Into the Storm (9 page)

“A few things we have to clear up, though. That’s
Lieutenant
Madigan from now on. They might think we’re the dregs of the army, but we’re still the army.” The next part was a whisper that could barely be heard. “And if you ever bring up Earl Hartcliff’s children again, I’ll make you regret it. Understand?”

Thornbury nodded quickly.

“Good. That’s settled then.” Madigan patted Thornbury on the shoulder. The aristocrat flinched. “Let’s be going.”

“Uh, sir?” Wilkins nodded his helmet toward the improvised fighting arena. “We’ve still got company.”

One of the boxers remained, sitting on a stool in his corner. The man was huge, with a torso that was a solid block of muscle. His head was down, blond hair covering his eyes. His face and hands were badly swollen and dripping red.

“That’s the champ,” Thornbury explained. He pointed at one of the chalkboards showing the odds. “That monster took on five challengers in a row tonight and whipped them all. He’s strong as an ox and can take a beating like you wouldn’t believe. I think he must be half ogrun.”

“I never took any of Pendrake’s classes at the university, but I’m fairly certain that isn’t biologically possible,” Cleasby said.

“Is he dead?” Wilkins asked.

“He’s still breathing.” Madigan raised his voice. “You, fighter! What’s your name?”

Surprisingly, the battered man got to his feet, wobbling for only a moment, and then raised his arm and saluted. “Corporal Nestor Pangborn, sir! Stormblade Infantry Storm Gunner!” he shouted. “Currently unassigned, sir!”

Cleasby checked his clipboard. “Pangborn . . . He’s on here. Disciplinary problems. Fighting. Fighting. And
more
fighting.”

“You don’t say.” Madigan stroked his scar. “You like to fight, Corporal?”

“It’s all I’m good at, sir.”

Cleasby was a bit unnerved by some of the notes on Pangborn. “He was released from the brig yesterday, sir. He was there for getting into it with some long gunners. He put five of them in the hospital . . . using only his bare hands.”

Wilkins whistled.

“One of them called me dumb. I’m from farm country, and never went to school or nothin’, but I’m not dumb, no sir.” The huge man lifted his head proudly. His nose was currently smashed flat and blowing frothy blood bubbles, but he didn’t seem to notice. “They all laughed, so I went at them. I don’t like people thinking they’re better than me, especially those that laugh all mean at folks. There was ten of them, but I only got through half the squad before the MPs clubbed me down. Would’ve gotten them all, but a few ran too fast. Sir.”

Thornbury sounded disappointed. “If I’d known that beforehand, I would’ve made a lot more money on the odds tonight.”

Madigan smiled. “Well, Pangborn, I’m happy to say you’re no longer unassigned.”

It had begun to pour on the way back from the docks. It was miserable. Cleasby’s heavy storm armor made walking exhausting, but at least it held his body heat in and kept him warm. The old mechanik, Neel MacKay, was waiting for them at the entrance to their barracks, standing under an awning smoking a cigar. “Evening, Madigan.”

The lieutenant didn’t waste time on hellos. “You get me a ’jack yet?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Work faster.” Madigan introduced him. “Lads, this is Corporal MacKay, the ’jack marshal for the warjack we don’t have yet. He’s going to bring us a nice Stormclad.”

“Lieutenant Madigan certainly reaches for the stars,” MacKay said in a dry tone. “At this point I
might
be able to get us a one-legged Lancer and some crutches. Turns out Captain Schafer doesn’t hold a particularly high opinion of your platoon.” He took a big puff from his cigar, then held his hands up when Madigan scowled. “Fine, fine, don’t put those scary eyes on me. I’ll get you your lightning ’jack.”

The door to the barracks had fallen on the floor again, so Madigan simply stood on top of it as he held up a lantern and gestured expansively at their lodgings. Water was drizzling in through the many holes in the roof. “Gentlemen, welcome to your new quarters.”

“This ain’t so bad.” Pangborn dragged his bags inside and dropped them on a rotting bunk. The wood collapsed in a cloud of dust. He coughed. “At least the smell of the slaughterhouse next door reminds me of my village.”

Thornbury entered last, stepped over a mummified rat, and then covered his mouth with a handkerchief. “Say the word, Lieutenant, and I can get us rooms at this really nice inn from now until the invasion starts. The proprietor owes me a favor.”

Cleasby looked to Madigan hopefully. Even though it would go against regulations, a warm, dry inn sounded preferable to this place.

Madigan hung the lantern from a peg on the wall. “Tempting as that may be, we’ve got another fifty names on Cleasby’s clipboard to gather up, and this is our base. You men are the foundation of this new unit. I’m counting on each of you to make this work.”

“Well, how about we foundational leader types sleep in the nice inn while the grunts sleep here?” Thornbury asked. “No?” He sighed. “Well, I’ve always wanted to contract a case of flea plague.”

Wilkins spoke from the corner he was inspecting. “Permission to set up a unit shrine, Lieutenant? It will be small, I promise, just to honor Ascendant Markus, read from the
Prayers for Battle,
and ask for his blessings on this platoon.”

“Permission temporarily denied. When you go one week without annoying me, ask again. Get some rest. Tomorrow’s another busy day. Speaking of which . . .” He turned to Pangborn. “You said you grew up on a farm?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know how to patch a roof?”

“Sure thing.” He sounded funny with the bandages shoved up his broken nose. “I’m gonna need some supplies, though.”

Madigan reached into his coat and pulled out a big coin purse. He tossed it to Thornbury. “Take Pangborn shopping tomorrow. And get us new bedding. The rest of you, I want it scrubbed clean while they’re gone. I want this place livable.”

