“I bet they love that.” Madigan scowled. “I’ve been told you’re good in a scrap.”
“Morrow has blessed me with courage and a strong arm.”
“Do you really want to protect the good citizens of Cygnar from the wrath of Menoth?”
“Of course I do, sir.”
“Excellent—but no matter how strong you are, you’ll never get the chance if you can’t function as part of a unit. You want to be a Stormblade, you have to fight as a Stormblade, but they won’t have you. That’s quite the conundrum, isn’t it, Wilkins? Good thing your sermon holds the answer. What was it you were saying all the ascendants had in common?”
“I believe they all chose to sacrifice something of great value.”
“Then you’re going to have to learn to sacrifice being judgmental and telling your comrades what to do. The only demands to the men I want to hear from you should be related to the quality of their soldiering and not the state of their eternal soul. You want to lead them to Morrow, you’ll do it by example.”
Cleasby was grudgingly impressed. He hadn’t expected Madigan to use the Morrowan’s own sermon against him.
Wilkins swallowed hard. “That will be very difficult for me, sir.”
“It wouldn’t be much of a sacrifice if it wasn’t difficult, now would it? Welcome to Sixth Platoon, Wilkins. Now, let’s get you two sergeants properly suited up. I want to make a grand entrance for this next one.”
The area around the Black River docks was the roughest part of Caspia. It was a rather stark difference from the pristine marble churches of the Sancteum. The buildings here were just as tall, only instead of being filled with books, artwork, and holy relics, they were packed with poor people. The farther they got off the main road and into the warren of tenement buildings and smoke-belching factories, the more uncomfortable Cleasby became.
It didn’t help that he and Wilkins were clanking along in full suits of blue and gold heavy storm armor and carrying huge galvanic swords, so everyone was coming to their windows to gawk. He felt awkward, clumsy, slow, and loud. The armor hadn’t been properly sized yet, and bits and pieces chafed against his skin in the most obnoxious manner.
It was very late in the day, but the street still held many people. Most of them seemed rather shady. Near the gates they had seen beggars, but none seemed to try their luck here. He imagined this was first because there was no money to beg and second because as soon as any unfortunate closed his fingers on a coin he’d be mugged for it. Cleasby had been trying to pay better attention to such things since his embarrassment in the Thornwood. “There’s a notable lack of city watch in this area.”
“The few guards around are probably bribed easily enough,” Madigan agreed as he looked around. “Good choice of location, clever use of existing terrain. The area is perfect for this sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing would that be, sir?” Cleasby asked.
“You’ll see.”
The lieutenant had forgone armor, and the other two still didn’t know why they’d had to suit up. They might look impressive, but Cleasby had never worn the insulated, electricity-proof armor before, and he’d never wielded a sword capable of channeling lightning. He hadn’t powered up the sword yet and was frankly a little nervous to do so. At least Wilkins seemed confident.
More alert, too, he noted when Wilkins shifted to the side and lifted his shield as something small moved in a nearby alley. It was a female gobber, barely three feet tall, with grey skin and clothing made from old flour sacks. “You Madigan?” she hissed as she looked both ways, making sure none of the locals saw her talking to the army.
Cleasby and Wilkins exchanged a glance.
“That’s me. Where’s the ring?”
“Coin first!” the gobber insisted.
Madigan flicked a gold crown toward the alley, and the gobber snatched it from the air with one tiny fist. She bit the coin to satisfy herself that it was real and then told them, “End of the road, go left, half a block. Big warehouse with green doors.”
“Thank you.” Madigan gave a small bow.
The gobber turned and scrambled away, quickly disappearing into the warren of garbage and boxes.
“You sure seem to have a lot of friends wherever you go, Lieutenant,” Cleasby said.
“Enemies too, but I’ve outlived most of those. Come on, lads. We’ve got work to do.” He started walking again. The lieutenant’s fast pace had proven difficult to keep up with in the best of circumstances. Cleasby practically had to jog in the armor, which just made the pinching worse.
