Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Novels; Steampunk; Role Playing Games; Fantasy; Fiction; Science Fiction; Military Fiction; War; Urban Fantasy
Description: A knight of Cygnar follows a strict moral code. His integrity is beyond reproach. He holds himself to the highest standards whether dealing with friend or foe. And he values honor above all. The year is 606 AR, and Cygnar has been sorely pressed by its enemies both at home and abroad. In Caspia, the conflict with the Protectorate is about to erupt into full war with the looming invasion of Sul. The Cygnaran military is desperate for soldiers with the skill, strength, and bravery to take up the devastating galvanic weaponry of the new Storm Division. In this climate, every soldier is valuable,
Publisher: Privateer Press

INTO THE STORM

LARRY CORREIA

Cover by

MARCO MAZZONI

CONTENTS

MAP

PART I: THE RECRUITERS

PART II: THE INVADERS

PART III: THE DEFENDERS

GLOSSARY

MAP

A knight of Cygnar follows a strict moral code. His integrity is beyond reproach, he conducts himself as a gentleman at all times whether dealing with friend or foe, and he values honor above all. For a man to be knighted by the King of Cygnar is to place the eyes of the entire kingdom upon him, as if to say, “Behold this stalwart hero, for he is all that a warrior should aspire to be.”

—Records of Chivalry by Lord Percival Rainworth 486 AR

PART I: THE RECRUITERS

Spring, 606 AR

He hadn’t been dealt a very good hand, but when you make a habit of gambling with your life, you learned to make your own luck.

Considering that the tavern was a seedy little place on the outskirts of a tiny village deep in the Thornwood, it was fairly crowded. The patrons were rough folk, gathered here to spend their ill-gotten gains on poor quality ale, bad food, and ugly prostitutes. The tavern was the center of a lawless, wild settlement. The entire village consisted of a handful of huts on stilts to keep them out of the mud, a flea-ridden stable, and this sorry excuse for a tavern. It was made of logs slowly being devoured by moss and was so ramshackle it didn’t even warrant a name. This place was still within the borders of Cygnar, but only in the loosest sense of where lines fell on a map. The village was a forgotten place and a haven for bandits, though he was only looking for one bandit in particular.

“You been pondering on those cards a long time . . . What’s your play, stranger?”

“I’m in. Knights over jacks.”

One of the other players scoffed. “Not bloody likely odds, that.”

“I’m feeling lucky.” He slid three farthings across the table “Give me one more.”

“Bold move, gambler.” The dealer shoved another card at him. He was a big, thick-armed man, with a bushy black beard that would make any Khadoran proud. The dealer matched the description of a certain bandit leader with a hefty price on his head. “If you’re so confident, how come only three coppers?”

“Well, after losing the last few rounds to you boys, I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got left to my name.”

“Times are lean,” the dealer agreed. His armored great coat opened a bit as he leaned back, revealing a holstered repeater. That confirmed every man at the table was packing at least one weapon, a reasonable precaution in the Thornwood. “You looking for work, gambler?”

The two other players exchanged knowing glances. Of course, they were all with the same gang, so they would know what was coming next. The Thornwood Blades needed recruits. He’d made sure he looked the part. These types always fit a certain mold.

The gambler picked up the card. It was the Black Knight. Appropriate. “I’m between jobs.”

“You strike me as a fella that knows how to handle himself.” The dealer gestured at the Caspian battle blade leaning against their table. “Seems like that sword has seen some use.”

“A bit.” He looked down at his sword. The metal grip had been polished smooth by hundreds of hours beneath callused hands. The cross guard was nicked and dented from countless impacts. “It’s gotten me by.”

“You’re a sight older than most of my men, but I figure a fella don’t get to be your age wandering around places like this without knowing how to take of himself. Marks on your face say you’re no stranger to getting cut.” The dealer ran his finger across his jawline, or at least where he probably had a jaw under all of that beard. “There’s work to be had here, good work, if you’ve got the guts for it.”

“When there’s enough crowns involved, I find the guts.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Their current round of Fellig’s Fortunes was forgotten. Their hands of cards were laid on the table, and now it was time to talk business. The dealer leaned over the table conspiratorially, though everybody in the tavern either already knew or suspected his identity, and they were all too crooked themselves to try and collect a bounty. “The name’s Devlin. You heard of me?”

Devlin Norwick. Leader of the Thornwood Blades. Killer of men, women, and children. “Can’t say that I have, but I’m just passing through.”

“My trade is on the roads to the east. Take what I want. Make a tidy profit doing so. Locals get a piece too, so they’re keen on keeping us around. I’ve got an outfit, and I could always use a good swordsman. I’m short a few hands—”

One of the other bandits loudly interrupted. “Only because of that bastard Madigan killing them!”

Devlin just shook his head. “We’ll deal with him in time, Rolf.”

But the outburst had attracted the attention of some of the other patrons, who had begun muttering as well. The name seemed to be well known by many of the local cutthroats and invoked either nervousness or anger.

“Madigan, eh? Never heard of him either. He seems like a beloved sort.”

