“Does it matter, sir?”
The old knight’s ice-blue eyes seemed to bore a hole in Cleasby. “I say it does.”
The truth would sound stupid, so he said what was expected of him. “Because I felt it was my patriotic duty. The kingdom needs every able-bodied adult in this time of need.”
“Of course.” It was odd how Madigan could go from seemingly uncaring to focused interrogator in the blink of an eye. “And what else?”
Cleasby sighed. He was resigned to the idea that Madigan would simply laugh at him. “This.” He reached into the pack on the floor beneath his feet, rummaged around, and came out with a small, leather-bound book. He handed it over.
Madigan studied the book for a moment. “Records of Chivalry?” He opened the front cover and read from the table of contents. “‘A history of various brave heroes, knighted by the kings of Cygnar, for their uncommon valor and love of country.’”
It was only one book of many but was a particular favorite. “Since I was small, I’ve been fascinated by stories of knightly accomplishments. I always knew it was the sort of thing I would never be brave enough to do myself. I set my interest aside when I began my serious studies, but I was in Corvis when the skorne raiders attacked a few years ago, and I was . . . well . . .”
“Completely useless?” Madigan asked without malice.
“Correct, sir. It made me think back to stories such as this, and I knew what I had to do. I was inspired. I enlisted in the hopes that I could become as brave as those who have come before. Of course, I have no delusions of ever being knighted myself.” He nodded his head respectfully in Madigan’s direction. “True knights of Cygnar, warriors such as yourself who are knighted by royalty, are extremely rare—as they rightly should be, of course—but I thought I could join one of the knightly orders, such as the Storm Knights, and perhaps prove myself . . . However, it was felt my aptitudes lay elsewhere.”
Madigan shook his head and smiled. He continued flipping pages. The smile slowly grew until it turned into a laugh. He turned a few more pages, and the laugh turned bitter. “You realize, of course, that most of these stories are bunk?”
“That’s not true! These are heroes of Cygnar.”
“These stories speak of noble virtues, as if a man can be categorized so easily, but it isn’t a soldier’s job to be merciful, or generous, or any of that nonsense. It’s his job to do as his king tells him, hold ground or take it, defeat his enemies, and above all, achieve victory. Behind each of these stories was a hardscrabble bastard who was just meaner and tougher than everybody else, or a rich man with a lord who owed him favors. Then, after they died, scribes prettied them up so they could tell stories to children. You want to end up as a story in a book, Cleasby? Then you need to win.”
Cleasby felt his face go hot. “You truly believe that’s all there is to knighthood? I’ll have you know I’ve met proper knights and they were the model of chivalry. Only the best among us is knighted by the king, and they are the epitome of what a warrior should aspire to be.”
Madigan handed the book back. “I used to feel that way myself, once.”
“Before the coup?” Damn it. Cleasby bit his tongue, but it was too late.
“Yes.” The old warrior went back to looking out the window. “Before the coup.”
They traveled the rest of the way in silence.
The air of the Sixth Division Headquarters held a certain tension he had come to know well. The place practically thrummed with the low buzz of activity from the staff and officers, the sound of constant, focused actions with an underlying sense of urgency. Madigan could almost feel the vibrations in his bones.
War was coming.
“Major Laddermore will see you now.”
Madigan stood up from the bench and followed the aide into the office. The major was seated on the other side of a desk that was covered in maps, reports, and lists. A huge map of Caspia and Sul hung on the opposite wall. She was far younger than he’d expected, though considering her last name and who her father was, rapid promotions were not too surprising. He honestly wasn’t expecting much in the way of leadership abilities or tactical acumen.
He saluted. “Lieutenant Hugh Madigan, reporting for duty.” The aide closed the door, leaving him alone with the major.
“At ease, Lieutenant.” Major Katherine Laddermore looked up from her tables of personnel and equipment and frowned at him. “What happened to your uniform?”
