Into the Storm (6 page)

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.”

Schafer swallowed. He’d begun to sweat. “I understand,” he croaked.

Madigan nodded as if the captain had just given him a valuable piece of advice. Men like Schafer were motivated mostly by their own doubts and worries of what others thought of them, so it would be counterproductive to make him look bad. Schafer would probably be brave enough in battle—if there were people watching.

“If you think this invasion is nothing more than a chance for
glory
, then you’re a fool, and I only pray you don’t have to bury too many of your soldiers before you understand that. I’ll keep my rejects out of your way. We’ll be no trouble at all. Your career is safe. I am a ghost. When the invasion comes, tell me where you want me. Until then, keep out of my face and let me do my job.”

The captain bobbed his head in agreement.

“Now salute your subordinate like a proper officer of Cygnar instead of a petulant child.” Madigan stepped away, snapped to, and saluted crisply. “Thank you, Captain!”

Schafer returned the salute. His hand quivered just a bit as it reached his brow. “That’ll be all, Lieutenant Madigan. Carry on.”

Laddermore had suggest he tread lightly around Captain Schafer . . . Sadly, that was Madigan’s idea of “lightly
.
”

Sergeant Kelvan Cleasby reported to his new duty station to discover they were living in a slum. In fact, to call this barracks a slum would be to insult proper slums. The building was really more of a barn currently unfit for livestock. It even had gaping holes in the shingles and pigeons living in the rafters. When he opened the front door, it promptly fell off the hinge.

“Hello?” he called. “Anyone home?”

Lieutenant Madigan came around a corner, looking presentable in a new uniform and even wearing the rare Star of Valor he’d earned. Cleasby’s new orders had been rushed, so he hadn’t been sure who his new commanding officer was supposed to be. Madigan must have found out about Cleasby reporting his bounty violation, and this was to be his punishment.
So this is what it feels like when your career dies,
he thought as he saluted.

Madigan waved off the salute and said, “Welcome to the Sixth Platoon, Cleasby. You’re late.”

“I’m sorry, sir. This barracks was rather difficult to find, the way it was hidden between a slaughterhouse and the cattle pens.”

“Only the best for Sixth Platoon.”

“Sir . . . May I ask why I’m—”

“No. Familiarize yourself with this.” He handed Cleasby a clipboard with a list of names on it. “Now hop to. We’ve got some recruiting to do.” Madigan strode out of the room. Cleasby dragged his equipment to the side, leveraged the door into place so it was approximately closed, and then rushed after his new commanding officer.

Sixth Platoon’s barracks wasn’t located in the military district with the rest of the army, but with the spin up to the invasion, the city was filling with troops. It was quite a walk across the busy streets of Caspia to get back to the main body of the army, and Cleasby was curious as to why they were stuck so far outside the regular boundaries. Then he scanned the list Madigan had given him and came to a terrible realization.

“Sixth Platoon is to be made up of criminals and madmen!”

“Indeed,” Madigan snapped. “And you are one of their NCOs, so you’d better act like it. The first one that gives you trouble, you’ll need to bust his head to set an example of proper military discipline.”

“That’s rather unorthodox.” Cleasby jumped out of the way as several massive trollkin in colorful tartans crossed the street. Then he hurried to catch up with Madigan, who walked at a very fast pace.

“When you’re dealing with such men, you can’t show weakness or they’ll eat you. Here.” Madigan handed Cleasby a letter. “See that this is telegraphed today. I need it delivered immediately.”

Cleasby looked at the address. “Five Fingers?” The Ordic city was well known as a base for pirates, mercenaries, and sell-swords. “Why Five Fingers?”

“Just do it.”

“Yes, sir.” Cleasby tucked the paper into his bag and rushed to catch up to his new commanding officer.

When they reached the edge of the military district, Madigan paused. “Now, which way is the mechanik’s yard?” he muttered. The area was a sea of blue uniforms and commotion.

Cleasby looked back at the list he carried. “Most of the men on here are in the brig, sir. It’s right over there—”

“Not yet. When you build a house, you lay the foundation first. You put up walls with no foundation, the walls fall over. Now hurry up. I hear hammering over this way.” Madigan pushed his way through the crowd.

They had to stop again as a pair of massive Ironclad warjacks crossed the street ahead of them. The ground shook as the six-ton metal machines lumbered past, smoke pouring from each set of dual stacks. Their controlling marshal walked ahead of them, directing them with a series of short verbal commands and hand gestures. Cleasby was awed by the sight, but Madigan only seemed annoyed at the delay. Once the ’jacks were past, Madigan crossed the street and Cleasby hurried to keep up.

The mechanik’s yard was easy to find once they got closer. It was the noisiest, smokiest, hottest part of the military district. The huge gate, adorned with the symbol of crossed wrenches, stood open. A veritable army of ’jacks loomed inside the walls, most of them perfectly still, almost as if they were standing at attention. Among them Cleasby saw everything from nine-foot-tall light warjacks to massive heavy warjacks, most of which he guessed were at least twelve feet tall, alongside laborjacks of all shapes and sizes. Hundreds of mechaniks were working frantically.