“Sir Madigan. Cygnaran Army. He’s been hunting our gang all up and down the Thornwood. Latches on like a war dog and won’t let go.”

Another bandit pounded the table for emphasis. “Makes life miserable for the workin’ man, he does!”

“Cage it, Nash,” Devlin ordered. The bandit shut his mouth. “We had us a nice arrangement with the authorities before this Madigan came along. Even the army don’t like him. They say he’s an evil type, brings bad luck wherever he goes. So they sent him out here to fight farrow or some scut work, but he had to go sticking his nose into other folks’ dealings. You know how them knights are.”

“Pushy know-it-alls, the lot of them,” he agreed. “But I’ve got an empty coin purse, an empty stomach, and an empty mug, so why don’t you buy us some dinner and a round of drinks, and tell me more about this job of yours, Mr. Devlin?”

“I like that attitu—”

“Attention, villagers!” The tavern fell silent as everyone turned to see who had shouted. The newcomer was a tall, handsome young man who was obviously, painfully out of place. Though his expensive wool great coat had recently picked up some traveling grime, it was probably the cleanest thing the tavern had ever seen. When he got a lungful of the thick smoke filling the room, he began to cough, then covered his mouth with a clean, white handkerchief. “Thank you. Pardon my interruption, villagers, but I am here to deliver an urgent message and would appreciate your assistance.”

The well-spoken young man might as well have entered holding a sign that read Rob me and leave my corpse in a ditch. Rolf turned to Devlin and whispered, “I reckon he’s not from around these parts.”

“I am looking for someone. I was told at the fort that I could find Lieutenant Hugh Madigan here.”

Bloody hell!

It was silent for a long few seconds, and then nearly everyone in the room began to laugh uproariously.

“What’s so funny?” The room was uncomfortably hot from the roaring fireplace, so the newcomer unbuttoned his great coat, revealing the bright blue uniform of the Cygnaran Army. The laughter slowly died and hands moved toward guns or blades as the patrons realized this was no joke. “This is no laughing matter. I have an important message for Lieutenant Madigan.”

“Sorry, young sir.” The tavern owner approached cautiously. “I think you’ve got the wrong place and should be going now before anything bad happens.”

“Bad? What? This is important. Once again, I’m looking for Lieutenant Hugh Madigan, Third Platoon, 22nd Company. I’ve got priority orders straight from Corvis.”

“Ha, ha! Yes, very amusing.” The proprietor took the young man by the sleeve, trying to hustle him out the door before his establishment had yet another killing inside of it. “Please, sir. Right this way.”

“Are you daft, man?” The oblivious soldier pushed the tavern owner away. “I’m Sergeant Cleasby, and I’m on important business on behalf of the crown. This is a priority. You probably don’t get that much out here in the backwoods.”

“Hold on, now!” shouted a rat-faced man from the opposite corner. “What’s all this about Madigan being here?”

“I was told the lieutenant was in this village hunting for a bandit gang.”

Oh, you dithering imbecile. The gambler reached slowly for his sword. The bandits in the room were glancing about nervously now. The tavern owner retreated for safety.

“I’ve not met him, but he was described as being in his late forties, in excellent health, of average height, grey haired . . .” Sergeant Cleasby was glancing about the room as well but found he was the only person dressed in blue and gold. “He may not be in uniform.”

Devlin turned to study the newest addition to their game of Fellig’s Fortunes.

“He is a swordsman of some renown, favors a Caspian blade . . . Let’s see, what else?”

Rolf and Nash turned to stare at the big sword leaning against the table. Devlin’s eyes narrowed dangerously, then he shook his head slowly in the negative. “Easy there, gambler,” Devlin whispered. “Let’s hear the lad out.”

He stopped reaching for his sword and calmly placed his hands on his lap. There was bad luck, and then there was military incompetence. The two often went hand in hand.

“Oh yes, Madigan has distinctive scars on his face from the Scharde Invasions, sustained in an action for which he received the Star of Valor and knighthood—”

“Where’s these scars on his face at, boy?” Rolf asked as he pulled the hand cannon from his belt.

“Boy?” Cleasby grew indignant. “How dare—”

“Where are the scars?” Devlin demanded.

Several other men had risen from their seats. Knives and guns had been drawn. Many eyes were now focused on Devlin’s table and followed his gaze. Madigan had been a plague on every bandit in this part of the Thornwood for months. Other toughs were approaching Cleasby, who only now was realizing what he had blundered into. Cleasby raised his hands defensively as several weapons were pointed his way. “Gentlemen, calm down, please . . . I must have the wrong village. I’ll be on my way.”

This time Devlin roared. “Where are Madigan’s scars?”

Cleasby swallowed hard. “On his cheek and jaw.”

Everyone in the tavern was looking at him now. The gambler’s eyes flashed back and forth, a movement most would take for fear but a few would recognize as an experienced combatant assessing every potential threat. There were a lot of threats.

Devlin grinned, showing off blackened teeth. “Pleasure to meet you finally, Sir Madigan. Good thing you got yourself uglied up to such a noteworthy degree.”

