“You’re no Madigan.” But from the look on Rains’ face, it was obvious he immediately regretted what he’d said. He looked around to make sure the other soldiers hadn’t caught that. A good sergeant never undermined his leader.
“Believe me, I’m painfully aware of that fact every day.” Cleasby patted Rains on the shoulder.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s fine.” Cleasby took no offense. He was under no delusions that he was anything more than barely adequate as an officer, and he wasn’t even going to be that for too much longer once he was out of the military. Of all the Malcontents, Rains was the one Cleasby felt he had to forewarn about his decision not to reenlist. The problem was getting up the nerve to do so; it was far harder than he thought it would be. Part of him felt like he was abandoning his men.
“It isn’t an insult. You’re not Madigan and this isn’t Sul, but we’ve seen plenty of action since. Sir Madigan operated on guts and nerve. You’re a man of reason who plans based on things that can be proven or explained. That’s your strength, Cleasby.”
“I’m not nearly—”
Rains cut him off. “Your methods have kept this platoon from having to dig more graves over the past year. Stick with what you know. When you make a decision, it’s usually the smart one. This is your platoon. Don’t let anyone put doubts in your head, including me. If you say the Ordsman is trustworthy, I’ll abide that.”
“Acosta’s claims of great battles and destiny and whatnot will probably come to nothing, but if we’re to find trouble out here, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have with us.” Part of being a good officer was listening to your subordinate’s wisdom, Cleasby knew. They’d been through so much together that he was inclined to believe Acosta; however, Rains also had good instincts. “That said, if you want to play witch hunter, go ahead and keep an eye on him.”
“No offense, but I would have anyway.”
Langston approached and handed Rains a warm tin of beans. “Dinner, Sarge. You wanting any grub, sir?” he asked Cleasby.
But Cleasby had noticed someone approach around the nearest wagon: Pickett. He had stopped there, watching the Storm Knights, politely waiting and not wanting to interrupt. “In a bit, Langston. Thank you.”
As Private Langston wandered back to the fire, Rains saw Pickett as well. “Thorny told me you got angry and threatened to beat the young assistant professor senseless earlier,” he whispered.
“Weren’t you just saying something about me always making smart decisions?”
“No one is perfect,” Rains mumbled around a mouthful of beans as he walked away.
Pickett walked up to him. His manner was a bit formal. “Kelvan.”
“Dalton,” Cleasby nodded. He was feeling guilty for the harsh words he’d used earlier.
But surprisingly, it was Pickett who removed his hat and held it awkwardly in both hands, looking embarrassed. “I’ve come to apologize for what I said about your mercenary. It was rude and uncalled for.”
“Oh.” Cleasby certainly hadn’t been expecting that. In the years they’d gone to school together, he couldn’t remember ever hearing the hotheaded Pickett apologize for anything before. “It’s fine.”
“No, it isn’t. I was stewing about it all during today’s march. Look, this is my first actual expedition into the field. Everything else I’ve done has been in settled, boring areas around Caspia. I’ve been preparing for this for a long time, and I want to make a good impression on the professor. This is a huge opportunity for me. Field work can be rough and dangerous, so I’m afraid—”
“You were trying too hard.” Cleasby smiled as he remembered Pickett had idolized adventurers and explorers the same way Cleasby had looked up to knights. Only Cleasby now had the experience to know there was a big difference between the perception and the reality. When he’d joined the army, he’d expected honor and chivalry, which had their brief gleaming moments, but it turned out being a Storm Knight was mostly wearing heavy steel, slogging through mud, and getting drenched in sweat and, occasionally, blood. Pickett was trying to emulate the swagger of an accomplished explorer, but he had yet to make a journey. “Believe me, I understand.”
“At first I was angry, thinking to myself, who is Cleasby to speak to me like that? But you’re not the sickly bookworm I once knew. Sure, I’ve wanted to see what’s out there. I wanted to be the one who opens the tombs, finds the lost treasures, deciphers the records. It’s just that over the last few years, while I’ve been listening to lectures from people who’ve done things, you’ve been actually doing those things. You’ve been a soldier for the crown and traveling the kingdom.”