Near the gate a gobber was working on a partially dismantled Defender, scraping at a patch of rust. The little creature’s legs hung out of an opening in the heavy warjack’s torso. Madigan approached, and Cleasby had to step over a pile of gears and hoses that had been ripped out of the ’jack and then duck under its arm cannon. “Excuse me.” Madigan called to the gobber. “I’m looking for Neel MacKay. Is he around?”

“The angry human?” The gobber demonstrated why his species was so talented at working on machines as he effortlessly rolled around inside the confines of the Defender’s chest. His green skin was covered in rust and grease. He pointed with his wire brush at a small building. “Follow the shouting and profanity.”

“Thank you, friend,” Madigan said as he set out for the indicated shed.

Cleasby checked the clipboard. “There’s no MacKay on here.”

“There should be. MacKay’s about as antisocial as you can be without getting drummed out of the army. We served together during the Scharde Invasions. He hates people. Loves ’jacks, though.” Madigan reached the shed and slid the door open without bothering to knock.

A beefy, overweight, older fellow with a white bushy mustache the consistency of the gobber’s wire brush was leaning over the fist of a ’jack, using a cutting torch to remove a damaged knuckle. He cursed at the sound of their arrival. “Blasted interruptions! How’s a man supposed to fix all this poorly designed junk when every dunderhead in Caspia keeps bothering him?” Goggles swung their way. “What’s the meaning of—” His mouth fell open. “Madigan?”

“Sergeant MacKay. Been awhile.”

The old mechanik hurriedly turned some valves to kill his cutting torch and set it down carefully on his workbench. “They busted me back to corporal for punching some wet-behind-the-ears journeyman warcaster in his stupid mouth for insulting one of my ’jacks.” MacKay had a strong Thurian accent. He came over and engulfed Madigan in a bear hug. “Good to see you, boy!” The knight returned the hug. When they broke apart, Madigan’s new uniform was stained with grime. The mechanik grimaced. “Sorry about that.”

Madigan waved off his concern. “It needed to be broken in. How you been, old man?”

“Bored! Fixing things that shouldn’t get broken in the first place. Stupid officers. I swear they come out of the academy too proud to read the stupid manuals. I’m a
field
mechanik. This look like the field to you?” MacKay waved one heavy work glove around the shed. “They stuck me here and said I’m too old to fight in the invasion. Can you believe that?”

Cleasby could easily believe it. The Scharde campaign had ended eighteen years ago. Cleasby had been a baby.

“Their mistake, and their loss,” Madigan agreed. “I need a favor.”

“If it hadn’t been for you I would’ve died at the hands of those godforsaken Cryxians. Anything for you, my boy.”

“Sixth of the 47th needs a warjack. That’s my new command.”

MacKay went to a very full chalkboard on the wall and scowled. “Orders from a Captain Schafer, no warjacks for that platoon. Says here your boys are ‘low priority.’”

“Get me a warjack.”

The mechanik scratched at his grizzled chin. “That’ll take some doing.”

“Do it, then.”

“Can’t promise nothing new or fancy.”

Madigan folded his arms. “I want a Stormclad.”

“And I want to bed Ayn Vanar, but neither one is likely to happen.” MacKay paused, thinking it over. “The Stormclad’s the top of the line. Every Stormblade unit wants a Stormclad. Getting one would be hard, but not impossible . . . You’ll still need a ’jack marshal to run it, though. Get me on your platoon and I’ll get you your ’jack.”

Cleasby couldn’t believe his ears. “That’s against regulations. You can’t work outside of regular procurement, and you can’t just go moving assigned personnel around!”

MacKay looked like he was thinking about hitting Cleasby with a wrench, but Madigan just ignored the protests. “You know how to work a storm glaive?”

“Better than you do, I’d wager, since I was there when Sebastian Nemo unveiled them. Hell, I know how to
build
them.”

The knight rubbed his scar thoughtfully. “You’ve let yourself get fat, MacKay . . .”

He patted his gut. “My Evie can cook.”

“You’ve got two months to squeeze yourself into a suit of storm armor. It won’t do me any good to have a warjack if its controller is too fat and slow to run along behind it.”

“Deal.” MacKay’s toothy grin could barely be seen beneath his huge mustache. He used his thumb to wipe the word
low
from the chalkboard. “Now Sixth Platoon is
priority.
”

“I’ve heard they call him the Ascendant,” Madigan said as they made their way through the streets just outside of the walls of the Sancteum. “Supposedly he’s a remarkable fighter.”

“We probably shouldn’t call him the Ascendant. He’d probably consider himself unworthy and take offense.” Cleasby was master of the clipboard. “It says here that Sergeant Wilkins is quite possibly delusional. His last commanding officer found him to be insufferable, obnoxious, and a detriment to morale.”