Schafer’s nearest soldier pointed toward MacKay’s improvised shack and the rusty, battle-damaged ’jack inside. “There it is.”
Schafer scowled in the direction of the shed, then laughed hard. “That piece of refuse is their Stormclad? I rode all the way out here in the rain for that?” Some of his staff joined in his laughter, though the few who realized just how badly things had unfolded did not. “That thing isn’t even worth the effort to load it into a wagon. Come on, men, let’s get back to the business of the real army.” Schafer pulled on the reins and directed his horse back toward the gate. His soldiers caught up the reins of the extra mounts and followed.
Lieutenant Madigan walked along behind the horses, flanked by two very wary soldiers. He took one last look back at the troops assembled around the Barn.
“Sixth Platoon!” Cleasby shouted. “Commanding officer departing!” There was a loud clanking of metal on metal as dozens of Storm Knights saluted simultaneously. It was the single most orderly military tradition anyone had yet seen from the Sixth. They held the salute, standing parade ground straight. The honor certainly wasn’t directed at Captain Schafer.
Madigan gave his soldiers a small nod of respect, and then they were gone.
The men were watching, muddy, cold, and tired, but they were all thinking the same thing. Madigan was a tough old bastard, but he was their tough old bastard. There was some muttering, mostly related to Schafer’s parentage, but then Sergeant Wilkins barked an order and the soldiers quickly fell back into line. Wilkins shouted, “What’ll it be, Sergeant Cleasby?”
He wanted nothing more than to take off the damp, chafing armor and lie down to sleep for a week, but that’s not what Madigan would have wanted. “You heard the lieutenant. We carry on.”
Spite is one of the basest motivators, but it’s also one of the most effective. The men took up their weapons with renewed enthusiasm. As of that moment they were no longer a collection of problems but a unit of Storm Knights.
“Nicely done, sir,” Cleasby whispered as he flipped down his visor and got back in line.
Luckily for him, Captain Schafer came to his senses enough not to put a knighted officer of the Crown in the stocks. The occupants of the stocks were subject to very public ridicule—any sod on the street could mock and throw rotting fruit at them—and one simply did not do that to a knight, even one with as dark a reputation as Madigan’s. Certain societal covenants should never be broken, for the good of the kingdom.
Military order had to be kept, however, and not only had Madigan been insubordinate to a superior officer, he had done it in a public manner. That deserved punishment; not to punish him would be to invite chaos. So Madigan had been placed in the brig. As a knight, he had even been given his own private cell. It was far more comfortable than the Barn, and best of all, it was quiet.
It was a rare treat for an officer to have time alone to think.
His platoon would either solidify in his absence or come apart at the seams. It was a gamble, but such was life.
Three days passed before he had a visitor.
Madigan, who had anticipated being placed in the brig well before insulting the captain, had stashed a deck of cards in his pocket. He was sitting on his cot when keys jangled in the lock, a solitaire game of Fellig’s Fortunes spread on the blanket before him. He checked his pocket watch, but it was too early for dinner.
The heavy wooden door creaked open. “Sir Madigan? Sorry to disturb you, sir,” the jailer said.
He could only assume most guests didn’t receive such deferential treatment. “Yes, Private?”
“There’s someone who wishes to speak with you.” The jailer stepped out of the way so an elderly gentlemen could enter.
The old man walked with the aid of an ebony cane. He was dressed as a civilian but still carried himself with a military bearing. His suit was finely tailored, and a silver medal shone on the breast. It was the Royal Order of the Cygnus, the highest honor awarded in the kingdom.
Madigan stood and saluted as soon as he realized who it was. “General Durham!”
“No need to call me ‘General’ anymore. I’ve been retired for years.” Lord Durham waved away the salute and sized up his surroundings. “Nice accommodations you have here. I think I may have spent a few nights in this brig myself due to a few youthful indiscretions. I remember more rats, though.”
“Our rat catchers are the finest in Caspia,” the jailer said proudly.