They reached the end of the street and turned left. This area looked even worse, if that were possible. Some of the tenements had been damaged by fires and never repaired. Although most of Caspia had a good sewer system, from the smell he’d say either this area didn’t or it was backed up and leaking into the streets. The air was cold and damp, and he saw people sleeping in alleys and huddled around barrels, burning trash for warmth.
“Rowan weeps, this is shameful,” Wilkins said. “These poor souls. The Church should do something about the poverty in this place.”
Madigan grunted. “When the war is over, you can help here all you want, Wilkins.”
“When my shield is no longer needed to defend the righteous from the Menite scourge, maybe I will. These poor souls need to hear the words of the ascendants and pull themselves up from this filth.”
“Good luck. The Church does a little, sure: feeds the hungry, hands out a few blankets in between building marble cathedrals in Caspia. But some neighborhoods aren’t inclined to take help. Sooner or later some gang gets tired of being preached at. The pushy preachers end up taking a swim in the harbor.” He turned his head to Cleasby. “Remember when I asked why you enlisted? I grew up not far from here.” The lieutenant gestured at a crumbling tenement. A mangy dog ran past them, tail between its legs. A young gobber chased after his escaped dinner with a stick. “This is why I enlisted. Three square meals a day made fighting Cryx sound like a fine deal.”
That explained a lot.
Madigan stopped in front of a rundown warehouse. “This is the place.”
“Should we power up our swords?” Wilkins asked, eager.
“Feel free.”
Cleasby activated the weapon by rotating the haft in opposite directions until it locked in the armed position. It took a moment for the storm chamber to warm up. Then the sword began to hum at a very low pitch. The coils running through the copper tube in the center of blade began to glow with a pale, flickering light. Energy that had been gathered in the arcane accumulator flowed through the conductive lattice of the blade. There was a trigger stud beneath the guard to discharge the energy. Cleasby had never seen one of these used, but he’d heard they were absolutely devastating against tissue—including the user’s own, without proper attire. Suddenly he found that the storm armor didn’t seem quite so uncomfortable.
Wilkins was grinning. “Who are we fighting?”
“Nobody. You two just need to look official and intimidating. Lower your visors.”
Cleasby reached up with one insulated gauntlet and moved the visor down. The world seemed to close in as his vision was drastically curtailed. His breathing seemed very loud.
Madigan went up to the door and knocked. A small portal rasped open, and a pair of eyes appeared. “Password?” Then the guard saw the two glowing, fully armored Stormblades flanking an officer. “Uh oh.”
“The place is surrounded. Open this door now or I’ll have my warjack make a new one.”
“Right away!” The portal slid closed. They heard the scrape of a heavy metal bar being moved on the other side of the door.
“Warjack?” Wilkins asked in a low voice. “Surrounded?”
“Does Morrow have a problem with lying in order to gain a tactical advantage, Sergeant?”
“Not that I’m aware of, sir.”
“Good. Me and him will get along fine then.” The door opened. The guard was a fat, unkempt thu
g, but he got right out of their way, apologizing profusely. As soon as Cleasby was past him, the man took off running down the street.
The front of the warehouse had been portioned off by walls made of old boards and canvas curtains. The sound of many loud, excited voices echoed in the large space—easily dozens of voices, cheering and booing. It sounded like a sporting event. Madigan led the way through the curtains and bumped into a man wearing an armored great coat on his way out. The two men studied each other for a moment. They seemed to recognize each other. The man in the great coat looked over at the Stormblades, then back at their leader. “Madigan.”
“Caine.” Madigan nodded in return. “Here on business?”
“Always.” Then the man in the coat brushed past the Stormblades and walked outside.
“Who was that?” Cleasby asked Wilkins. The other sergeant shrugged.
Their commander shoved the last curtain aside and entered the main area of the warehouse. There had to be at least a hundred people inside. Crates and shelves had been arranged around a wide space in the center, almost like the seating of an amphitheater. In the open center of the warehouse two shirtless men were beating each other to a bloody pulp in a bare knuckle boxing match. Throughout the crowd money was changing hands rapidly as bets were placed. The crowd went wild as a gob of blood, spit, and a few teeth were sent flying across the ring by a particularly nasty right hook.
