“Thank you, sir.” That small gesture seemed to move her more than tending to her wounds and saving her life. “A ranger’s rifle is her best friend. You take care of it, and it’ll take care of you.”
“Are you a good shot with that rifle?”
“Extremely good.” She didn’t have to think about her answer.
“Hopefully I won’t need a demonstration. Level with me, Novak. Provided we live, if Scout General Rebald is upset, just blame it on my 6th Platoon.”
“Not bloody likely he’ll accept that. I’ve never met the man, and I’d just as soon keep it that way.”
“Well, he and I have met. Actually, you never know when he might show up. Blow up one national landmark, and you’d be surprised who shows up to personally debrief you.” Cleasby smiled, but she simply gave him an odd look. Apparently she didn’t expect him to know the head of the CRS. “However, that’s a state secret, too. See? I can do same thing. Only that particular problem is dead and gone, and yours is currently breathing down our necks.”
Novak’s brow wrinkled as she pondered the situation for a moment. An oath of secrecy was one thing, but there were extenuating circumstances here. Finally, she made her decision and beckoned him closer so no one else would overhear her words. “Have you heard of the Circle Orboros?”
Cleasby gave her a blank look.
“Blackclads?”
He was about as well read as someone could be and seldom forgot anything he’d ever seen on a page, but there wasn’t much to be read about that group. “Folklore, mostly. Forest wizards hiding from society who steal children and train great beasts to fight on their behalf. Outlandish stories like that.”
“Oh, but they’re real, all right. Sure, a lot of what’s said about them is superstition, but they’re capable, and they’re deadly. In the wild places where rangers go, especially in some of these backwoods villages we visit, what the Circle says is more the law than anything King Leto dictates in Caspia. The old ways are still practiced out in the hills and hollows. The druids mostly keep to themselves, but some of their followers absolutely despise civilization. Cross them and you’ll end up on a stone altar with your heart cut out. The Army knows about them. We’ve even fought them before, but as far as I know, never openly. And the Strategic Academy is very interested in what they’re up to.”
“What does this Circle want?”
Novak shrugged. “Beats me. I can’t tell you much more, and I don’t even know if these wolf creatures are allied with the druids, but we were sent here looking for something in particular. I don’t know all the details, but they’re supposed to have a magical way of traveling long distances and instantly appearing somewhere else.”
“That sounds absurd.” The greatest minds in Cygnar, even with all of their technological marvels, couldn’t do anything like that. Being able to move troops in that manner would change warfare forever. Give Sebastian Nemo that power, Cleasby knew, and they’d be landing the Storm Division in Korsk tomorrow.
“It’s some sort of nature magic. The powerful druids can twist the world to suit them. They move rock and earth with a thought and can even make forests appear where there weren’t any before to disorient and confuse folks.”
Cleasby’s expression must have revealed his incredulity.
“Fine. Don’t believe me, city boy.”
“I’m from Corvis.”
“That’s still a city, but with your smooth talk, I had you pegged for a Caspian. Corvis might be sinking into a swamp, but when you live someplace that crowded and civilized, you lose your connection to the real world. The natural order of things. You don’t grasp how much power there is floating around the natural world. You get out here, into the wilds where my people go, and you come to believe there’s something to those old ways right quick. Sorry, I’m rambling.”
“It’s all right. It’s fascinating,” he said.
“Really?” Novak blushed. She apparently wasn’t used to having a “city boy” take such things seriously. “Well, my patrol was told to look for a certain kind of carved stones and to document their location whenever we found them.”
“Are these stones tied into how they supposedly appear out of thin air?”
“Over my pay grade, lieutenant, but I believe so. The CRS most definitely wants to figure it out. Rumor is the Circle people have them buried around the countryside so they can move messengers between them.”
And then it hit him. “What about assassins?”
“Possibly. I don’t see why not. Hey, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s wrong?”