The blue had long since faded to a sort of fuzzy grey. Holes had been patched. Rips had been stitched. “There’s not much in the way of resupply on the frontier, sir. My apologies.” Folding his hands behind his back, he waited for his next—inevitably degrading—assignment.
“Well, I suppose there aren’t many opportunities for parades in the Thornwood, either.” Laddermore gestured at a chair. “Have a seat. Do you know why you’re here, Lieutenant?”
Madigan sat down. “No, sir. I do not.”
“The Protectorate of Menoth continues to harass our kingdom and violate our treaties. The Menites demand blind obedience to their faith; their Great Crusade is a war against all non-Menites. King Leto has ordered a punitive invasion into the city of Sul.”
The resolution of the Cygnaran civil war two hundred years ago had carved the Protectorate of Menoth from Cygnar’s borders and broken the great city of Caspia in half. A reckoning between them was not a surprise.
The major continued. “King Leto has given Lord Commander Stryker unprecedented control over this operation, and he has declared we order up every last man possible. He believes the Protectorate is not to be underestimated, so we are holding nothing back.”
Madigan knew virtually nothing of Coleman Stryker beyond his reputation as a brilliant commander and a powerful warcaster, but he had heard enough about the Menites to know that was a good decision. Many officers would be quick to underestimate the Protectorate as merely backward-thinking religious fanatics, but those devoted to that faith fought with a fervor most modern men could never understand. “Wise.”
“Our new Storm Division is the most advanced military force the kingdom has ever fielded. We’re armed with the best warjacks and the newest mechanika, and we’re going to breach the walls of a city that is supposed to be impregnable.”
“How do we intend to do that?”
“That is Major Brisbane’s department. My assignment is actually getting this fancy new Storm Division to function as a coherent military unit. Lord Commander Stryker has ordered all hands on deck for the invasion of Sul. Every available resource is to be utilized, and when I say every, I mean every single soldier, regardless of current status. We’ve built this division practically from scratch. I’ve spent the last few months cobbling together and staffing new units, and now I’m down to the last one. Do you understand my meaning, Lieutenant?”
“Not really, sir.”
“Stormblades and Stormguard infantry are the backbone of the new Storm Division. Welcome to the Storm Knights.”
It made no sense. That was an honored position—and the Storm Knights were considered Leto’s Boys. Leto had created the order himself and expanded them during his time as Warmaster General. They had followed Leto during the coup and were considered his most loyal troops. “That’s . . . not what I expected.”
“Normally, only the army’s most promising troops are selected for a position in the Storm Knights, but this rapid expansion has forced us to increase recruiting. We had rosters to fill, so we requisitioned troops from other commanders, and we’ve had to work with whatever they’ve sent.”
Shuffling your troubles off onto some other commander was a military tradition, but Madigan merely nodded in acknowledgement.
“We’re training up soldiers who’ve never touched a storm glaive before, but most of those will get by. However . . .” She picked out one of the many lists on her desk and handed it to him. There were names, ranks, service dates, and a final column of notes. Disciplinary notes. “These are the men
nobody wants. This is the bottom of the barrel.”
He read through a few. “Insubordination, drunkenness, absent without leave, criminal activity . . .”
“There are a few experienced Storm Knights in there as well, but as you are well aware, even the most promising soldier can stumble. When you draw up twenty-two thousand men in a hurry, you’re bound to end up with a few troublemakers.”
“General lawlessness, incompatibility with other soldiers, possible insanity . . . Lovely crew you’ve got here.”
“You mean you’ve got. They’re your problem now, Lieutenant Madigan.” Laddermore had a smile nearly as cold as his.
“I see.”
“I need a sixth platoon to fill out this division’s roster. Your assignment is to build this platoon for me from the names on that list. Of course, the worst offenders have already been hung, so you won’t have to deal with any murderers or rapists we know of. You can collect most of the soldiers from the brig or the stocks. The rest you’ll have to track down. Then you’ll form them into a functioning unit and have them prepared for the invasion within two months. Any questions?”