Cleasby had never wanted any of that; all he’d wanted was to study. He’d always had a thirst for knowledge. He’d left because his country needed him, but even then he’d become more of a student of war than a proper knight. They didn’t have the same goals, but Cleasby could respect Pickett’s drive.
“It’s easy to forget that we’re not the same kids we were back in Corvis.”
“I spoke to you as I would a student, not a soldier. Or a peer. For that I am sorry.”
Cleasby began taking off one of his gauntlets.
Pickett looked at him suspiciously. “I hope you’re not removing that in order to slap me like you warned earlier. I’m not very good at apologizing, but I can’t be that bad.”
Cleasby extended his hand. “All is forgiven, old friend.”
They shook on it. Satisfied that his apology had been accepted, Pickett put his hat back on. “Now, in case it gets back to him—and I do not wish to give offense to your men—would you like me to say something to that Ordic mercenary?”
“Sweet Morrow, no.”
Clemency Horner had gone up a rise and, once at the top, had signaled for Cleasby to join her. It had been quite the climb in his armor. It was tiring to wear full kit on a march, but his duty was to protect this expedition, and if that meant discomfort, so be it. Despite that, halfway up he was regretting not sending one of the men to see what she wanted. When he finally reached her, the red-headed woman was waiting for him with a scattergun slung over her shoulder and a map in her hands.
“Enjoying a bit of exercise this morning, lieutenant?”
“Not at all,” It took a moment to catch his breath. Then Cleasby saw that the view was spectacular from here. Rugged black peaks still capped in snow and wreathed in clouds, an endless vista of green beneath. “Sweet Morrow, this is beautiful.”
“It really is. It’s nice to get out of the stuffy old university once in a while. I figure they’ll stick you in the history department, but if you ever want some sunshine, you’re more than welcome to come with us explorers.”
“So the professor told you about my application.” Not for the first time of late, he felt guilty about his calculated secrecy. “Please don’t say anything in front of my men.”
“You served your time. There’s no shame in moving on with your life. Besides, on future expeditions like this, it would be nice to have someone with a clue around to help out. Pickett cuts a dashing figure, but I’m always afraid he’s going to shoot himself in the foot.”
Cleasby chuckled. “He means well.”
“He does. But scholarship isn’t like the pulps. Some folks think it’s all making your way through ancient traps and dodging tomb maidens, but it’s more magnifying glasses and hours of staring at old carvings by lantern light.”
“You sound like you enjoy it.”
Now it was Horner’s turn to laugh. “That I do. Men like Pickett want to be famous. Men like Professor Wynn just want to know where things come from so he can guess where they’re going next. Me? I was the girl who always wanted to climb the next hill to see what was on the other side. Why do you want to be a scholar, Cleasby?”
It was a rather direct and unexpected question. And he wasn’t exactly sure. It was simply the path he’d been on before the invasion. “It’s a respectable career.”
“S
o is farming or alchemy. That’s not a real answer.”
“I suppose I just like to learn things.”
“Now that makes sense.” Horner seemed satisfied, and ever-pragmatic and impatient, she got right back to business. She pointed down the mountainside. “Look there. Do you see that?”
It took a moment to determine what she was talking about. At first, it was difficult to pick out the few small clouds of white smoke drifting through the trees. Then he realized: there was a village below them. If she’d not pointed it out, he wouldn’t have noticed it at all. It wasn’t even in a clearing, but it looked more like they’d built their homes right into forest. He estimated there were about thirty small buildings, but it was hard to tell since they were so well camouflaged. Cleasby took the spyglass from his pack, opened it, and surveyed the place.
“According to the latest maps, this is the only bit of civilization between here and the ruins,” Horner said.
Civilization was an overstatement. While traveling on behalf of the army, Cleasby had seen some poor villages in Cygnar but never anything so backward as this place. He couldn’t even rightly call the structures houses. They were huts. Even with the telescope, it was hard to be sure from here, but it looked like everything was held together with rawhide and vines.