“Wonderful. Leave us,” Durham ordered. The jailer seemed rather happy to escape. The old knight pulled up a wooden stool and took a seat. “Forgive me. These knees aren’t what they used to be.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“It has been a very long time, Sir Madigan.”
“Twelve years.” The last time Madigan had seen his old friend, mentor, and former commanding officer had been during the Lion’s Coup, where they had been on opposite sides and had met in battle, making this a rather awkward meeting. “Forgive me, Lord Durham, but I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Ha! Meaning you thought surely I’d be dead by now, though I could easily say the same for you. Please, sit down. I’m no longer your commander so you don’t have to stand there making this uncomfortable.” Madigan reluctantly sat on the edge of the cot. “Still playing Fellig’s Fortunes, eh?” The older man’s eyes flicked over the spread of cards. “It appears you could win in three if you play your priest, then your ’caster . . .”
“You always were the superior tactician.”
“Cards are a vice, but everyone needs a hobby. I must say, Madigan, I was rather entertained to hear you were back in Caspia and up to your old tricks. You’ve not changed much at all, have you, lad?”
“How do you mean?”
The former General of the Second Army made an exaggerated show of looking around the cell. “Let’s see . . . Refusing to give up despite being given a bootless assignment. Disregarding the rules in order to get the things you need to get the job done. Goading a young officer for your own ends. Stop me when one of these sounds familiar.”
“You’re remarkably well informed for someone who is retired.”
“When you’re stationed in this city for twenty years, you make a few friends. Insulting a superior like that could be seen as fomenting rebellion. That’s a serious offense in war time, Madigan. Just because we’re about to launch an attack and nobody else wants to be saddled with you doesn’t give you the right to break tradition. My heart nearly failed me when I heard they had summoned you back to Caspia. Those fools don’t seem to realize what they’ve done.”
“I was given an order. I intend to see it through. Isn’t that what you taught me it meant to be a knight?”
“We both know I taught you more than that, but you paid no heed to the parts of knighthood you weren’t inclined toward, like chivalry. No, Madigan, you haven’t changed a bit. I thought maybe your exile would have dulled the edge, but I suppose some swords stay forever sharp.” Durham’s voice grew hard. “At least until they break.”
“The sharpest swords cut both ways, Lord Durham. I am what the army made me. If you’ve come here expecting me to beg for your forgiveness, I’m afraid you’ll leave disappointed. I did what King Vinter ordered me to do.”
“Vinter was a bloodthirsty madman, but he had a talent for sending the right man for the job. Earl Hartcliff was a popular leader among Leto’s supporters, with his own private army and an estate that was a veritable fortress. Who better to send against him than a knight who would sacrifice anything to achieve victory? You’ve never apologized, have you? Not even to King Leto himself.”
“Don’t preach to me about knightly ideals. Do you want me to weep bitter tears, old man? I’m a soldier. My duty is to win for my king. I gave Hartcliff a chance to surrender, but his ‘knightly honor’ required him to fight even though I’d already outmaneuvered him and had him trapped. He was the idiot who turned it into a siege—but I didn’t know his family was inside wh
en I ordered that mansion burned down.”
Durham shook his head ruefully. “I wonder, would a man who would so readily sacrifice anything in order to achieve victory have held back the torches even if he had known there were children inside? I think Vinter already knew the answer when he sent you.”
Madigan was quiet for a very long time.
Durham leaned back and placed arthritic hands on top of damaged knees. “I ask you, Sir Madigan: What is the worth of a knight who would sacrifice his honor so easily? His compassion, his mercy, even his good name? Is he a truly a knight at all? If a man would sacrifice everything to win a fight, then what does he have left to fight for?”
“You always were one for the philosophical games. I’m a simple soldier. What brings you here, Lord Durham?”
“A certain morbid curiosity. The people who sent for you do not realize what they’ve done. They do not understand what lengths you will go to in order to succeed. I suspect Laddermore does, because she is a clever one. She believes you can reform these fallen soldiers, but even she does not realize she does them no favor by placing their lives into your bloodstained hands.”
