Into the Storm (16 page)

The legendary Walls of Caspia had kept out invaders for a millennia, but time and technology had changed, so the ancient walls which now protected the breakoff portion known as Sul would surely fall eventually. But how long would it take? Would the faith of the Menites crumble as well? Would this punitive invasion go as smoothly as the military hoped, or would the Protectorate stand firm? It did no good to dwell on such things, so Madigan went back to sleep. They would be coming for him in the morning.

Sure enough, the keys rattled in the lock just after dawn. He was already awake, dressed, and ready. He followed the jailer out, signed some paperwork—the army had paperwork for everything—and the officer of the watch told him he was free to return to his unit.

Except his unit was waiting for him just outside the brig.

“Sixth Platoon!” Sergeant Wilkins shouted.
“Attention!”

Fifty men, all of them wearing polished, gleaming storm armor, moved as one, fell into two neat ranks at the base of the steps. The squad of Stormguard slammed the hafts of their weapons into the flagstones simultaneously. The noise was rather impressive. Then they held perfectly still and waited for his orders.

Sometimes a gamble paid off.

A Storm Knight approached, saluted, and lifted his visor. It was Sergeant Cleasby. “Requesting permission to turn the Sixth back over to you, sir.”

“Acknowledged.” Madigan was grudgingly impressed. “They’re ready for the parade ground, but are they ready for an invasion?”

“I believe so. MacKay is still putting a coat of paint on the warjack, sir, but we went ahead and brought the new standard with us . . .”

“We’re flying colors now? My, Cleasby, you lads have been busy.” Such a thing was good for morale. “I wasn’t expecting you to come up with a flag.”

“Unsurprisingly, Thornbury knows a seamstress.” Cleasby turned back to the ranks and shouted, “Present standard!”

A pole was lifted and their banner unfurled into the breeze. Sixth Platoon of the 47th Company.

Madigan’s Malcontents.

“I like the name.”

Cleasby grinned. “I believe Captain Schafer came up with it, sir.”

Most Storm Knight standards had more eloquent mottos, often long sayings relating to honor, duty, and valor or even quotes from kings or the wisdom of the ascendants, but the Malcontents’ motto consisted of a single word.

Victory.

Woe unto any foe who would draw the ire of a king of Cygnar, for ours is a peaceful land, slow to anger and invariably just. In times of grave emergency a wise king may see fit to send forth his mighty armies to punish the wicked in other lands. When such campaigns occur, they are usually swift and glorious, as honorable enemies recognize the righteousness of the Cygnaran liberators and correct their shameful ways, and dishonorable enemies swiftly fall before the silver blades of our heroic knights. When Cygnar declares war, clear justice follows.

—
Records of Chivalry
by Lord Percival Rainworth 486 AR

PART II: THE INVADERS

T
he swirling smoke from the burning houses parted briefly, revealing a blasted street covered in blood and corpses. Then the wind shifted and the smoke washed back over the line, concealing them again, but in those few brief seconds Sergeant Kelvan Cleasby could see a veritable wall of Protectorate shields marching toward them.
Temple Flameguard,
he remembered. According to Rains’ briefing, these were the backbone of the Protectorate infantry. Incredibly hard to punch through, they specialized in holding choke points like this one.

“Will they break when we fry them?” Wilkins asked. The other leaders of the Sixth looked to Rains, though none were surprised at his response.

“Of course not! Their faith keeps them steady.”

“Throwers ready. On my mark!” Lieutenant Madigan was shouting to be heard over the incredible racket of the explosions, cracks of lightning, gunshots, and the rumble of warjacks all around them.
“Fire!”

BOOM!

Their three storm throwers ignited simultaneously. Lightning flashed, filling the street, driving holes through the smoke. On the other side, Menite troops were blasted into smoking pieces of meat. It wasn’t that their longest-range weapons
shot
as much as that a blinding white line formed between the muzzles and their targets and then disappeared, leaving only ruin.

It would take a moment for the storm throwers to recharge for another blast. But the Menites were still coming. They roared with one voice, screaming for the invaders’ blood. Those at the forward ranks raised their flame spears and whirled them overhead, forcing the flammable oil inside to the tips so that the spear points blazed with fire. The whistling noise this made, combined with the swirls of smoke and fire, was fearsome. Then the Temple Flameguard lowered their spears and charged as one gigantic, angry mass.

“Halberds up. Prepare to receive the charge!” Madigan ordered. There was no hesitation in his decision making. “Blades will countercharge on my mark. Wilkins’ squad up the center. Rains’ squad, flank left.” The two squad leaders responded that the order had been received, then ran back to their men to relay the command. “Cleasby! Take your squad and one thrower and go right. Go through the market and stick to the stalls until their first ranks are past, and then come out and hit them from behind.”

Cleasby wasn’t even conscious that he’d responded. He was too busy staring at the rushing mob of Menites. The perforations of his protective visor made it hard to see. The ringing in his ears made it difficult to hear. Within moments battle would be joined.
How could the lieutenant be so calm?
Madigan didn’t even seem to care that they were about to be swarmed by a much larger force. The only reason he was even raising his voice was to be heard over the commotion. Madigan glanced around. “Acosta, where are you?”