“I was marked by a Satyxis whip. Left me a face only a mother could love.” The gambler’s voice was cold, and he no longer sounded like a hungry bandit, but rather a commander of men. “Devlin Norwick, in the name of the crown, I hereby arrest you for murder, banditry, general lawlessness, and the theft of military supplies. Surrender your arms and stand down. Resist and I’ll kill you.”

“By yourself?”

“What do you think, Devlin?”

“I think if you’d brought help, they would’ve stopped this idiot from coming in here and mouthing off.” Devlin moved his head from side to side, making a big show of taking in the many well-armed and surly patrons. “You’re as mad as they say, coming in here alone, demanding my surrender.”

“I’ll take that as a no. Sergeant Cleasby, take these men into custody.”

“Uh . . .” The young soldier had been surrounded by a few members of the Thornwood Blades and was slowly being backed into a corner. “That’ll be just a moment, sir!”

“I’ll hand it to you, old man. You’ve got a pair on you.” Devlin chuckled. The great battle blade was still sheathed, resting against the table, only a foot from Madigan. Devlin eyed the sword. “But nobody’s that fast.”

Madigan raised his voice so every occupant of the tavern could hear him clearly. “I’m only here for Devlin Norwick. He’s not worth dying for. I don’t give a damn about the rest of you or what you may have done, but if you raise so much as a finger in my way, I swear I will begin to give a damn, and none of us want that.”

Devlin’s snarl displayed his rotten teeth. “Shoot him, Rolf. Shoot the knight in his big, stupid mouth.”

Rolf lifted the hand cannon.

POP.

The noise came from beneath the table. Rolf gasped as the bullet hit him in the pelvis.

When you leave a big sword in the open, people tended to focus on it rather than on the tiny hideout pistol hidden in your coat sleeve. Madigan dropped the pistol, stuck his hands beneath the heavy wooden table, and flipped it end over end, throwing cards, money, and drinks in every direction. Devlin was faster than he looked and managed to get mostly out of the way. Nash stumbled, tangling his feet with his chair. Distracted by pain, Rolf fired. His single heavy round blew a hole through the table before pulverizing several bricks of the fireplace. Madigan went for his sword.

The entire room had exploded into motion, but for Madigan time seemed to slow to a crawl. His blade was falling toward the ground. Devlin was going for his repeating pistol and represented the most imminent threat. Nash was still toppling backward. Thugs were rushing Cleasby, who was now in a full-blown retreat. There were a dozen other potential combatants in the tavern, but they weren’t committed yet. The best way to convince them to stay that way would be a show of overwhelming force.

The bandit leader had been right about one thing: you didn’t get to his age in a world like this without learning how to take care of yourself.

Madigan caught his sword by the handle and tugged, freeing three feet of hardened steel from the sheath in one practiced motion. He struck. The muzzle of Devlin’s repeater was coming his way, but Devlin cried out as the sword split his hand in half. The pistol went flying.

Nash hit the ground on his back but didn’t lose his grip on his pistol. The Caspian battle blade was designed for slashing rather than stabbing, but it made no difference when the wide, rounded point was driven with a great deal of force into a fallen opponent’s trachea. Nash made a horrible gurgling noise as he died.

Devlin stumbled away, holding his ruined hand to his chest, blood pouring down his arm. “Get him!” The command was pointless, as the other Thornwood Blades had already launched themselves in Madigan’s direction.

He turned to intercept two new attackers. A tankard was flung at his head, but he simply knocked it aside with his sword. He stepped back, avoiding the clumsy lunge of a man with a dagger, then used the superior reach of his sword to counterattack low, striking for the leg. Flesh parted until the sword removed a chunk of bone. The bandit howled and collapsed as his ruined leg buckled beneath him.

The second man had a banded club. Extremely strong, he struck with great enthusiasm. Strength and enthusiasm were no match for experience, however; with a flick of the wrist Madigan deflected the club to the side and then sliced through the bandit’s throat on the backswing. He was searching for the next threat long before the club-wielding bandit realized his life was pouring down his shirt.

The hideout pistol wasn’t a particularly powerful firearm, so Rolf was still alive. The hand cannon was broken open, and the wounded bandit was struggling to shove a fresh paper case into the chamber with badly shaking hands. Madigan brought the sword down on Rolf’s head, ending another wretched existence.

Devlin had spied his dropped pistol and was reaching for it with his uninjured hand when Madigan simply lopped it off at the wrist.

In trained hands, the Caspian blade was faster than it looked.

Only a few seconds had passed. Five men were dead or dying. The one with the leg wound was a noisy one, but that sent a message to the crowd. Many of the other low-life scum had pulled their weapons, but the example had been set, and none of them felt like risking their lives on behalf of the Thornwood Blades. The bandit leader stared in shock at his severed hand lying among the spilled food and broken mugs before slowly sinking to his knees. Madigan turned his attention back to Sergeant Cleasby.