Madigan didn’t bother trying to shout over the racket. “Wilkins, get their attention.”
There was a wooden barrel off to the side. Wilkins looked inside, probably to make sure its contents weren’t dangerous, then lifted his sword. It hummed as the storm chamber charged, and he brought it down hard against the wood.
CRACK!
The release of electrical energy was far louder than Cleasby had expected. He flinched and closed his eyes, but a glowing blue afterimage remained etched on the inside of his eyelids. When he opened them again, the barrel had been blasted into splinters. The metal barrel rings lay in a pile, scorched and blackened.
That had certainly gotten everyone’s attention. The crowd was still, all staring their way, wide eyed, trying to decide whether they should bolt or not. Even the fighters had stopped—one, because he’d passed out.
Madigan cleared his throat. “That’s better. It’s against army regulations for soldiers to be participating in underground gambling establishments, especially while on deployment. A violation of this regulation is punishable by flogging and a dock in pay . . .”
He noted a lot of panicked looks being exchanged in the crowd.
“But today is your lucky day; I’m only here for the Storm Knights. They can stay seated. Don’t even think of trying to sneak out, because my men will be checking everyone outside, and they don’t take kindly to sneaking,” he lied. “If you’re a civilian you’re probably breaking some law, but that’s not my problem, so get out. If you’re regular army, you’re also not my problem, so get out.”
The vast majority of the spectators got up and hurried for the exits. Cleasby stepped out of the way so they could file past. Everyone was wearing cloaks or coats, but he caught glimpses of uniforms beneath: long gunners, mechaniks, even stormcallers. The unconscious fighter was carried out by two trenchers, which suggested he was one of them.
Cleasby leaned toward Madigan and spoke through his visor. “We should at least take their names and report them to their commanding officers. They’re all in violation.”
Madigan was just scowling at the soldiers as they shuffled by. When he turned to Cleasby, the scowl was gone, and it was obvious the lieutenant was trying not to smile. “You shove twenty-two thousand extra troops with energy to burn into a city, and these sorts of things are to be expected.”
“Morrow warned against gambling,” Wilkins said to the soldiers as they filed past him. “Gambling will attract the gaze of Scion Bolis. Do not let yourself fall under the influence of the Dark Twin or her minions!”
“Wilkins, shut up,” Madigan ordered.
“Yes, sir.”
Once the room was cleared, Madigan walked to the interior. One man and two women still sat on an overstuffed leather couch that looked like it had been removed from a baron’s estate. The man had his boots up on a table and an arm around each woman. Judging from the piles of coins on the table as well as the chalkboard marked with betting odds, he was the fellow running this operation. He was a thin, pale, young man dressed in an aristocrat’s fine suit. Cleasby couldn’t help but stare, not that anyone could tell with his visor down. Both women were very attractive and not wearing much in the way of clothing.
“I said civilians can leave,” Madigan said.
“There was some confusion on that, since they’re employees,” the young nobleman answered with a smile. “Care for a drink, Lieutenant . . . ?”
“Madigan. No thank you. I’m on duty. You must be Corporal Gilford Thornbury.”
It took Cleasby a moment to get the clipboard out of the leather sack on his belt. The gauntlets made that difficult, but taking them off would increase the risk of getting electrocuted by his own sword. Thornbury’s name was on the list next to “Conduct unbecoming a soldier.” He found that a rather vague charge.
“Call me Thorny. Madigan, eh? I’ve heard of you.”
“And I’ve heard of you.” Madigan roughly kicked the young man’s boots off the table and sat on it. Thornbury looked mildly offended. “Sorry, ladies,” Madigan continued, “but this is a private conversation.”
They looked to Thornbury, who nodded. The women fled, though they flashed smiles at the two Stormblades on their way past. Wilkins turned away, somehow refraining from warning them about their dangerous path even though there was surely a scion of harlots.