There were carved stones all over the mountainside; Cleasby had seen scores of them. Now he understood why the enemy had left this fort standing. “Get your rifle.”
There was a sudden gust of wind. The blankets billowed, and the candles went out.
A strong smell hit his nostrils—iron, blood, musk, and smoke. It was close and overwhelming, and he knew why. Something else was inside the bunkhouse with them.
And then the screaming began.
Into the circle and through the stones, an instant tore through the world. It tore through the rock and the earth, through the trees and the grass, and it moved through life and death, pouring out into the night air, miles from Caradoc’s village.
The Beast of All Shapes must have been displeased with him because Caradoc found himself high on the mountainside rather than inside the fort. Impatient, he tasted the air and found his direction. Some of his warriors were blessed. Fresh blood was already on the wind. The instant after they’d stepped through the stones, there had been prey waiting for them to take.
Caradoc set out for the fort at a run, leaping across logs and deftly ducking beneath branches. His form was now vast and powerful, strong as a bear but lithe and graceful as a running deer. His senses thundered with the excitement of the hunt as he felt the other warriors appear around him, drawn to the holy mountain to fulfill their calling. As they arrived, each rushed toward the fort. By the time they arrived, the fort gate would be open, their prey vulnerable.
The humans thought of the fort as safety, but walls were an illusion to those who could travel through the stones. Instead, the fort was little more than a pen with livestock ready for slaughter. Hopefully by the time he got there, there would still be some Cygnar left for him to fight.
The scent of men… Caradoc shifted focus. Some of the prey must have strayed from the slaughterhouse. Perhaps the Beast of All Shapes was pleased with him after all.
He slowed, crouched, and crept forward. The plates of his armor were tied with leather strips to prevent the ring of metal against metal, so his movements went unheard. Other skinwalkers had sensed these men as well and broke off to join their chief while the rest continued running toward the fort. None of the mighty hunters made a sound.
Caradoc drew closer, peering through the brush. Tonight he wore the eyes of the wolf, so the darkness was clear and bright. Some men were on watch, but they were too stupid to see the danger crawling toward them. These men made no fire. They ate cold food from tins. They smelled like the city, like coal dust and crowds, but they were not the blue soldiers. Caradoc’s ears twitched as they spoke. They were here to watch the blue soldiers, and yet they complained to each other about discomfort, bug bites, and cold, unaware that just ahead of them, the blue soldiers were being torn apart.
A distant roar of thunder made them all turn toward the fort. Lightning flashed, leaping above the walls and dancing across the face of the holy mountain. Gunfire followed the lightning.
“What’s going on, Sayre?” one of the humans asked as he scrambled from his bedroll.
“Shut up.” This one had the stink of magic on him. Caradoc could smell metal, oil, and power coming off of him. Gun mage. This one was dangerous. Caradoc had hunted such men before.
“What’re those Storm Knights shooting at now?”
Soundlessly, Caradoc launched himself from the brush and filled his mouth with the first sentry’s throat
. Blood—wonderful, hot blood—spilled down his throat as Caradoc tore the man’s life out. Skinwalkers controlled their animal instincts enough to fight with weapons, but using his body as a weapon was part of Caradoc’s ritual heritage. Biting was less effective than his axe, but it was perfect for situations like this. He held the sentry down so the man’s thrashing wouldn’t alert the others. To the side, one of Caradoc’s warriors grabbed ahold of another sentry, ripping claws through his face, and dragged him away from the camp. The man managed to let out a bit of a surprised squeak before he was gone.
“What was that? Where’s Tom?” Deadly, glowing pistols appeared in the gun mage’s hands. “To arms!”
The other humans fumbled to respond, letting seconds pass as the long arms of desperation reached for their minds just as their own hands reached for their weapons.
Caradoc rose, muzzle dripping blood, and stepped into their camp, roaring his challenge. He swung his great axe at the closest human and split him in two.