He was surprised to find that the young man was actually a capable fighter. Cleasby had been attacked by three of the Thornwood Blades. One was lying on the floor, moaning, with a stab wound through the guts, while Cleasby was holding off the other two with a rapier. He fought quickly and efficiently, like a man who had some proper dueling instruction, and the only reason it wasn’t over yet was because a gentleman’s tutor would never spend time teaching how to take on multiple wastrels whose individual swordsmanship wasn’t fit to butcher a cow. Cleasby had ingrained skills, but he wasn’t used to combating savagery.

“An upper-class man.” Madigan shook his head as he righted a chair and sat down next to the stunned Devlin. “That explains his incredible lack of common sense. What say you, Devlin?” There was no answer. The bandit was still staring at his hand, the fight in his belly having escaped along with much of his blood. The grey of his skin and his shallow breathing suggested he would pass out in a few moments. “I suppose I should help him.” Madigan reached down, pried Devlin’s fingers off the repeater, and took up the gun. He picked one of the remaining bandits, carefully centered the front sight between the bandit’s shoulder blades, and pulled the trigger. The gun roared and the man went down.

Cleasby took advantage of the last fighter’s momentary distraction and ran him through the heart. That bandit made a surprised, almost embarrassed face before going limp and sliding to the floor. Cleasby looked nearly as surprised as the bandit, but at least he retained his sword.

Devlin was whispering something, so Madigan returned his attention to the bandit leader. “Speak up, man.”

“Took both my hands . . . If you’re takin’ me alive, you better do something quick.”

“Nobody wants you alive, Devlin. I only offered to arrest you because you were kind enough to buy a down-on-his-luck swordsman a drink.”

“S’pose I should’ve surrendered, then . . .”

“I suppose.” Madigan lifted Devlin’s repeater, cocked the hammer, and put the bandit out of his misery.

Cleasby was panting. The way he stood so long over the body of the man he’d stabbed, watching the red puddle spread, told Madigan this was probably the first life the young soldier had ever taken. Better get used to it, lad.

The tavern was dead quiet. The man with the leg wound had quit screaming. The smell of blasting powder mingled with other assorted unpleasant smells. “Anybody else have an issue?” Madigan waited to the count of five. “Very well, then. There will be no more attacks on military convoys in this area. Living here in this godforsaken farrow wallow, you may think you’ve been forgotten by the kingdom, but you’re still Cygnaran subjects, and you’d damn well better act it. King Leto’s soldiers protect your miserable lives every single day. Do not think you can deprive the men who defend you the tools they need to survive and not face the consequences.” Madigan got out of the chair, took another patron’s mug of ale, and finished it. Sadly, it was watered-down swill. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sergeant Cleasby!”

To his credit, the young soldier snapped out of his stupor. “Yes, sir!”

He kicked Devlin’s corpse. “Carry this body outside and put it on the back of your horse.”

“My horse, sir?”

“I don’t want to get blood on mine.”

Sergeant Kelvan Cleasby had a cold, uncomfortable lump in his stomach as he rode along beside the infamous Hugh Madigan. Between the cold fog of the mysterious Thornwood, his traveling companion’s nefarious reputation, and the fact that he’d just stabbed someone to death, Cleasby was feeling a bit nauseated. The dead body pushed up against his backside and hanging over both sides of his horse, flopping about, wasn’t helping either.

“Well, it seems we’ve got a bit of a journey ahead of us. We’ll take the Bramblerut Road to Corvis and then a long train ride to Caspia.” It was the first time Madigan had spoken since reading the message. They had been riding for nearly an hour, and the only sound had been the slow clop of hooves. “How’re you feeling, Cleasby?”

“I’m fine, sir.”

“You don’t need to lie to me. The last time I saw a man’s face that shade of grey he was a Cryxian. Disgusting undead monsters.” Madigan hawked and spit on the ground. “So that was the first time you’ve taken a life.”

It wasn’t a question. “That was the first time I’ve seen combat, yes.”

“Combat?” Madigan smiled. “Heh . . . That’s a quaint notion.”

Cleasby felt his cheeks burn. Madigan had a foul reputation, but his martial skills were never in doubt, only his character. “Lieutenant Madigan, I meant no—”

“It’s fine. You can die just as easily at the hands of a good-for-nothing thief as you can leading a magnificent cavalry charge that bards will write songs about for generations—or slipping and hitting your head getting out of the bath, for that matter. You did well in that fight.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Even though there wouldn’t have been a fight to begin with if you hadn’t been a sodding idiot. I wanted them to lead me back to their hideout, where we could have swept up all of them at once. As it is now, we’ll have to make do with killing their leader, but the rest of the gang will reform, thanks to your inability to pay attention.”

Cleasby bit his tongue. Madigan was the one who had thrown away a promising military career. No superiors wanted Madigan under their command, no officers wanted to serve alongside him, and no men wanted to follow him. Of course, he should expect rudeness from the man who had outright murdered one of King Leto’s best friends. “Won’t happen again, sir.”

“Don’t they still give lessons in reconnaissance at the Strategic Academy?”

“I didn’t go to the Strategic Academy.”

“Westwatch, then?”