Thornbury was the first to speak. “Madigan . . . that’s Sir Madigan? You’re the one Laddermore has putting together a unit of misfits. Aren’t you the knight who burned an earl to death, along with his wife and children, back during the coup?”
“That would be me.” Madigan spread his hands in mock apology. “Things happen.”
“My father was knighted, and he never felt the need to burn any children. So I take it you have an issue with the aristocracy?”
“Oh, no, Corporal. I’m landed gentry myself now, though King Vinter only saw fit to grant me a few useless acres of rock in the Wyrmwall. I’m not here with a grudge. I’m here to inform you of your reassignment to the Sixth Platoon.”
“Ah. I can see there’s been some confusion.” Thornbury picked up a goblet, swirled the wine a bit, and took a sip. “That whole military service thing was a big misunderstanding. You see, my father is a very important nobleman, and in some social circles being a Stormblade can be seen as rather prestigious—even dashing. I don’t think anyone ever expected me to do any actual soldiering, especially amid all this unpleasantness with the Menites.”
“Permission to teach this dandy a lesson, Lieutenant?” Wilkins asked.
“Permission denied . . . for now.” Madigan leaned forward. “Let me break this down for you in very clear and simple terms, Thorny. If you know who I am, you know how little I care about who your father is. I’ve already been given the most god-awful, dead-end assignment in the kingdom. It doesn’t get any worse.”
Thornbury scowled. Obviously he hadn’t thought of that.
“As of right now, you are guilty of dereliction of duty and criminal activity. The army thinks you are a spoiled, useless, cowardly fop. You can either come with me, do the duty you signed up for, and prove them wrong, or you can spend the next year in the brig.”
“We both know I’d be released as soon as someone on the command staff heard. They wouldn’t want to be disinvited from the best parties.” He laughed. It was a bluff; even for nobles the repercussions for such behavior were severe, and everyone knew it. “Come on, Madigan. I don’t know why you’d want me anyway. Sure, my father was a great warrior, but me? I’ve no gift for soldiering.”
“I’ve got no s
hortage of men who can swing a sword.” Madigan gestured around the warehouse. “Look what you’ve accomplished here.” Madigan picked up one of the coin purses that lay beside him and weighed it appreciatively. “Good night’s work.”
“Not so. There are associated costs of doing business. Local gangs get a cut for using their turf. Gate guards get a cut for letting all these soldiers through. Fighters get a percentage of the house . . . With you cutting me off after only five fights tonight, by the time I pay everybody, I probably won’t even cover my advertising costs.”
“Next time you should hire some of the local guttersnipes for lookouts. They work cheap. Good insurance.”
“You’re a strange sort of officer, Madigan.”
“And I’m putting together a strange sort of platoon. I need a scrounger.”
“A what?”
“When you’re campaigning, living off the wilderness, every unit picks a scrounger. That’s the man who can find you food to eat and a dry place to sleep. He’s the one who collect favors and make things happen. Right now my platoon is at the end of the logistics chain; Captain Schafer’s got no use for us. We’re the runt of the litter, and the runt always eats last. Worst equipment, worst supplies, worst mechanika, you name it. I need a man who can alleviate that.”
Once again, Cleasby spoke before thinking. “It’s true. Wait until you see the barracks they assigned us.”
“A scrounger?” Thornbury seemed thoughtful. “What’s in it for me?”
“Come on. I’ve ridden past your family estates. We both know you aren’t doing this for the money. You’re bored. That’s why you play these games. I’ve known men like you. There’s no point if there’s no challenge, and where’s the challenge in having everything in life handed to you on a silver plate? You come with me, right now, and you’ll have your challenge—and when this war is over, you’ll have stories to tell all your little aristocrat friends. The noble ladies swoon over a war hero.”
Thornbury adjusted his silk cravat. “I don’t need much help in that department, but I’m intrigued.”
Into the Storm Page 5
