Into the Storm (22 page)

They reviewed a few other items of business, and then Captain Schafer dismissed the officers so they could return to their platoons. They all rose and shuffled out of the tent. Griggs caught Madigan at the flap and whispered, “Thanks for trying.” This was a man who was fighting for the future of his country, not for pretty ribbons, shiny medals, or bragging rights.

These officers may have heard of the Malcontents’ bad reputation, but the last six weeks had demonstrated to all that were willing to see that the knights of the Sixth were prepared to get the job done. “Don’t hesitate to send a messenger if you need us,” Madigan whispered.

Everyone else was gone, leaving him alone with the captain. Schafer seemed surprised to see Madigan still there. “I said you were dismissed.”

“I was wondering if there was any word from the CRS about the remains of the device we found.”

Schafer’s face soured even a bit more, and Madigan could see the man was disappointed he’d asked the question. “There has been. The CRS passed it on to the mechaniks in the Smoke District. They’re not concerned. It turns out we have tried such a weapon and failed to make it work. The Protectorate lags far behind us in industry and science. They rely on whatever blessings their god doles out instead, and their ’jacks are based upon designs stolen from us or bought from the Khadorans. If our best minds can’t make such a complex thing work, there is no reason to think the Protectorate will be able to utilize such a device as a weapon.”

“The Protectorate might not, but what of Groller Culpin?”

“Ah yes, your sighting of the legendary arcane mechanik.” Schafer’s snide tone indicated just what he thought of that. “The CRS thinks it is doubtful he’s even alive, let alone living in Sul. There is no evidence of any contact between him and the Protectorate, or he would have sought asylum there, and the CRS would know. You are aware of the Protectorate’s essential distrust of those gifted in magic, how they are treated there. Why would he turn to them?”

“The Protectorate is pragmatic enough to take in a mad genius who’d like nothing more than to watch Cygnar burn. Culpin tried to blow up King Leto once.”

“Yet failed and died in the process . . . I found out something else as well. It seems you were personally acquainted with this man. He was even present during your acts of butchery during the coup. Some might say your insistence that Culpin lives looks remarkably like some sort of scheme to divert blame for your past actions. Perhaps if you provide a new villain for your misdeeds, his name will be cursed rather than yours?”

Schafer was a snide, petty man, so of course he suspected the same from those around him. “Culpin being alive or dead doesn’t change anything. I accept full responsibility for every decision I have ever made and every order I have ever given.”

“Really, Madigan, I think this is just an attempt on your part to make yourself more important to the war effort. You would simply love for me to take you off of your leash. Your request to hunt for this phantom is denied.”

“Very well . . .” He’d been expecting as much from the military bureaucracy, which was why he would take matters into his own hands and solve this problem himself. “Permission to speak freely.”

“Denied.”

“Then I’ll do it anyway for your own good. Let the Sixth take point today. Griggs is a good officer and he’s right to be concerned for his men. They’re combat-fatigued. They’ve had to consolidate down to only three squads. They need replacements. They lost four more men yesterday taking a bridge while having Skyhammer rockets dropped on them.”

“I saw the report,” Schafer snapped.

“And
Griggs
saw his men ripped apart by shrapnel. I can only assume it was a bit more moving in person.”

The captain had been pushed too far. “Get out of my tent or I’ll have you removed.”

Not before I could remove your head
.

He’d be doing the entire war effort a favor, but Madigan ground his teeth together, saluted, and walked from the command tent.

The morning sun shone red through the smoke as Madigan’s Malcontents patrolled the street. Enoch Rains had his head up, alert. Tall buildings rose on both sides, and the cursed deliverers liked to ambush from high spots. It was doubtful his platoon would run into any ambushes here, though, since Laddermore’s cavalry had already pushed through; the Sixth was just bringing up the southern flank to protect their supply line and escape routes. A coordinated counterattack seemed far more likely. Either way, the thought kept a soldier on his toes.

The noise of the fighting had died down ahead of them. That meant either Stryker’s push had paid off or it was the quiet before the inevitable Protectorate counter. “Stay alert,” Rains told his squad.

Corpses lay everywhere, Temple Flameguard mostly. The cavalry’s push had been effective. The resistance had not. His squad had to step carefully, but no one touched the dead; the enemy had already demonstrated they were not above booby trapping bodies with grenades. He alone approached any of the corpses, and he only cared about unmasking one particular type of enemy.

Enemy
 . . .

It was odd that he’d taken to calling them the enemy in his head. Only a handful of years ago they had been his people, his family. They had lived in the same neighborhoods, eaten the same food, and worshipped the same god.

Enemy
 . . . Rains supposed the name just made killing his former countrymen easier. He’d lost track of how many lives he’d snuffed out over the prior months. In every fight, he’d given his all. His fellow Stormblades had stopped questioning his patriotism—most of them, at least.

Many Protectorate troops wore masks or visors, which spared him from the sure knowledge that he was killing people he’d once known personally. Sul was one of the largest cities in the world, so it was doubtful, but with every life he took, Rains had to wonder, was that someone he’d known? Had he gone to school with that one? Worked in the foundry with that one? Played with that one as a boy?

It didn’t matter. None of them mattered. They were the enemy, and they were faceless, without number, and prepared to serve Menoth in the afterlife. There was only one life that mattered enough to bring him back to this cursed city.