“Building Sixth Platoon is my mission, and I’ll have them ready and in shape for this invasion, no matter what.”
“I have no doubt they will be taken care of, just like any other assignment set before you.” Durham took up his cane and leaned on it heavily it to rise, then stood on shaky legs. Some war wounds never heal. Madigan got to his feet as well. “Enough beating around the bush. Do you know why I busted you back to lieutenant?”
“I thought it was because during the battle between your army and the loyalists, I personally gave you that limp.”
“You assume everyone is so petty.” Lord Durham let out a long sigh. “That was war. Many of Vinter’s loyalists, even members of the vile Inquisition, still serve the kingdom today, because unlike his older brother, King Leto is a merciful and forgiving man. No, I demoted you and sent you off to the hinterlands because an officer so consumed with a desire to achieve victory despite the costs is a greater danger to his men than the enemy they face.”
“Sixth Platoon is my problem, Lord Durham. I’ll see to them.”
“No doubt. You say they are your problem, and like any problem, you will sacrifice whatever you have to in order to solve it, but I wonder . . . What happens when there is a bigger problem presented to you? Will you be so quick to sacrifice your men to solve it?”
He had no ready answer for that.
“You were one of the most promising officers I ever served with, but there is a darkness in your soul.” Lord Durham limped to the door and knocked on it firmly with his cane. “Farewell, Sir Madigan.”
The jailer opened the door to let out Lord Durham, who did not look back again. Madigan returned to his cot and his card game.
The invasion began while Madigan was still in the brig. The artillery bombardment against the walls of Sul started during the night and woke all of Caspia with a continuous roar of thunder. During his career he had been on both sides of artillery barrages, but he had never heard one as awe-inspiring as this.
The legendary Walls of Caspia had kept out invaders for a millennia, but time and technology had changed, so the ancient walls which now protected the breakoff portion known as Sul would surely fall eventually. But how long would it take? Would the faith of the Menites crumble as well? Would this punitive invasion go as smoothly as the military hoped, or would the Protectorate stand firm? It did no good to dwell on such things, so Madigan went back to sleep. They would be coming for him in the morning.
Sure enough, the keys rattled in the lock just after dawn. He was already awake, dressed, and ready. He followed the jailer out, signed some paperwork—the army had paperwork for everything—and the officer of the watch told him he was free to return to his unit.
Except his unit was waiting for him just outside the brig.
“Sixth Platoon!” Sergeant Wilkins shouted. “Attention!”
Fifty men, all of them wearing polished, gleaming storm armor, moved as one, fell into two neat ranks at the base of the steps. The squad of Stormguard slammed the hafts of their weapons into the flagstones simultaneously. The noise was rather impressive. Then they held perfectly still and waited for his orders.
Sometimes a gamble paid off.
A Storm Knight approached, saluted, and lifted his visor. It was Sergeant Cleasby. “Requesting permission to turn the Sixth back over to you, sir.”
“Acknowledged.” Madigan was grudgingly impressed. “They’re ready for the parade ground, but are they ready for an invasion?”
“I believe so. MacKay is still putting a coat of paint on the warjack, sir, but we went ahead and brought the new standard with us . . .”
“We’re flying colors now? My, Cleasby, you lads have been busy.” Such a thing was good for morale. “I wasn’t expecting you to come up with a flag.”
“Unsurprisingly, Thornbury knows a seamstress.” Cleasby turned back to the ranks and shouted, “Present standard!”
A pole was lifted and their banner unfurled into the breeze. Sixth Platoon of the 47th Company.
Madigan’s Malcontents.
“I like the name.”
Cleasby grinned. “I believe Captain Schafer came up with it, sir.”
Most Storm Knight standards had more eloquent mottos, often long sayings relating to honor, duty, and valor or even quotes from kings or the wisdom of the ascendants, but the Malcontents’ motto consisted of a single word.
Victory.