“No, sir.” Cleasby swatted a mosquito that had landed on his cheek.

“Hmmm . . . interesting. An enlisted man, but obviously educated, with good breeding. Absolutely no common sense, no combat experience, and too young to have been in long, but already a sergeant. Your father must be a fairly rich man.”

“My father was a cobbler.” Promotions could come along for things other than a strong sword arm or steady aim with a rifle, but men like Madigan wouldn’t understand that. Cleasby happened to be very good at preparing and expediting vitally necessary reports and paperwork. “Actually, until recently I attended the University of Corvis.”

“A scholar? Well, that’s handy, I suppose. I met Viktor Pendrake on his travels. Good man. Learning everything he could about monsters and beasties and how best to deal with them. Fascinating, useful information.”

“I only took the required introductory class in the Department of Extraordinary Zoology, so I never studied with Professor Pendrake.”

Madigan turned on his saddle, looking honestly disappointed. “What did you study then?”

“History and classical literature, mostly.”

“Morrow preserve us.” Madigan let out a long breath. “That explains a lot.”

“I did go through the officer training program, sir. And in my defense, your . . . operation among the local criminals was rather unorthodox conduct for a knight.”

“I wasn’t given that title because of my courtly skills, Cleasby.” Madigan chuckled. “I was knighted because King Vinter thought I was especially good at killing things.”

“Is that why you sided with him during the coup?” Cleasby immediately regretted saying it. Sometimes his mouth had a bad tendency to run before his mind was done deciding if things were better left unsaid.

“What was that?” Madigan pulled on his reins and brought his horse to a stop. Cleasby wasn’t as good a horseman, and it took him a moment to get his mount under control. When he had wrestled the horse about, he saw Madigan was giving him a cold stare, not too different from the one the man had been wearing before he’d started chopping up bandits. “If you’ve got something you want to say, spit it out.”

“I . . . I meant nothing by it, sir. I’ve just heard . . .”

“What’ve you heard?”

“Just soldiers talking. When I was told to fetch you, some people may have said a few things about your . . . history.”

“History, eh?” Madigan scowled. Cleasby realized the grizzled knight’s eyes were an eerie shade of blue, nearly the color of ice. Cleasby’s horse took a few nervous steps and snorted. The dead man’s damaged arm swung forward and bumped Cleasby’s boot heel. “I suppose you found my history fascinating, then? A little personal glimpse into the minor events surrounding the Lion’s Coup?”

“No, sir! I—”

“So these people of yours told you about what I did to Earl Hartcliff?”

By “people,” Cleasby had meant the officer who had given him this message to deliver and then every other officer in the command staff of the 2nd Division he’d spoken with. The details differed, but the point remained the same: if you wanted to have a career in the Cygnaran Army, avoid Madigan like the plague. There was nothing to be gained by serving with the man who had butchered King Leto’s childhood friend during the coup and had remained remorseless about it ever since, but rather than say all that Cleasby only nodded.

“Listen carefully, Sergeant. Vinter Raelthorne was our king. I followed his orders then exactly like I follow King Leto’s now. When a soldier gets orders, he doesn’t question them; he follows them. Right now my orders are to go with you to Caspia.” Madigan forced a smile that was almost worse than the glare. “So relax.” Madigan made a clicking noise with his tongue and his horse obediently set out back down the road.

Cleasby realized he’d been so tense he’d stopped breathing. He thumped his horse with his boots and they followed along. The Thornwood was eerily quiet.

Half a mile later, Madigan addressed him again, but this time he didn’t bother to turn around. “I’ve been away from the chain of command for so long I wasn’t sure anyone even remembered I was still alive. What else did they tell you about me? And consider answering that question truthfully as a direct order from a superior officer.”

“Well . . .” He swallowed hard. He had been given quite an earful. Driving his blade through someone’s ribs had been easier than this. “They said you’re bad luck.”

“How so?”

“Wherever you go, bad things happen.”

“Maybe I have a knack for knowing where trouble is going to be and getting there first.”

“They say you cut corners, break rules, get your soldiers killed.” Madigan jerked his head just a bit at that last one. “That you’re without honor, compassion, or any other knightly virtues. That the king is remarkably merciful for not executing you. Let’s see, what else . . . You’re a sorry excuse for a knight . . . you—”

“You are a remarkably honest man, Cleasby. That’s admirable, if somewhat stupid.”

“Uh . . . thank you?”

Madigan raised one fist. “Hold up.”

Cleasby managed to stop his horse faster this time. The knight was carefully watching the thick underbrush. “What is it?”

“Shhh.” Madigan tilted his head to the side, listening.

Cleasby couldn’t hear or see anything different. His horse seemed jittery, but Madigan’s horse was fine.

“Dismount and cut that body loose,” the older man said.

“Whatever for?”

“Remember what I said about following orders, Sergeant Cleasby?”

“Sorry, sir,” Cleasby grumbled as he dismounted. Leather creaked as his horse stomped nervously. It took him a moment to untie the knots in the rope securing the corpse, and by the time he looked up from his work, he was surprised to see a gigantic, heavily armored ogrun standing in the middle of the road. “Bandit!”