Madigan blinked. “Two months?” He didn’t know which seemed less likely: being able to gather these men and train them to be Storm Knights in that time or breaching the walls of Sul.
“Major Brisbane is a very determined individual. Anything else?”
He paused only a moment.
“Why me?” He knew the answer, but it was better to get it out in the open.
“Do I really need to spell it out for you, Madigan?”
“I would prefer we are perfectly clear, sir.”
“No officer in his right mind wants to be assigned these dregs, and in any other time we’d boot them out of the army altogether. We both know this unit will probably be one step removed from mutineers. It will more than likely be an embarrassment to whoever is unfortunate enough to lead it, an inevitable black mark on someone’s career. At best it will be given the most unimportant, non-strategic assignments—which we can only hope will be completed without incident. As such, Sixth Platoon will be the last to be issued new equipment and resources, so as to not be a draw on the abilities of our functioning platoons. On the other hand, it isn’t like your career can get any worse. How long since your last promotion?”
“I was a captain. I got busted back to lieutenant twelve years ago.”
“Because of what you did during the Lion’s Coup . . . I’m assuming the rumors are true?”
When he closed his eyes, he could still see the fire. “More than likely, sir.”
“And you’ve been sent to every backwater duty station in the kingdom since then.” Laddermore stood up and walked around her desk. She paused in front of the map. “Our new king is far too honorable a man to ever speak ill of a knight who was following his old king’s orders, but he and Earl Hartcliff were friends. The earl had many friends, in fact, and most still hold a grudge. The entire military was divided during that time.”
“If I recall correctly, your father was on the wrong side, too.” There was a hard edge to Madigan’s voice. “But then again, I’m not an archduke with vast estates in the Midlunds.”
Major Laddermore turned from the map. He expected a sharp rebuke, but she surprised him by laughing instead. “If you think I’m about to defend Fergus Laddermore’s morals, you will be disappointed.” She walked over and sat on the edge of her desk. “Listen to me, Madigan. You were picked for this assignment by my superiors. They said, who better to lead a unit of failures than an officer who’s already a failure? Any new lieutenant fresh out of the academy would be eaten by these thugs, but at least you’re a right hard bastard who’ll keep them in line and out of trouble. For my part, I agree with the assignment wholeheartedly . . . but not for the reasons you might expect.”
“And what are your reasons, sir?”
“They dismiss you for what you’ve done, but I’ve read up on you. They see you as a disgrace, a reminder of the Inquisition and every maddened excess of Vinter’s rule.” She leaned forward and looked him square in the eye. “But I see an officer who does whatever he has to in order to succeed. That’s what you did in the Scharde Islands. That’s what you did during the Lion’s Coup. And ever since, no matter what awful assignment they’ve shoved you off to in the hopes that you’d quit or die, you’ve completed it. Every single time.”
Madigan nodded slowly. Archduke Fergus Laddermore was an arrogant, manipulative politician. Sometimes the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, but in this case it appeared the apple had rolled clear into the next province. Katherine Laddermore struck him as a very capable officer. He glanced at the list again. “Any further orders, Major?”
She had stood and was moving back around the side of her desk. “You’ll be reporting to Captain Schafer. I will warn you, he’s ambitious, though he’s not knighted yet. Also, he’s a scion of a family I believe you may have once offended, so it would be best to tread lightly.” She stopped and eyed his uniform again. “See the quartermaster and get yourself kitted up . . . and get a new dress uniform. You look like a disgrace.”
“Yes, sir.” He stood up. “One request, if I may? I’d like Sergeant Cleasby assigned to Sixth Platoon.”
“The messenger who was sent for you?” Laddermore seemed slightly incredulous. “Are you aware he filed a report about you breaking some regulation relating to the collection of bounties, thirty seconds after he reported for duty?”
Madigan almost smiled. “I figured he would do something like that, sir. All the same, I’ll take him.”