“It’s hard to believe in this day and age that humans live in such conditions.”
“They appear to be Clamorgan,” Horner stated, as if that explained everything.
Cleasby had read about the Clamorgan people in books. They were the small remnants of once mighty tribes that had existed long before Cygnar had become a nation. Most of them had assimilated, but there were still isolated communities inside both Cygnar and Ord. Beyond that, he knew very little about them. He lowered the spyglass. “I understand the hill folk like to keep to themselves.”
“They’re a clannish, superstitious lot. They certainly don’t like outsiders, but some are worse than others. I’ve dealt with a handful of enclaves like this over the years. Very few are friendly, but some are downright insular. This settlement wasn’t even known until the mining company found it while they were carving out the road through here. Even then, they’re a mile off, and we would’ve gone right by and never even known anyone lived in the area.”
He saw no signs of agriculture. “How does anyone survive out here?”
“The same way their ancestors have forever—hunting and living off the land. They’re probably some of the finest woodsmen you’ll ever find. I imagine they take furs into Ironhead to trade for things they can’t make themselves, but other than that, the kingdom could cease to exist, and these people would probably never even notice. You don’t have to get too far away from our modern industrial society to find yourself back in the past.” Horner sounded almost wistful at the idea.
“You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?” Cleasby asked.
She made a broad sweeping gesture across the scenic view. “I’m not one for the stuffy halls of academia, lieutenant. The goal is to learn about the ancients, so put me out in the field with the wind in my hair and a shovel in my hands. There aren’t many of us with brains who can still go out in the wild and take care of ourselves. Truly, we could use someone like you.”
“I’m flattered.” From up here he could see all their wagons, but Cleasby also noticed there was another figure on the road ahead of them. At first he thought it might be a lone traveler, but he was stationary, as if waiting for the convoy to come to him. Cleasby lifted the spyglass again and twisted the rings until the figure was in focus. All he could tell was that the man was large of stature, standing in the middle of the road, arms folded, dressed in furs, and carrying no weapons that Cleasby could see.
Then the man turned and looked straight back at him.
Cleasby lowered the spyglass. “I’d best get back to the convoy.”
Going downhill in armor was much faster than going up, so it only took Cleasby a few minutes to get back to his people, and he managed to do it without tripping and looking like a fool. The wagons were just going around the bend to where the man was waiting. Cleasby picked out the first Storm Knights he saw. “Hellogand, Langston, on me.” The men fell in without question as he walked with purpose to overtake the lead wagon.
The stranger was still there. As Cleasby approached, he got a better look at the man. He was far taller than Cleasby, broad shouldered but lean. His beard and hair were so long and unkempt it was difficult to guess his age. His clothing was made of brown leather and black fur, and the only weapon visible was an antler-handled hunting knife tied to his leg. There was a cord around his neck, decorated with claws taken from some large predatory animal.
On a narrow road such as this, it would be customary for the man on foot to step aside for the teams of oxen, but he didn’t seem so inclined.
“Good morning,” Cleasby called out. “Please excuse our passing.”
The stranger glared at Cleasby with barely concealed hostility. His lips parted in a sneer, but he didn’t speak. From his wild appearance, he was probably one of the Clamorgan from the nearby village.
The driver of the lead wagon looked at the unmoving stranger, and then down at Cleasby as he strode past the slow moving wagon. “That fella don’t seem to feel the need to move out of the way, Army.”
“Want that I should push him into the ditch, sir?” Hellogand asked.
“Hold on. Let me speak with him first,” Cleasby ordered. Something about this man was off…
Cleasby stopped just out of arm’s reach and addressed the woodsman as politely as possible. “Hello, good sir. I don’t know what brings you to the road this fine morning, but we are on a mission of some urgency. Would you please step out of our way so we can pass?”