The Ordsman appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. If the lieutenant was unnaturally calm, Acosta seemed almost lackadaisical. “Where do you want me?”

“Go with Cleasby. He’s new at this. Keep him alive long enough and I think we might make a leader of him one of these days.”

Acosta gave that odd, slightly frightening smile. “My pleasure.” He flipped down his visor. “After you, Sergeant.”

“Third squad on me! I need a storm gunner. Come on, Pangborn!” Cleasby shouted as he ran behind the line of halberdiers. He remembered his lessons and made sure he had a visual confirmation that his Stormblades had heard and were following. He had Thornbury, Watersford, Dunfield, Crispin, Allsop, the giant Pangborn on the storm thrower, and the mysterious Acosta as his minder, and they were right behind him.

The marketplace was far quieter than the street. It must have been a busy place once, as there were hundreds of stalls, but they’d all been evacuated. After the supposedly impenetrable city walls had fallen, the panicked populace of Sul had fled eastward deeper into the city, abandoning tons of food and goods here in their haste.

A terrible thunder sounded as the storm throwers fired another barrage, and then the other squad’s Stormblades let out their shorter-range electrical discharge. The Menite battle cry turned into an incomprehensible roar as the two sides clashed and steel rang out against steel.

He resisted the urge to look back and kept moving. He probably wouldn’t have been able to see his squad through all the stalls, tents, curtains, and flags anyway. It was a very confusing place—he really should have been in an office neatly filing papers. Forcing himself to focus on his training, Cleasby picked out a nearby bell tower to get his bearings and used that to navigate the aisles.

The insulated armor was heavy, but he was used to it now. His body was fit and his mind was running so quickly that the armor didn’t seem to matter. He leapt over a discarded pile of produce just as a Protectorate soldier came around the side of a wagon. They saw each other at the same time.

Apparently the Menite commander had followed the same idea about flanking through the market as Madigan had.

The Temple Flameguard reacted just a bit faster, jabbing his flame spear at Cleasby’s chest. Cleasby didn’t even think about using the buckler on his left arm to swat the fire-heated spear point aside; the motion was instant, automatic, ingrained by thousands of drills. The galvanic blade in his right hand was already charged with magical energy, and Cleasby swung.

The glaive caught the Menite low in the side. The sharpened steel alone would have been enough to end the man’s life, but the crackling release of electricity made it certain. There was a flash, a vibration up Cleasby’s arm, and then the Menite was spinning away in a flash of sparks.

The sharp smell hit him, burned hair and ozone, and he gagged. For some reason, he hadn’t expected the stench.

Several more Flameguard had shoved their way through the hanging curtains, having seen their companion felled, but the other Stormblades had been right on his heels, and the battle turned into a chaotic melee, squad against squad, as the two groups collided. Thunder boomed and wooden walls exploded into splinters as electricity was discharged. A Protectorate soldier crashed backward through a tent, taking the whole thing down as a Storm Knight followed, slashing wildly through the fabric.

There were Menites everywhere. The two squads had blundered right into each other. Thornbury, who had claimed no inclination to soldiering, savagely attacked another Menite, but the Flameguard simply shield-slammed him into the ground. Before the enemy could finish the aristocrat with a spear thrust, Pangborn lowered one armored shoulder and crashed into the Menite hard enough to put him through a stall filled with caged chickens. Pangborn fired his storm thrower into the stall, and there was an explosion of feathers. The big man began to laugh, then ran another Menite through with the thrower’s bayonet.

Too late Cleasby realized other Flameguard had come around the wagon, and they were already on top of him. Three figures with three flame spears, all aimed at his heart. There was a flash of blue and gold as Acosta flew past, a movement to one side, and then the other, and suddenly the merchants’ tents were splattered with blood and two more Menites lay dying. The third stabbed at Acosta, but he simply moved out of the way, flowing like water around the spear, and drove his storm glaive through the last soldier’s guts.

Except for Cleasby’s pulse pounding like a drum, the market was quiet. Private Allsop helped Thornbury up. The entire clash had been decided in a few brutal seconds. They were alive, and their opponents were dead. It was a lot to take in.

“Hells.” Acosta kicked the dying Menite off his sword. “I forgot to turn on the storm chamber.” He twisted the haft and the blade began to hum. “Such complicated things.”

Cleasby had studied with a Corvis duel master, but that was the fastest he had ever seen a mortal being move. “How did you do that?”

“You study books; I study weapons. Now we will see what this marvelous device of Nemo’s really does! Come, my friends.” The Ordsman continued on through the market.

“Maybe Wilkins is right,” Pangborn whispered. “Acosta has given his soul to Thamar in exchange for power.”

By all rights, Cleasby knew he should have been impaled on a Menite spear. “I don’t care who he prays to, as long as he’s on our side.” The battle was continuing in the street. The Sixth needed them. “Keep moving.”