The beastly figure had to be nearly eight feet tall and was carrying a mace big enough to smash a warjack, and it had come seemingly out of nowhere. Cleasby drew his rapier and then realized the little blade would be next to useless against someone that big and wearing that much armor.

Then the bandit corpse slid off the back of his horse and Cleasby yelped as it fell on him.

The ogrun was watching them with beady black eyes that seemed comparatively tiny compared to his wide mouth. “Your friend is mighty high strung,” he said to Madigan in a raspy voice loud enough to fit his massive stature. Then he turned to Cleasby. “Put the pig sticker away before you accidently poke somebody.”

“Stand down, Cleasby.” Madigan dismounted as the ogrun approached. “How’ve you been, Hutchuck?”

“You know him?” Cleasby asked nervously as he tried to disentangle himself from the dead man, but the corpse had become remarkably stiff and uncooperative.

“No. Hutchuck is a common ogrun name and the old human got lucky,” the ogrun said flatly. “Where did you find this bright one, Madigan?”

“He found me. I’m to be transferred to Caspia.”

“Good. With you gone, the fort will go back to being lazy, patrols will slack, and crime will go up. More bounties for me to collect means more gold to buy alchemical supplies for my experiments. Everyone is happy.”

“You’re an alchemist?” Cleasby was incredulous.

Hutchuck ignored him and turned to Madigan. “They will let you back inside the City of Walls?”

“I was never officially banished.”

“Close enough.” The ogrun’s armor rattled as he shrugged. It seemed to be made up of bits and pieces from various other suits—most of them too small—and even metal scraps and plates torn from ’jacks. He was wearing a bandolier which held several very large, roughly fashioned grenades. Cleasby felt even worse when he realized someone that heavy and that explosive had managed to sneak up on him. “They say there will be war there soon, against the Menites. They are smart to bring you back. War is all you are good for.”

“You’ll get no disagreement from me on that. Come on. I’ve got what you want.”

Hutchuck stomped over to the corpse. He gave Cleasby a suspicious look before kneeling and pulling the burlap sack from the bandit’s head, revealing the face. The ogrun growled—a low, dangerous sound—then pulled a rolled piece of paper from inside his breastplate. It was a wanted poster. He looked at the picture, then the body, then back at the picture. “Hard to tell. You humans get puffy when you die, but the beard is right.” He pried open the dead man’s mouth with two giant fingers. “Bad teeth, too.”

“As big as that reward is, it should buy you plenty of corrosive reagents to keep you occupied for a while. It’s Devlin. You’ve got my word.”

“The monetary value of your word couldn’t buy a goat anywhere in Cygnar.” The horrendous bellowing noise that came next had to be ogrun laughter. Hutchuck removed a large coin purse from his belt and tossed it to Madigan. “Always a pleasure doing business, my friend.” The mace went over one shoulder, and then he effortlessly picked up the corpse in his other hand, carrying Devlin by the belt like a piece of luggage. “Farewell, Madigan. May you have a very good war.”

“Until next time, Hutchuck.” Madigan stuffed the bulging coin purse into a saddlebag, then climbed back onto his horse as the ogrun walked in the opposite direction. “Come along, Cleasby.”

He waited until the mighty brute was out of earshot. “What was that?” he demanded, even though he suspected he already knew the answer.

“A mutually beneficial transaction. Military officers can’t collect bounties; Hutchuck’s trade is bounty hunting. So Hutchuck gives me half up front, I bring him the body, and then he goes to the fort and collects the whole reward.” Madigan didn’t seem even the least bit ashamed. “No use letting a perfectly good dead bandit go to waste.”

“That’s against regulations!”

“Which is why I used the ogrun.”

“But . . . but regulations!”

Madigan didn’t seem interested in explaining himself further. “Mount up. We’ve got a train to catch.”

Offended and angry, Cleasby followed. He didn’t want to disobey orders, and he certainly didn’t want to be caught on the road in the Thornwood alone after dark. When he’d first heard the rumors about Madigan, he’d thought maybe, just maybe, they were exaggerated, but now he wasn’t so sure. This man was supposed to be a knight? Where was the dignity and the honor like he’d seen from the command staff in Corvis? Those knights had been models of chivalry. Surely, none of them would seek out personal profit for doing something that should be done simply out of duty. Such a lack of propriety was disgusting.

Cleasby knew he could be idealistic at times, but Sir Madigan was proving to be as bad as everyone had made him out to be.

Cleasby watched out the train window as they approached the biggest structures he had ever seen. The capital of Cygnar was one of the largest cities in Caen, a magnificent testament to the greatness of their people. It had been the only city in western Immoren never to fall before the Orgoth invaders, and it had only grown more impressive since. He had read much about it, but this was the first time he’d actually seen Caspia. It hardly seemed possible, but the city was even better than he’d imagined.

The first thing he noticed when approaching Caspia was the walls. They were ancient and overwhelming. He’d been taught they were two hundred feet tall in places, and some were a hundred feet thick. To the east, on the other side of the great bridge that spanned the Black River, rose even more great walls, painted white and gold.