Woe unto any foe who would draw the ire of a king of Cygnar, for ours is a peaceful land, slow to anger and invariably just. In times of grave emergency a wise king may see fit to send forth his mighty armies to punish the wicked in other lands. When such campaigns occur, they are usually swift and glorious, as honorable enemies recognize the righteousness of the Cygnaran liberators and correct their shameful ways, and dishonorable enemies swiftly fall before the silver blades of our heroic knights. When Cygnar declares war, clear justice follows.
—Records of Chivalry by Lord Percival Rainworth 486 AR
PART II: THE INVADERS
The swirling smoke from the burning houses parted briefly, revealing a blasted street covered in blood and corpses. Then the wind shifted and the smoke washed back over the line, concealing them again, but in those few brief seconds Sergeant Kelvan Cleasby could see a veritable wall of Protectorate shields marching toward them. Temple Flameguard, he remembered. According to Rains’ briefing, these were the backbone of the Protectorate infantry. Incredibly hard to punch through, they specialized in holding choke points like this one.
“Will they break when we fry them?” Wilkins asked. The other leaders of the Sixth looked to Rains, though none were surprised at his response.
“Of course not! Their faith keeps them steady.”
“Throwers ready. On my mark!” Lieutenant Madigan was shouting to be heard over the incredible racket of the explosions, cracks of lightning, gunshots, and the rumble of warjacks all around them. “Fire!”
BOOM!
Their three storm throwers ignited simultaneously. Lightning flashed, filling the street, driving holes through the smoke. On the other side, Menite troops were blasted into smoking pieces of meat. It wasn’t that their longest-range weapons shot as much as that a blinding white line formed between the muzzles and their targets and then disappeared, leaving only ruin.
It would take a moment for the storm throwers to recharge for another blast. But the Menites were still coming. They roared with one voice, screaming for the invaders’ blood. Those at the forward ranks raised their flame spears and whirled them overhead, forcing the flammable oil inside to the tips so that the spear points blazed with fire. The whistling noise this made, combined with the swirls of smoke and fire, was fearsome. Then the Temple Flameguard lowered their spears and charged as one gigantic, angry mass.
“Halberds up. Prepare to receive the charge!” Madigan ordered. Ther
e was no hesitation in his decision making. “Blades will countercharge on my mark. Wilkins’ squad up the center. Rains’ squad, flank left.” The two squad leaders responded that the order had been received, then ran back to their men to relay the command. “Cleasby! Take your squad and one thrower and go right. Go through the market and stick to the stalls until their first ranks are past, and then come out and hit them from behind.”
Cleasby wasn’t even conscious that he’d responded. He was too busy staring at the rushing mob of Menites. The perforations of his protective visor made it hard to see. The ringing in his ears made it difficult to hear. Within moments battle would be joined. How could the lieutenant be so calm? Madigan didn’t even seem to care that they were about to be swarmed by a much larger force. The only reason he was even raising his voice was to be heard over the commotion. Madigan glanced around. “Acosta, where are you?”
The Ordsman appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. If the lieutenant was unnaturally calm, Acosta seemed almost lackadaisical. “Where do you want me?”
“Go with Cleasby. He’s new at this. Keep him alive long enough and I think we might make a leader of him one of these days.”
Acosta gave that odd, slightly frightening smile. “My pleasure.” He flipped down his visor. “After you, Sergeant.”
“Third squad on me! I need a storm gunner. Come on, Pangborn!” Cleasby shouted as he ran behind the line of halberdiers. He remembered his lessons and made sure he had a visual confirmation that his Stormblades had heard and were following. He had Thornbury, Watersford, Dunfield, Crispin, Allsop, the giant Pangborn on the storm thrower, and the mysterious Acosta as his minder, and they were right behind him.
The marketplace was far quieter than the street. It must have been a busy place once, as there were hundreds of stalls, but they’d all been evacuated. After the supposedly impenetrable city walls had fallen, the panicked populace of Sul had fled eastward deeper into the city, abandoning tons of food and goods here in their haste.
Into the Storm Page 10