Cleasby recognized the coin purse. It was the payment from the ogrun bounty hunter, Hutchuck. “That’s—”

Madigan cut him off. “That’s our entire operational budget from Laddermore,” he lied. “So make it last, Thorny. I don’t trust our good captain to keep us supplied, and we’re probably going to need to supplement our rations with that too.”

“I won’t spend it all in one place.” Thornbury hid the money in his cloak.

“Good. I want the men warm and well fed, and I don’t want any of them falling ill.”

For once, Cleasby didn’t know what to say. This whole time he’d thought Madigan had taken his share of the bounty for himself. Madigan shot him a glance, and Cleasby knew he wasn’t ever to mention it.

The knock on the door frame was entirely unnecessary, as there wasn’t anything stopping the man from coming inside. “I’m looking for Sixth Platoon,” he said.

“You’ve found it.”

“I was told to report to Lieutenant Madigan for assignment.” He shook the rain from his cloak, came in, and pushed his hood back, revealing the dark hair, dark eyes, and tanned skin of someone of Idrian blood. He was tall, thin, and probably only a few years older than Cleasby. He saluted. “Corporal R—”

“Rains!” Wilkins clanked forward in his armor. He pointed one gauntlet at the stranger. “Begone, you wretched Menite dog! Go back and lick the boots of your hierarch in Sul!”

“Easy, Wilkins,” Madigan cautioned.

“That’s a Protectorate spy!” Wilkins shouted.

“I’m Corporal Enoch Rains.” He glared at Wilkins. “Stormblade, Army of
Cygnar
, and loyal subject to King Leto Raelthorne.”

“Your own evil doctrine says you can place none above Menoth. You can’t serve two masters, traitor.”

“I no longer worship the Creator.” Rains let his cloak fall open, revealing his sheathed sword. “But call me a traitor again and I’ll arrange it so that you can explain it to him in person.”

“You claim to betray your merciless god and declare yourself no traitor?” Wilkins lifted his galvanic sword. “His jealous commandments hold no sway over the righteous.”

“Stand down, Sergeant,” Madigan ordered.

The former Precursor took another step toward Rains, who placed his hand on his own sword and readied himself. The other soldiers looked between them, surprised by the sudden confrontation, but Madigan had lost his patience. He grabbed Wilkins by the open visor of his helmet while simultaneously kicking the back of the man’s knee. Wilkins’ leg buckled beneath his armored weight, and Madigan used his leverage to swing him around and hurl him in a great clanking mass to the floor. Madigan put his boot on Wilkins’ neck and applied some pressure.

“I said
stand down.
”

Wilkins was turning red. “Yes, sir,” he managed to croak.

“Can’t rightly call it standing down if he’s lying on the floor,” Thornbury said.

Madigan removed his foot, and Wilkins gasped for air. The lieutenant turned back toward Rains. “What’s this spy business?”

“I am originally from Sul,” he said simply. “But I am no longer a citizen of the Protectorate.”

MacKay was leaning against the wall, still puffing on his cigar. “So you must be the one they call the Apostate.”

“I have been called that by some, but rarely so casually to my face.”

Cleasby had been so distracted by Wilkins being tossed around by the smaller and older Madigan that he’d nearly forgotten his clipboard. He got it out and scanned until he found Rains’ entry. “He’s on the list. He’s got an exemplary service record, including a commendation for bravery during a skirmish against the Khadorans in Llael. The only problem listed is ‘Personal issues with squad mates.’ Currently unassigned.”

“‘Personal issues’ means no one wishes to serve alongside someone born and raised in the Protectorate of Menoth in a war against the Protectorate of Menoth,” MacKay pointed out. “I’ve heard some of the soldiers talking about him around the military district. How can you trust a man to fight against his own people?”

“They are no longer
my people
.” Rains’ voice was firm. “Cygnar is my country and has been for five years. I have served this king and protected its citizens. Do not question my honor.”

MacKay didn’t respond to Rains. Instead he addressed Madigan. “Some folks say he’s a Protectorate spy. Now I’m not saying he is . . .”

“He’s a spy!” Wilkins insisted from his spot on the floor.

“I’m not saying that, but a soldier’s got a right to wonder if his squad mate would hesitate to raise a sword against his former countrymen.”

Rains gestured rudely at Wilkins. “He’s my current countryman, and I wouldn’t hesitate to raise a sword against him.”

MacKay chuckled and took a puff from his cigar. “Fair enough.”

“Why did you leave the Protectorate?” Thornbury asked, suspicion tingeing his voice. “I understand that doesn’t happen very often in a country full of fanatics.”

Rains’ eyes narrowed. “My reasons are my own.”

Cleasby was still studying the clipboard. “You were already serving in a Stormblade unit in the north. You had to request a transfer to get back to Caspia, where we’re about to invade your home city.” He didn’t need to point out why that seemed odd.

“My reasons are my own,” Rains repeated.

An uncomfortable silence fell. Rains was staring down all of the others. Madigan had been listening intently but had not spoken. Rains turned to him. “Your orders, Lieutenant?”

He rubbed his scar thoughtfully. “You know your way around Sul?”

“Yes, sir. I know it like the back of my hand.”

“And you’ve got no problem spilling Menite blood?”

“None whatsoever, sir.”

Madigan smiled. “Pick a bunk, Corporal.”

“What?!”
Wilkins demanded.

Rains gave Madigan a formal bow. “I swear on my life and my honor I will not fail you. Thank you for this trust.” He straightened, then walked to the back room and set his pack down in an isolated corner.

“Lieutenant?”

Madigan looked down to where the sergeant still lay on the floor. “Yes, Wilkins?”