Into the Storm (10 page)

“With all due respect, I think you’re making a big mistake. After he finishes informing on us, and we’re in Sul, he’ll slash our throats in our sleep—or worse, get us captured, tortured, and wracked.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. Remember when I said you needed to go a week without annoying me before you could have your shrine? Make that two.” Madigan walked off.

Wilkins, red-faced with embarrassment, rolled about a bit in his armor, then looked to Cleasby. “Help me up?”

The troops were assembled in the open yard between the slaughterhouse and their crumbling barracks. Forty men stood in two sloppy ranks, unkempt and unruly. Madigan had no doubt a few of them were still hung over as well. They’d been dragged here from the stocks, from the brig, and from various flop houses and taverns, and they looked it. Madigan walked in front of the line, inspecting each man carefully. Some had given into laziness and turned to fat. Some looked down as he passed, ashamed to be here. Others met his gaze, cocky or even belligerent.

He certainly had his work cut out for him.

Sergeant Cleasby had taken roll. Satisfied everyone was accounted for, Cleasby announced that the lieutenant wished to address them.

“Welcome to the Sixth Platoon. I’m Lieutenant Hugh Madigan, your new commanding officer. I’m not one for giving flowery speeches and I figure you lot aren’t the kind that likes to listen to them, so I’ll save us all some time. You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t screwed up somehow.”

“Neither would you,” one of the men in the second rank muttered. Several of his fellows laughed.

Backtalk was to be expected from a lot like this, and Madigan was prepared for such an eventuality. A reputation was just another tool to be used. He walked up to the soldier who’d spoken. “What’s your name, Private?”

“Langston.”

“Why yes, Langston. I understand what it means to be in trouble, to be on the outs with the army. You are here because you drink too much and have a stupid mouth and a bad attitude.” Madigan leaned in close enough to smell the ale on Langston’s breath and looked him in the eyes. “I’m on the outs because I slaughtered a family of nobles during the coup. If I cared so little about personal friends of Leto Raelthorne’s, just imagine how much less I care about you.”

Langston took a step back.

Madigan went back to pacing. He preferred to stay in motion. “I don’t care what you’ve done in the past as long as it doesn’t get in our way. Every last one of you, at some point in time, showed enough potential to be appointed into the elite of the kingdom’s military. Now I expect you to show me
why.
”

He stopped before another private, one who he knew had been accused of cowardice because he’d dropped his weapon and run during a skirmish against the Khadorans. “I will not accept excuses. I will not accept weakness. Some of you may have your hopes up that because of the unique nature of this platoon, we won’t see significant combat. You may think there’s no way we’ll be put on the front line. Anyone who believes that is a chump who doesn’t understand the nature of war. There is nothing worse than fighting in a city. In a city, there is no front line.”

The private who had fled was shaking. Madigan leaned in very close and spoke low enough that no one else could hear. “Will that be a problem?”

“They were doom reavers, sir. I was overcome,” the private whispered back.

“That sounds like an excuse.”

“No. No, sir.”

“Khadoran doom reavers.” Madigan continued whispering. “They’re terrifying, I’ll give you that. Lunatics wielding cursed Orgoth blades.” He made an exaggerated shiver. “But they die like anyone else. I know because I’ve killed them myself, even though they walk in an aura of pure, quake-in-your-boots, piss-your-britches
terror
. I still killed them, because that was my duty, and you put aside the fear until your duty to your squad is fulfilled. You can be afraid on your own time, but not on mine. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then it is forgotten.” He said this part loud enough that all could hear, then started walking again. After a moment he continued addressing the assembled men. “I could give a speech about how Cygnar is the greatest kingdom on Caen, and how our citizens enjoy freedoms unimagined by the rest of the world, but you already know that. I could talk about how our kingdom is beset on all sides. About how Khador has invaded and conquered our ally Llael, and they’re building up on our border in the Thornwood. About how desert raiders, these barbaric skorne, have come from the east and are terrorizing our settlements with a cruelty you have to see to believe. About how some of the trollkin kriels within our borders are in open rebellion. About how while all these things are happening, the Protectorate of Menoth, our former countrymen who betrayed our forefathers in a civil war, are using these events as an excuse to harass us and assault the very gates of Caspia, thinking we are weak and distracted, unable to respond. And then I could say a few words about how the kingdom needs you now more than ever. But why bother?”

The troops were glancing about, confused.

“All those things? That is the big picture. We are
soldiers.
We don’t care about the big picture. We care about one thing.
Victory.
We don’t get to pick the fight. We don’t get to pick the enemy. We don’t care about the politics of kings or hierarchs or lines on a map. We care about
winning.
That means killing the enemy and staying alive in order to do it again the next day. Do you understand me, Sixth Platoon?”

