta came back at a dead run. Madigan held up his hand and signaled for the Malcontents to halt. The Ordsman slid to a stop. “We’re close. The Protectorate advance has reached the next block. They’re coming this way quickly.”

  “How many?”

  “Hundreds of them. Zealots and Flameguard with ’jack support. They’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “Charge blades,” Cleasby ordered.

  “Belay that,” Madigan said. He checked the skyline. They were still half a mile from the Great Dome. “We’re too few to fight our way through that line.” He pointed at a large structure. “Into the shipwright’s. We hide and wait for them to pass, then sneak through.”

  “We’re all wearing plate armor, and we have a heavy warjack,” Cleasby pointed out.

  “Then we’ll need to try to be extra quiet then, won’t we? Go.”

  The shipwright’s building had been looted of everything of value ahead of the approaching army. Little remained except a small fishing vessel supported on wooden blocks in a small dry dock. “Everyone into the pit who’ll fit. Hurry.” The men began clambering down the sides. There was splashing as they discovered there was a few feet of fetid water in the bottom.

  “What about Headhunter?” Pangborn was worried for his ’jack. “He won’t fit, and if he does I don’t know if we can lift him out of there.”

  “Improvise.” Madigan pointed at a nearby scaffold that had been used for painting. Pangborn made a clicking noise with his tongue, and Headhunter crouched, trying to fit beneath the planks. “Shut it down.”

  “His boiler’s shot. I might not be able to start him back up.“