Into the Storm (13 page)

The old mechanik’s eyes bugged. “You want me to what? That’s an insult to my skills as a mechanik. People will talk, me not keeping up a ’jack proper! A man can have an ugly wife and nobody will disrespect him to his face, but an ugly ’jack? Inconceivable.” Even in the dim light, Cleasby could see the mechanik’s argument wasn’t gaining any sympathy from the commander. MacKay tried another tack. “Fine, then. Let them talk bad about Old Neel’s skills. But what about the soldiers’ morale when they think the platoon’s heavy hitter is a walking pile of scrap?”

“I’m taking the long view on that. You’ll see.” Madigan turned and walked away. “And you still need to lose some weight if you plan on keeping up. Good night, Neel.”

MacKay kicked the wagon wheel. “The things I’m willing do to get back to the action,” he muttered.

Madigan saw Cleasby standing there and frowned. “Spying?”

“Of course not, sir. I’m rather overt in keeping records of our many indiscretions. I’d call this more eavesdropping. So I take it our new ’jack is a murderer with a bad reputation? It’ll fit right in.”

Madigan picked up the unfamiliar weapon from the rack. The storm glaive seemed slightly unbalanced compared to a proper Caspian blade, but its arcane capabilities would more than make up for that. Conductive elements ran through the center of the blade and connected to the large special accumulator set into its hilt, a complex and ingenious mechanikal apparatus made from layers of zinc, copper, and brass bathed in alchemical solutions and inscribed with runes. Somehow that mechanikal marvel generated and distributed arcane energy in the form of electricity, enabling the user to strike with the power of lightning.

The storm chamber, as that accumulator was called, was one of Sebastian Nemo’s most famous inventions. How it worked was far over Madigan’s head, but his job wasn’t to understand it. All he needed to know was how best to kill people with it.

“How do I turn this damned thing on?”

“Twist the haft in opposite directions,” MacKay explained. “You’ll feel it click when it locks into the on position.”

Madigan knew he should have found the time to familiarize himself with their issue equipment sooner, but there hadn’t been much to work with, and he’d been too busy. Such was the burden of command. He put his insulated gauntlets in the indicated places and twisted. The storm chamber began to make a buzzing noise.

“Worse comes to worst, it always functions as a sword, but when you release the built-up arcane energy of the storm chamber, it is really something to see. It takes a moment to charge up between uses.”

“How will I know when it’s ready?”

“Trust me, Lieutenant.” MacKay lowered his visor. “You’ll know.”

The storm glaive was glowing blue. Energy began crackling down the steel. It felt unnatural. “I see what you mean.”

Madigan found the trigger stud beneath the guard, pointed it at the wooden stump the Sixth had been using as a target, and fired. The magical energy was hurled seemingly instantly across the space with an intense noise and flash. A flock of pigeons took off from the roof of the barn and fled. He blinked a few times, then cursed under his breath when he saw he’d missed the stump and blasted a hole in the ground instead. Dirt came raining down from the sky. “I suppose that’s why I’m doing this while the men aren’t watching.”

“Of course, lad,” MacKay said. “It takes some getting used to. It isn’t like aiming a firearm, and the electrical discharge isn’t real accurate either. Ideally, we’ll be using these together with one storm rod per squad, provided Thorny can get some for us, but those storm rods are in short supply. The storm rod augments the glaives around it, adding to power and range. Or if a target is hit by a storm thrower, the discharges from the less-accurate glaives will follow along, like water flowing into a gutter, to go the same way and hit the target. The weapons were meant to be used together, and each piece bolsters the others. Even our Stormclad feeds off the energy. Just being close to all these storm chambers charges him up. The squad with the voltaic halberds should have an NCO armed with a nexus generator, which will send electricity leaping from one man to another when they strike in close combat. Those halberds can absolutely lay waste to enemy ranks. Thorny got me most of the parts from a busted generator, so I’ll see what I can do to make one.”

The Sixth had a few different kinds of troops. Most were Stormblades armed with glaives like this, but Madigan also had a squad of Stormguard armed with the voltaic halberds and a handful of men armed with the longer-range storm throwers.

“The more equipment we can scrounge, the better off we’ll be. I’ve got faith in you, Neel.”

“Glad somebody does. Evie thinks I’m mad, volunteering for this.”

Madigan lifted the storm glaive again. Arcane energy flickered down the blade, leaping across his hands. It was strange, as the insulated layer of his armor was the only thing protecting his body from the deadly force. It took a moment for the power to build back up, but even then he realized the storm glaive actually felt quicker in his hands, like a proper sword.

MacKay noticed the way he was holding the sword. “Runes make if feel lighter when they’re powered up by the accumulator.”

“Impressive.” Madigan fired again. Lightning smashed into the stump, throwing chunks of smoking bark in every direction. “Very impressive.”

“Wait until you see what it does to a body when all that energy goes shooting through it. Blood flash boils into steam. Skin crisps up like a pig turning on a fire. Organs pop. A solid hit will blow chunks right off you . . . But you’re a swordsman, lad.” MacKay nodded at the stump. “You know you want to.”