“Your kind usually orders my kind,” the stranger said. His Cygnaran had a touch of a strange accent. “Your kind does not ask.”
“My kind? You speak of Storm Knights?”
“The men who hide behind their blue armor are all the same to me.” The man’s black eyes narrowed dangerously. “Who are you to claim the title of storm?”
“Say the word, sir, and I’ll give this yokel a demonstration,” Langston threatened.
Cleasby held up one hand to silence Langston. “We are soldiers of the Cygnaran Army.”
“Cygnar do not belong here.”
Cleasby didn’t like how the woodsman phrased that. The proper term was Cygnaran, but he used the name of the kingdom as if it was nothing more than another tribe. “You are in Cygnar. Thus far, I’ve attempted to be polite, because politeness is a knightly virtue. So is patience, but you are testing mine right now, friend.”
“We are not your friends. You are intruders.” The oxen were getting closer to the stranger, so the man turned his attention to them and made a noise, almost like a growl, unnaturally low in his throat. The oxen balked. The driver whipped them, and the beasts stomped and grunted but wouldn’t go any farther forward.
The instant the woodsman made the noise, the hair on Cleasby’s neck stood up. He moved one hand to his storm glaive without thinking. “Who are you?”
The stranger was again trying to stare him down. “I speak for the mountain.”
“These are King Leto’s mountains.”
“The mountain belongs to no man. The mountain does not want you here.”
He didn’t know what to make of that, but others were approaching to see what was going on. Baron Wynn was among them, and he seemed annoyed that they’d stopped. “Who is this man?” The professor saw the stranger, scowled, and then spoke in a strange language.
The woodsman seemed momentarily surprised, but then he responded in the same lilting tongue before switching back to his accented Cygnaran. “I did not expect a swan to know the language of the people.”
“What do you want, Clamorgan?” the professor demanded. “I’m about the king’s business and have no time for your games.”
“This mountain is a sacred place, not meant for your kind. The mountai
n holds only death for those who trespass. There are things here which hunger for your blood.” He reached up and stroked one of the claws on the necklace. Whatever animal it came from, the way it caught the light made it look sharp enough to cut right through flesh. “Whatever you seek, it is not worth your lives.”
“Are you threatening us?” Baron Wynn asked.
“I only give warning about what lies before you. Do with this as you wish.”
“Did you provide the same warning to the miners? Or to Baron Rathleagh’s men?”
The woodsman seemed amused by the question. “The men who made this path? I was away, hunting, so no warning was given to them. Warning or no, the mountain does not grant mercy. It cannot forgive those who trespass.”
Enough of this. Cleasby stepped in front of the professor and got directly in the woodsman’s face. The Clamorgan didn’t budge. The two of them stared at each other, wills locked. Though the man’s manner was calm, there was violence behind those eyes, careless, barely controlled, as if incomprehensible savagery lay just beneath the surface.
Just the same, Cleasby said, “Move.”
The man leaned in so close that Cleasby could smell wood smoke and old sweat. “Go back to your world and live,” he whispered. “The mountain is not for pretty blue soldiers who think they can claim the storm. Continue and you will meet the Devourer.”
Cleasby didn’t bat an eye. “Now.”
After several tense seconds, the woodsman grudgingly gave ground. He walked off the road and into the tree line. But rather than continuing on his way, he stopped there, thirty feet away, to turn and watch them. Cleasby signaled for the wagons to move out, and this time the oxen responded, though the animals seemed nervous and reluctant to proceed.
“Damned dirt worshippers,” the professor muttered as they stood there, watching their watcher.
“You know him?” Cleasby asked.
“I know his kind, but only because I study the old ways.”
“You said on the train that you respected the old ways.”
“Not the human sacrificing kind. Thankfully, they don’t do that sort of thing anymore, but I suspect the sentiment is still there. They have a convoluted belief system involving the Devourer Wurm. The ones who preach it are called blackclads. What we look back on as barbarity, they remember with fondness.” Wynn shook his head in disgust and then followed after the wagon.
Into the Wild Page 8