A nearby building had collapsed. It had once been apartments for the families of the Great Temple’s workers. He’d walked this path many times. For just a moment the destruction seemed to fade away and he was walking on a clean, orderly, street, in the shadows of tall white stone buildings with red roofs. The sounds of an industrious people filled the air . . . And then he was back in the ruined city that had once been his home.

Headhunter walked in the middle of the column, stacks smoking, being guided carefully through the wreckage by his MacKay. Pangborn was with them, learning how marshaling was done. The big man was smarter than he looked, and he’d taken to the task. The white legs of an enemy warjack stuck out from beneath a heavy stone where it had been crushed. Ignoring MacKay’s order, Headhunter clanged over and poked at the foot with the end of its giant galvanic blade. It seemed almost disappointed that the enemy warjack was already disabled. Rains didn’t understand how a cortex functioned, but he knew their ’jack just wasn’t right.

He heard a shout from ahead in the line. He looked and saw a private running along, looking for someone. When the man caught sight of him he called, “Sergeant Rains! Sergeant Wilkins wants to talk to you.”

“Langston, you’re in charge of the squad until I get back,” Rains ordered his most experienced knight. Then he turned back toward the runner and shouted, “Where’s he at?” The soldier pointed at a nearby chapel, where Wilkins was waiting for him, alone on the steps. Storm armor clanking, Rains jogged over.

The Radiance of Morrow on Wilkins’ Precursor shield looked out of place beneath the Menofix suspended over the doorway. Rains glanced over the building quickly. The scorch marks on the stone, the wooden door lying broken into splinters, and the blood spatter told a story. The enemy had tried to hold this position, and one of the platoons of Stormblades ahead of them had blasted their way in.

“What do you need?”

Wilkins’ visor was open, and he was scowling. “First, I have a question for you. Why do you pull the masks off the vassals?”

Rains stopped at the base of the steps. “You called me over here to ask about that? I’ve had enough of your suspicions, Wilkins. If you still think I’m a spy even after all we’ve been through, you’re an imbecile. Bugger off.” Disgusted, he turned and started walking back to his squad.

“Hold on, you Idrian bastard! If you’re a spy, you’re not a very good one. Sixth Platoon doesn’t have a single secret you could share that would come close to making up for how many Protectorate soldiers you’ve killed. You’ve ended more of them than damn near anyone in this unit.”

Rains paused. That was true. The only ones among them that had killed more of the enemy were the Stormclad, because it was a gigantic steam-powered killing machine, and perhaps Acosta, who was frankly the most efficient combatant any of them had ever seen. “Maybe I’m just trying
really
hard to convince you.”

“Perhaps.” Wilkins paused as if collecting himself. “I’m guilty of making an unrighteous judgment.”

“You’re admitting you’re wrong?” Rains was surprised. “After all this time you’ve been turning the platoon against me, making my job damn near impossible, and insinuating I’m an assassin?”

“Perhaps I’m just worn out. Mistrusting you and fighting these crazed zealots at the same time takes far too much energy. I’m done, Rains. Besides, I have seen how
real
Menite assassins work, and you could only wish you were as dangerous. Those women are frightening.”

They hadn’t known much about the mysterious Protectorate order called the Daughters of the Flame, but Wilkins had nearly been murdered by one of them recently and had narrowly escaped with his life. “They seem to have a particular hatred for you.”

“They say the ranks of the Daughters of Flame are made up entirely of widows.” Wilkins shrugged. “I have killed a lot of husbands.”

“It’s probably that shield of yours.” Rains pointed at the battered old thing. “It offends them.”

“This?” Wilkins held up the shield and gestured at the Radiance of Morrow on it. “Good. This shield is special, a holy relic. One of Ascendant Markus’ finger bones is sealed inside.” He gazed at it in adoration for a moment, then turned to Rains suddenly. “Enough of this. Let me show you why I sent for you.” Wilkins went inside the chapel.

Rains sighed, shook his head, and then followed. He didn’t know if he believed Wilkins’ change of heart, but he could understand the idea of simply being too worn out to care anymore. A skirmish had clearly taken place within the small chapel. The interior had been torn apart, the pews broken and scattered. The floors had been washed in blood. A handful of Protectorate dead lay among the wreckage. Cygnarans left no man behind, so there was no way to know if any had perished in the fight.

“What is it?”

Wilkins pointed at the altar. “I don’t know what you are looking for beneath those iron masks, but I wish you luck in your search.” Another body lay at the base of the altar. It was a vassal of Menoth. Wilkins put one gauntleted hand on Rains’ shoulder. He was completely sincere. “Forgiveness is one of the tenets of the ascendants, which I clearly need to study more. I understand now that you have forsaken your old faith. I hope you can forgive me for not taking you at your word.” He walked out of the chapel, leaving Rains alone with the dead.

Enoch hesitated only a moment before going to the body. The vassal had been hit by a close-range lightning discharge to the chest. It had arced into the floor and burnt the lower half of his body to a crisp. At least with the lightning leaping through his heart, he would have had a quick death.

Ezra had been twelve years old when he had discovered his arcane gifts. The brothers had always been close, and when Enoch found out about Ezra’s power the younger boy had begged him to keep it secret. Both boys had heard stories of children being taken from their families after developing arcane abilities, sometimes never returning. Enoch had promised to shield Ezra, but he had failed. The Protectorate had found him. Enoch could still hear his little brother desperately crying his name as they took him away.

Ezra would be eighteen now . . .