That was Sul. It had originally been the eastern slums of Caspia, but the worshipers of Menoth had taken it during the civil war and named it after their rebellious Hierarch Sulon. As a historian, Cleasby was giddy. This place was absolutely filled with history.

The train entered Caspia’s north gate, and Cleasby looked around eagerly, drinking it all in. Great walls reached up everywhere, seemingly without order, creating dozens of separate neighborhoods and districts. People had even built into the walls. As for those people . . . Cleasby had never imagined so many people in one place.

“It is absolutely wonderful,” Cleasby spoke his thought aloud.

“Indeed.” His reluctant traveling companion, Lieutenant Madigan, was watching out the same window. The two of them hadn’t spoken much over the last few days of the long train ride. Cleasby had passed the time rereading the few books he’d packed, while Madigan had spent the days visiting with the civilian passengers and sleeping a lot. “Caspia is as beautiful as she is merciless.”

“We’re living during a revolution of industry, and this is the center of it all. I’ve been told Caspia is growing at a rapid pace. There are over a million residents now.”

“First time in the capital, Cleasby?”

“It is, sir. I’m to be stationed here. Headquarters, 33rd Battalion.”

“The 33rd? That’s Storm Lance heavy cavalry.” Madigan sounded suspicious; Cleasby suspected the man didn’t regard him very highly. The feeling was mutual. “You didn’t particularly strike me as a horseman.”

It had been a long journey, but they were too close to their destination to bother getting offended now. “Can’t say I’m much inclined to the horses, sir. I can stay atop one provided it travels in a straight line, and not too quickly. I believe I’m needed for an administrative post.”

“Is that why you joined the military, Cleasby? Administrative duties?”

“Of course not . . .” The young soldier hesitated. “That’s where my superiors felt my talents would be of the most use, sir.”

“I’m not degrading it, lad. It’s a necessary assignment, as any solider who has ever been in a unit with bad logistical support can tell you. Campaigning is bad enough as it is, but it’s worse on an empty stomach and without proper boots. Every unit needs an organizational man, but nobody signs up for a war effort to shuffle paper, especially a young scholar with a university education and no shortage of prospects in society.” Madigan absently scratched at his scar. “So why did you enlist, Cleasby?”

“Does it matter, sir?”

The old knight’s ice-blue eyes seemed to bore a hole in Cleasby. “I say it does.”

The truth would sound stupid, so he said what was expected of him. “Because I felt it was my patriotic duty. The kingdom needs every able-bodied adult in this time of need.”

“Of course.” It was odd how Madigan could go from seemingly uncaring to focused interrogator in the blink of an eye. “And what else?”

Cleasby sighed. He was resigned to the idea that Madigan would simply laugh at him. “This.” He reached into the pack on the floor beneath his feet, rummaged around, and came out with a small, leather-bound book. He handed it over.

Madigan studied the book for a moment. “Records of Chivalry?” He opened the front cover and read from the table of contents. “‘A history of various brave heroes, knighted by the kings of Cygnar, for their uncommon valor and love of country.’”

It was only one book of many but was a particular favorite. “Since I was small, I’ve been fascinated by stories of knightly accomplishments. I always knew it was the sort of thing I would never be brave enough to do myself. I set my interest aside when I began my serious studies, but I was in Corvis when the skorne raiders attacked a few years ago, and I was . . . well . . .”

“Completely useless?” Madigan asked without malice.

“Correct, sir. It made me think back to stories such as this, and I knew what I had to do. I was inspired. I enlisted in the hopes that I could become as brave as those who have come before. Of course, I have no delusions of ever being knighted myself.” He nodded his head respectfully in Madigan’s direction. “True knights of Cygnar, warriors such as yourself who are knighted by royalty, are extremely rare—as they rightly should be, of course—but I thought I could join one of the knightly orders, such as the Storm Knights, and perhaps prove myself . . . However, it was felt my aptitudes lay elsewhere.”

Madigan shook his head and smiled. He continued flipping pages. The smile slowly grew until it turned into a laugh. He turned a few more pages, and the laugh turned bitter. “You realize, of course, that most of these stories are bunk?”

“That’s not true! These are heroes of Cygnar.”

“These stories speak of noble virtues, as if a man can be categorized so easily, but it isn’t a soldier’s job to be merciful, or generous, or any of that nonsense. It’s his job to do as his king tells him, hold ground or take it, defeat his enemies, and above all, achieve victory. Behind each of these stories was a hardscrabble bastard who was just meaner and tougher than everybody else, or a rich man with a lord who owed him favors. Then, after they died, scribes prettied them up so they could tell stories to children. You want to end up as a story in a book, Cleasby? Then you need to win.”

Cleasby felt his face go hot. “You truly believe that’s all there is to knighthood? I’ll have you know I’ve met proper knights and they were the model of chivalry. Only the best among us is knighted by the king, and they are the epitome of what a warrior should aspire to be.”

Madigan handed the book back. “I used to feel that way myself, once.”