The ones who still had some discipline shouted an affirmative response. Some of the others caught on a little late, and a few didn’t respond at all. It would have to do for now.

“We are going to invade a city filled with fanatics eager to die for their god. I say
good!
” Madigan shouted. “Let them be eager to go to Urcaen, because we’re happy to send them there. You will strike them with lightning and cut them with steel. We’re going to destroy anyone who gets in our way. We’re going to cut out their Menite guts and use them to grease the joints of our ’jacks.”

About half the men cheered.
Good. It was a start.

“My job is to make sure you are ready to do it. Sergeant Wilkins!”

The former Precursor stepped forward. “Yes, sir!”

“Run these men until they vomit, then run them until they think they are going to die, and then run them some more. Dismissed.”

Cleasby really didn’t know quite what to make of Madigan’s leadership. On one hand, he was absolutely nothing like the cultured, chivalrous knights Cleasby had so much respect for, but there was no denying the man’s effectiveness. The last few weeks had been a whirlwind of activity. The barracks of Sixth Platoon—or the Barn, as the men had taken to calling it—was almost full. They were at nearly fifty men, which was understrength for a Storm Knight infantry platoon but respectable nonetheless.

They had tracked down nearly all of the soldiers on the list, and Madigan had spoken to each one personally. Cleasby had been there for most of the conversations, and he’d been surprised to see that Madigan treated each individual differently. Sometimes he was a harsh commander with threats and orders; other times he was like a kind father with advice and counsel. He would be cunning and manipulative with a self-interested noble, and then a few hours later he would listen patiently and offer advice to a scared private. A few soldiers had even broken down into tears and admitted they were afraid of going to war, and Madigan’s approach for each situation had been unique. The lieutenant had told one new soldier that he was simply a coward who needed to become a man; hours later, he’d told a veteran of multiple campaigns that he understood the weariness because he’d felt it himself, and then he’d appealed to the soldier’s patriotism.

Madigan was a cipher. He was unreadable until he wanted to be read, and then he put on whatever face he needed to in order to accomplish his mission. Cleasby had watched him change tactics for each soldier, finding out what they needed and then guiding them toward it. Even though serving as Madigan’s right hand was going to be a black mark on his career, participating in the process had been fascinating from an academic perspective.

A few times Madigan had sat down across from a soldier, looked them in the eyes for a moment, and then gotten up and left without a word, later telling Cleasby to mark the name off the list as being unacceptable. He never gave an explanation.

The bounty money from the ogrun had been put to good use. The Barn was repaired. The vermin had been chased away, and a few of the troops were passable cooks. They still hadn’t been issued their equipment, so they drilled with wooden practice swords shaped roughly like Caspian blades, which were similar in size to their anticipated storm glaives.

Other than Madigan himself, Sergeant Wilkins was the most experienced combatant of the Sixth, having seen considerable action during his years with the Precursor Knights and then one tour as a Stormblade in Llael. Madigan had turned the drilling and training of the men over to him. A few of the men had remained belligerent and quarrelsome until Corporal Pangborn had been appointed as Wilkins’ drill assistant
.
That solved two problems, as nobody wanted Wilkins to sic the giant Pangborn on them, and occasionally beating the tar out of an unruly soldier kept Pangborn content. When the brawler wasn’t busy intimidating people, he wandered over to the nearby livestock pens to lean on the fence and look at the livestock. He said it reminded him of home. Nobody made fun of him.

“You told no one you were coming here?” Captain Schafer asked.

“The orders said not to, sir.” Cleasby answered truthfully.

“Please, have a seat,” Schafer gestured at one of the chairs in his office. “Would you care for refreshment? Tea, perhaps? One of my aides brought cookies.”

“I’m quite all right, thank you,” Cleasby said. The captain struck him as a gentleman and a proper officer. “Is this about my request for a transfer?”

Captain Schafer sat across from him. “Yes, Sergeant. I’ve heard from some of the officers you served with in Corvis that you are an exemplary staffer with a keen eye for organizational detail. You are a man who appreciates order and decorum.”

“Thank you, Captain. I hate to be a bother, and I will gladly go wherever the kingdom needs me, but I am concerned—”

The commanding officer of the 47th waved his hand dismissively. “No need to explain yourself. I am aware of the contemptible nature of your Lieutenant Madigan. Any proper soldier would be worried some of this stain might rub off on them, and I’d hate to see such a promising career cut short.”