“He’s all yours. Sixth Platoon of the 47th Storm Knight Company is your responsibility.”
“Yes, sir.” Madigan gave her a crisp salute.
Laddermore returned the salute. “One last order, Lieutenant Madigan. Certain officers on the general staff expect you to fail miserably. Surprise them.”
Madigan was at the quartermaster’s when Captain Schafer found him. One look at the captain’s perfectly tailored uniform, the spit-shined boots, the Strategic Academy graduate’s ring, and the polished medals—not one campaign ribbon among them—told Madigan quite a bit about the young officer. Most postings in the military were based on experience and ability rather than solely on birth, but in a kingdom where bloodlines mattered so much, it was inevitable that unqualified fops with influential parents wound up in positions of authority. He would hope for the best and prepare for the worst.
The captain was red-faced. “Madigan! What’s the meaning of this?”
He stayed perfectly calm, even outwardly cheerful. “No idea what you’re talking about, sir.” There were a few other personnel in the area, and Madigan noted they were quick to avert their gazes and go about their business when they saw Schafer enter. That was never a good sign. “How can I help?”
“By getting back on the train and riding back to the swamp they pulled you out from,” Schafer said between gritted teeth. “I was just informed of your new assignment. The 47th doesn’t need a platoon of rejects!”
It was to be the worst, then. “My apologies, Captain. You’ll have to take that up with Major Laddermore.”
Schafer sneered. “I already have, and her mind is made up. I don’t know what Laddermore is thinking. Know this, Madigan: I’ve heard all about you. I’ve got a company to run, and this invasion is my chance for glory. As far as I’m concerned, your platoon doesn’t exist. I’ll not have the reputation of my company damaged by a bunch of miscreants. Stay out of my way. You keep your head down. The less embarrassment you cause for me, the less trouble I cause for you.”
“So that’s how it is going to be?” Madigan asked quietly.
“That’s how it is!” Schafer yelled.
“Very well.” Madigan stayed cool and professional. “You may want to keep your voice down, sir. The staff will talk. You don’t want to get yourself a negative reputation.”
“You’re correcting me?” Schafer wasn’t used to having a junior officer speak in
such a manner, which told Madigan he hadn’t had any junior officers worth a damn.
Madigan shrugged. “I know a bit about how reputations grow. You don’t want to be remembered as a screamer on your first combat command, Captain—and yes, I can tell this is your first combat command. You’re trying to emulate some combat instructor from the academy, but that only works on recruits. It’s a drill instructor’s duty to yell, and it’s a recruit’s duty to be frightened; here, you just come off as petty. Soldiers don’t respect an officer who throws tantrums.”
“What?!” Schafer yelled in rage. Catching himself, he glanced around and glared at Madigan before continuing in a lower voice. “You are an embarrassment! You’d speak to me of reputations? Your name is a stain on all knighthood. You’re a dishonorable cheater and a murderer!”
“Perhaps . . . but I’m not a screamer.”
“How dare you?”
He hadn’t intended to use his “war face,” but young know-it-all officers brought out the worst in him. It wasn’t that different from his regular face, but he’d been told by many a soldier it was a terrifying expression. He was always calm, but they had said that in combat he seemed disturbingly calm, like a dead-eyed, dispassionate killing machine. Schafer flinched when he saw the change in Madigan’s expression. It was almost unfair to use his war face for political matters, but he had work to do.
Madigan leaned in close so no one could overhear. His voice was a dangerous hiss. “I dare because I was knee-deep in blood and necrotite while you were still playing with toy soldiers. I’ve been stabbed, shot, and burned by warriors who were ten times the man you are, and I still killed every last one of them before they could finish me off. I’ve gutted Khadorans that would make you look like a weakling on your finest day and beheaded Cryxians that would devour your soul. Don’t think you can intimidate me. Now you say something, and I’ll nod like we’re having a nice, professional discussion.”
Into the Storm Page 3