Stinking of fear, the gun mage looked upon Caradoc’s true form and opened fire.
A terrible ear-piercing howl filled the bunkhouse.
Novak froze. For an instant, all of the terror of that awful night came rushing back to her. The screams of dying men, the sound of their bones breaking and their skin tearing, and the images of her squad being ripped to pieces flashed before her eyes. Every muscle in her body tensed to keep her flesh together and keep her whole.
But then the body of a worker was hurled through the hanging blankets, knocking her off the cot. The body struck Lieutenant Cleasby hard enough to fling him back against the wall. He slid down the logs, entangled in blankets, cursing and trying to free himself from the eviscerated worker thrashing on top of him.
Rangers trained hard; their endurance was like steel forged of their discipline. They trained to push past fear and pain. And that training saved Novak’s life. She heard the whistle as a gigantic blade split the air and smashed through her cot. But by the time she hit the floor, she had already shoved the images of dead friends aside and scrambled on her hands and knees toward where Cleasby had indicated her rifle would be. She would not die in bed, on her back, without a weapon in her hands.
She reached for the rifle, mindful of the chaos all around her, her senses tuned to detecting the killers in their midst. A lantern hung from the ceiling had been struck and was swinging wildly back and forth. People were shouting, crying, running and dying because death incarnate had appeared among them and was bounding about the bunkhouse, rending them to pieces. Its howls echoed deafeningly in the confined space.
For the first time, Novak clearly saw the thing that had nearly killed her. It had materialized in the middle of the room and was so tall, its shaggy head rubbed against the ceiling. Like before, it was black as night, covered in thick, wiry hair, but now she could tell it had a body like a man’s—two legs, upright, long and lean with upper appendages that could serve as either arms or legs—with the head of a wolf. She’d been briefed on warpwolves, and this creature was similar but much closer to a human’s size. The light from the swinging lantern danced across the creature’s fur and, to Novak’s surprise, reflected back at her. Her eyes narrowed while she studied it. It was wearing metal plates and a leather harness. Like a man dressed for battle, she realized. And when it turned, she saw the polearm in its claws with a blade as wide as her torso and a haft long enough to sweep half the bunkhouse in one swing.
And that was exactly what it was doing.
The blade slashed through the room. Workers were sent crashing from their feet by its haft. The unlucky ones caught the edge and came apart in sprays of blood. One of the university scholars was still on the floor beneath the beast, trapped inside his sleeping roll. As he struggled to free his limbs from its wrapper, the creature aligned its foot above his flailing body and crushed him in one effortless motion. Without a downward glance, it curled its clawed toes deep into the man’s guts and kicked him aside. A gun went off. The bullet struck the monster’s armor at an angle, bounced off, and struck the ceiling. A man swung a pick at the creature’s back, but it turned, caught the handle, ripped the tool away, and backhanded him across the room.
Novak hugged the floor to avoid the polearm and spotted her equipment stacked neatly atop a pile of supplies. She crawled frantically toward it. Panicked workers ran past her. Someone stepped on her hand as they rushed to leap out the window. Someone else tripped over her leg and fell. A knot of bodies tried to push through the door. The monster turned toward them, snarling.
Novak reached her gun. She sprang to her feet, snatched it up, broke open the action, and stopped—there was no ammo. Desperate, she flung aside her folded cloak and searched for her bandoleer.
The creature moved for the doorway where the men were crushing each other for the chance to escape. She wouldn’t save them in time. None of them.
“Hey! Over here!” It was Lieutenant Cleasby. He’d freed himself, and the Storm Knight was heading straight for the monster, trying to distract it from the easier targets. “Try someone who can fight, coward.”
The monster slowly turned, its wolfish mouth opening to reveal jagged white teeth. It snarled something incomprehensible as the mighty polearm turned in its claws. It loomed over Cleasby. Blood and slobber dribbled from its mouth to form a puddle on the floor.