Madigan walked forward as the storm chamber charged. Taking the storm glaive in both hands, he swung from the shoulder and struck the stump. There was a flash and he was pelted with bits of flaming wood. The shock traveled up his arms, but it was more muted than it should have been. The sword had cut far deeper than expected. Madigan wrenched it free, studying the charred gash. “That’s unexpected.”

“It isn’t just hitting with steel. The mechanika augments the blade itself. A proper swing when the storm chamber is fully charged will slice regular armor like cloth and put a hurt on even the finest plate. A real good blow can even crack a warjack open. I tell you, Nemo’s a genius.”

“No wonder we lost in the coup,” Madigan muttered.

MacKay laughed. “We? Speak for yourself, boy! I was on leave, drunk as could be for a week, when all that happened. I woke up hung over, and when I heard the news my response was
all hail the new king!
But I suppose some of us are smart enough to know when to stay out of trouble
.
”

“I was never good at avoiding trouble, and I don’t suppose much has changed.” Madigan studied the storm glaive and smiled. “Except maybe the
volume
of trouble . . .”

Rains waited for the Morrowan ceremony to finish before entering the Barn. It wouldn’t do any good to rile up the others. He’d been in enough fights already. Tempers would flare and words would be exchanged, then blows, though he was a capable enough swordsman that nobody had been so stupid as to cause an actual duel over it yet. At least here in his adopted kingdom people enjoyed the freedom to have differences in their beliefs. In his homeland all differences were considered heresy, and heresy always led to the wrack.

Sergeant Wilkins was leading the prayer. Unlike many Morrowans he had met, Wilkins really was as pious as he acted. He was a true devout with absolute faith in the rightness of his beliefs. Rains recognized such individuals because he’d grown up in a city filled with them. Someone so devout would never waver in his suspicions.

I should have stayed in Llael.

At least there it had been straightforward. His heritage hadn’t mattered. He’d been one Stormblade of many, united against the fearsome Khadorans. His unit had fought as one, and even then the toll had been terrible. What was coming would be far worse. Rains feared what would happen to this motley band once they crossed into Sul, for only he truly understood the absolute commitment of the men and women they would be facing.

Because he’d felt such commitment himself once.

Someone joined him at the doorway. “They’re not done yet?” It was the mysterious Ordsman, Acosta. He watched the other soldiers continue their service for a time, his dark face scowling. “I too, tire of their nattering.”

“I really don’t mind it so much,” Rains said truthfully. In a way, it reminded him of his youth. “People take comfort in their rituals.”

“If it helps them to fight better, so be it. Whatever gives a man more strength is right. To be strong when the steel is drawn, that is all that matters. If words read from an old book over little statues and trinkets gives them fire in their bellies, then good. Let them have their prayers.” Acosta studied Rains for a moment. “You do not pray because you despise your old god . . . Don’t be surprised; your bitterness is easy to see. But it doesn’t matter, because your strength comes from anger and old hurts. You’ve killed men already, no?”

Not enough yet.
There were rumors about Acosta’s background. All Rains knew for sure was that the man could spar far better than anyone else in the platoon—and even then he always seemed to be holding back—and that Madigan trusted him completely. “What do you know of such things?”

“I’ve seen the Rhulfolk pray to their Great Fathers and I’ve seen the druids pray to their trees.” Acosta was contemptuous. “There are gatormen who pray to dark things that dwell deep in the swamps. The Cryxians pray to their Dragonfather, and they have overcome death itself. All can fight well in their own ways, all paths have something to offer, so all can be learned from.”

“Perhaps I am only remembering the traditions of my youth, but some things are best left unlearned.”

“A good philosophy . . . for a coward.”

That made Rains uneasy. Ord was a civilized kingdom, mostly of the Morrowan faith, much like Cygnar, but Acosta certainly didn’t talk like a Morrowan. They tended to shy away from the dark secrets almost as much as those of the Menite faith did. “Who do you pray to then, Acosta?”

“Does it matter?” Acosta looked him in the eyes. In the darkness, it was like staring into two black pits. “One who prays speaks the words to his god, but who else is listening? You should try it again sometime. You might be surprised who answers.”

The prayer was concluded. The pious were returning to their bunks. Wilkins had seen the pair standing in the doorway and was walking their way. “I’d be careful saying such potentially blasphemous things in front of our would-be witch hunter,” Rains warned before Wilkins got within earshot.

Wilkins gave each of them a brief nod of greeting. It was coldly polite. “You did not join our service, but I wish you to know that all are welcome.” He looked to Rains. “Perhaps doing so would demonstrate your conviction to the men.”

“Thank you for your concern, but in the upcoming battle I will demonstrate my conviction with my sword.” Rains was tired of having his patriotism questioned by this man.

“What are you hoping to accomplish, Wilkins?” Acosta asked, seeming genuinely curious.

“We were asking Ascendant Markus to hear our pleas.”

Acosta shrugged. “I do not
plead.
”

“So you are not devout, then?” There had been talk that Wilkins suspected Acosta of being a secret Thamarite. Holding such beliefs was distasteful but not illegal, as long as the believers didn’t congregate into cults or practice black magic.