Into the Storm (4 page)

“You’ll get no disagreement from me on that. Come on. I’ve got what you want.”

Hutchuck stomped over to the corpse. He gave Cleasby a suspicious look before kneeling and pulling the burlap sack from the bandit’s head, revealing the face. The ogrun growled—a low, dangerous sound—then pulled a rolled piece of paper from inside his breastplate. It was a wanted poster. He looked at the picture, then the body, then back at the picture. “Hard to tell. You humans get puffy when you die, but the beard is right.” He pried open the dead man’s mouth with two giant fingers. “Bad teeth, too.”

“As big as that reward is, it should buy you plenty of corrosive reagents to keep you occupied for a while. It’s Devlin. You’ve got my word.”

“The monetary value of your word couldn’t buy a goat anywhere in Cygnar.” The horrendous bellowing noise that came next had to be ogrun laughter. Hutchuck removed a large coin purse from his belt and tossed it to Madigan. “Always a pleasure doing business, my friend.” The mace went over one shoulder, and then he effortlessly picked up the corpse in his other hand, carrying Devlin by the belt like a piece of luggage. “Farewell, Madigan. May you have a very good war.”

“Until next time, Hutchuck.” Madigan stuffed the bulging coin purse into a saddlebag, then climbed back onto his horse as the ogrun walked in the opposite direction. “Come along, Cleasby.”

He waited until the mighty brute was out of earshot. “What was that?” he demanded, even though he suspected he already knew the answer.

“A mutually beneficial transaction. Military officers can’t collect bounties; Hutchuck’s trade is bounty hunting. So Hutchuck gives me half up front, I bring him the body, and then he goes to the fort and collects the whole reward.” Madigan didn’t seem even the least bit ashamed. “No use letting a perfectly good dead bandit go to waste.”

“That’s against regulations!”

“Which is why I used the ogrun.”

“But . . . but
regulations!
”

Madigan didn’t seem interested in explaining himself further. “Mount up. We’ve got a train to catch.”

Offended and angry, Cleasby followed. He didn’t want to disobey orders, and he certainly didn’t want to be caught on the road in the Thornwood alone after dark. When he’d first heard the rumors about Madigan, he’d thought maybe, just maybe, they were exaggerated, but now he wasn’t so sure. This man was supposed to be a knight? Where was the dignity and the honor like he’d seen from the command staff in Corvis? Those knights had been models of chivalry. Surely, none of them would seek out personal profit for doing something that should be done simply out of duty. Such a lack of propriety was disgusting.

Cleasby knew he could be idealistic at times, but Sir Madigan was proving to be as bad as everyone had made him out to be.

Cleasby watched out the train window as they approached the biggest structures he had ever seen. The capital of Cygnar was one of the largest cities in Caen, a magnificent testament to the greatness of their people. It had been the only city in western Immoren never to fall before the Orgoth invaders, and it had only grown more impressive since. He had read much about it, but this was the first time he’d actually seen Caspia. It hardly seemed possible, but the city was even better than he’d imagined.

The first thing he noticed when approaching Caspia was the walls. They were ancient and overwhelming. He’d been taught they were two hundred feet tall in places, and some were a hundred feet thick. To the east, on the other side of the great bridge that spanned the Black River, rose even more great walls, painted white and gold.

That was Sul. It had originally been the eastern slums of Caspia, but the worshipers of Menoth had taken it during the civil war and named it after their rebellious Hierarch Sulon. As a historian, Cleasby was giddy. This place was absolutely filled with history.

The train entered Caspia’s north gate, and Cleasby looked around eagerly, drinking it all in. Great walls reached up everywhere, seemingly without order, creating dozens of separate neighborhoods and districts. People had even built
into
the walls. As for those people . . . Cleasby had never imagined so many people in one place.

“It is absolutely wonderful,” Cleasby spoke his thought aloud.

“Indeed.” His reluctant traveling companion, Lieutenant Madigan, was watching out the same window. The two of them hadn’t spoken much over the last few days of the long train ride. Cleasby had passed the time rereading the few books he’d packed, while Madigan had spent the days visiting with the civilian passengers and sleeping a lot. “Caspia is as beautiful as she is merciless.”

“We’re living during a revolution of industry, and this is the center of it all. I’ve been told Caspia is growing at a rapid pace. There are over a million residents now.”

“First time in the capital, Cleasby?”

“It is, sir. I’m to be stationed here. Headquarters, 33rd Battalion.”

“The 33rd? That’s Storm Lance heavy cavalry.” Madigan sounded suspicious; Cleasby suspected the man didn’t regard him very highly. The feeling was mutual. “You didn’t particularly strike me as a horseman.”

It had been a long journey, but they were too close to their destination to bother getting offended now. “Can’t say I’m much inclined to the horses, sir. I can stay atop one provided it travels in a straight line, and not too quickly. I believe I’m needed for an administrative post.”

“Is that why you joined the military, Cleasby? Administrative duties?”

“Of course not . . .” The young soldier hesitated. “That’s where my superiors felt my talents would be of the most use, sir.”

“I’m not degrading it, lad. It’s a necessary assignment, as any solider who has ever been in a unit with bad logistical support can tell you. Campaigning is bad enough as it is, but it’s worse on an empty stomach and without proper boots. Every unit needs an organizational man, but nobody signs up for a war effort to shuffle paper, especially a young scholar with a university education and no shortage of prospects in society.” Madigan absently scratched at his scar. “So why did you enlist, Cleasby?”

“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.”