The Storm Knight lifted his glaive in both hands. “That’s it. Come and get me.”
Novak had seen the mighty glaives in action before and knew instantly that Cleasby’s wasn’t charged. Either he’d not had time or had decided it wasn’t worth the risk with so many innocents this close. Either way, Novak couldn’t imagine the monster would leave Cleasby standing. She turned her focus back to finding her ammunition. Quickly. You can do this. Where’s that damned cloak?
There was a momentous crash as metal clashed against metal that sent bumps down her neck and arms as Cleasby caught the creature’s blade with his own.
There. She could see what she needed tucked within the folds of the cloak she had flung to the floor: the box of cartridges Cleasby had left for her. Ripping it open, Novak pulled out a paper case, shoved it into the chamber, and closed the action. She turned back and was surprised to see that not only was Cleasby still on his feet but the thin man was actually counterattacking the off-balance monster. He was far tougher than he looked.
Novak shouldered the rifle, put her cheek against the stock, and peered down the sights. The range was close, but the monster was leaping about and Cleasby kept getting in her way. Curse the brave fool. The light was so bad she could barely see the gold bead of her front sight. She’d hit these things before and done nothing. Difficult shot. Armored target. No time. This one had to count.
The monster’s polearm was terrifying against a room full of unprepared victims, but it was too long and awkward to go head-to-head against an angry Storm Knight in such a confined space. Cleasby was hacking at the beast as it tried to spear him anyway, but the end of the haft caught against the logs, and, for just an instant, the monster turned its head to see what it was stuck on.
Novak shot it right in the face.
Sharp white teeth and bloody bits flew in every direction. The monster opened its jaws, wailing in surprise. Cleasby used the distraction to push past the polearm. It turned back to meet him but too late. With a roar, Cleasby swung his blade in a downward arc. His aim was true, missing the plates, and metal bit deep into the horror’s flesh. Even unpowered, the glaive remained a heavy chunk of sharpened steel, and it cleaved through the meat of the monster’s neck and into its collarbone.
The monster was so massive that as it stumbled back, it dragged Cleasby across the floor. The glaive was caught in bone. Cleasby tripped over the dead and dying, but his grip remained tight. The monster backed into the far wall while its claws reached up for the glaive to try and pull it free, but Cleasby wrenched his glaive side to side, levering the hilt like a pry bar, tearing the wound open wider and wider, shouting at the
beast to die.
While Novak reloaded her rifle, other workers had gathered enough of their wits to attack the beast as well. They leapt at it with whatever tools were at hand—knives, hammers, even a chisel. Within seconds, four more men joined Cleasby, and together they mercilessly hacked at the monster as it slid down the log wall and fell into a wet puddle.
The military rifle had momentarily overwhelmed her hearing, but over the ringing in her ears, Novak could catch more noises outside. The man who’d leapt out the window began to scream as another monster tore into him. A storm glaive went off, and the blast made her rifle sound like a popgun.
“Lieutenant, there’s more of them!” Novak shouted, unsure of her own volume, as she grabbed the box of cartridges and took up a firing position at the window. She snapped off a shot at a passing monster, but by the time the smoke from the blasting powder had cleared, it was already gone.
More howls echoed through the window. But these weren’t from inside the fort—they were closing in all around it. There had to be dozens of them.
Cleasby had to put a boot on the fallen creature’s shoulder to pull his glaive free. One worker had a small hammer and was still beating the monster’s head like it was a drum. “They’re going to try and let more in,” Cleasby called. “We’ve got to secure the gate.”
Once the people crushing each other in the doorway realized the thing inside was dead and there were more inside the walls, their eagerness to get outside died with their hope for survival. Feeling their morale slip, Cleasby pushed through the men, shouting orders. “Whoever can fight, get ready. Whoever can’t, see to the wounded. If we can’t hold the walls, we’ll all be falling back here.” He flung open the door and rushed into the night.
Into the Wild Page 17