“Before the coup?” Damn it. Cleasby bit his tongue, but it was too late.

“Yes.” The old warrior went back to looking out the window. “Before the coup.”

They traveled the rest of the way in silence.

The air of the Sixth Division Headquarters held a certain tension he had come to know well. The place practically thrummed with the low buzz of activity from the staff and officers, the sound of constant, focused actions with an underlying sense of urgency. Madigan could almost feel the vibrations in his bones.

War was coming.

“Major Laddermore will see you now.”

Madigan stood up from the bench and followed the aide into the office. The major was seated on the other side of a desk that was covered in maps, reports, and lists. A huge map of Caspia and Sul hung on the opposite wall. She was far younger than he’d expected, though considering her last name and who her father was, rapid promotions were not too surprising. He honestly wasn’t expecting much in the way of leadership abilities or tactical acumen.

He saluted. “Lieutenant Hugh Madigan, reporting for duty.” The aide closed the door, leaving him alone with the major.

“At ease, Lieutenant.” Major Katherine Laddermore looked up from her tables of personnel and equipment and frowned at him. “What happened to your uniform?”

The blue had long since faded to a sort of fuzzy grey. Holes had been patched. Rips had been stitched. “There’s not much in the way of resupply on the frontier, sir. My apologies.” Folding his hands behind his back, he waited for his next—inevitably degrading—assignment.

“Well, I suppose there aren’t many opportunities for parades in the Thornwood, either.” Laddermore gestured at a chair. “Have a seat. Do you know why you’re here, Lieutenant?”

Madigan sat down. “No, sir. I do not.”

“The Protectorate of Menoth continues to harass our kingdom and violate our treaties. The Menites demand blind obedience to their faith; their Great Crusade is a war against all non-Menites. King Leto has ordered a punitive invasion into the city of Sul.”

The resolution of the Cygnaran civil war two hundred years ago had carved the Protectorate of Menoth from Cygnar’s borders and broken the great city of Caspia in half. A reckoning between them was not a surprise.

The major continued. “King Leto has given Lord Commander Stryker unprecedented control over this operation, and he has declared we order up every last man possible. He believes the Protectorate is not to be underestimated, so we are holding nothing back.”

Madigan knew virtually nothing of Coleman Stryker beyond his reputation as a brilliant commander and a powerful warcaster, but he had heard enough about the Menites to know that was a good decision. Many officers would be quick to underestimate the Protectorate as merely backward-thinking religious fanatics, but those devoted to that faith fought with a fervor most modern men could never understand. “Wise.”

“Our new Storm Division is the most advanced military force the kingdom has ever fielded. We’re armed with the best warjacks and the newest mechanika, and we’re going to breach the walls of a city that is supposed to be impregnable.”

“How do we intend to do that?”

“That is Major Brisbane’s department. My assignment is actually getting this fancy new Storm Division to function as a coherent military unit. Lord Commander Stryker has ordered all hands on deck for the invasion of Sul. Every available resource is to be utilized, and when I say every, I mean every single soldier, regardless of current status. We’ve built this division practically from scratch. I’ve spent the last few months cobbling together and staffing new units, and now I’m down to the last one. Do you understand my meaning, Lieutenant?”

“Not really, sir.”

“Stormblades and Stormguard infantry are the backbone of the new Storm Division. Welcome to the Storm Knights.”

It made no sense. That was an honored position—and the Storm Knights were considered Leto’s Boys. Leto had created the order himself and expanded them during his time as Warmaster General. They had followed Leto during the coup and were considered his most loyal troops. “That’s . . . not what I expected.”

“Normally, only the army’s most promising troops are selected for a position in the Storm Knights, but this rapid expansion has forced us to increase recruiting. We had rosters to fill, so we requisitioned troops from other commanders, and we’ve had to work with whatever they’ve sent.”

Shuffling your troubles off onto some other commander was a military tradition, but Madigan merely nodded in acknowledgement.

“We’re training up soldiers who’ve never touched a storm glaive before, but most of those will get by. However . . .” She picked out one of the many lists on her desk and handed it to him. There were names, ranks, service dates, and a final column of notes. Disciplinary notes. “These are the men nobody wants. This is the bottom of the barrel.”

He read through a few. “Insubordination, drunkenness, absent without leave, criminal activity . . .”

“There are a few experienced Storm Knights in there as well, but as you are well aware, even the most promising soldier can stumble. When you draw up twenty-two thousand men in a hurry, you’re bound to end up with a few troublemakers.”

“General lawlessness, incompatibility with other soldiers, possible insanity . . . Lovely crew you’ve got here.”

“You mean you’ve got. They’re your problem now, Lieutenant Madigan.” Laddermore had a smile nearly as cold as his.

“I see.”

“I need a sixth platoon to fill out this division’s roster. Your assignment is to build this platoon for me from the names on that list. Of course, the worst offenders have already been hung, so you won’t have to deal with any murderers or rapists we know of. You can collect most of the soldiers from the brig or the stocks. The rest you’ll have to track down. Then you’ll form them into a functioning unit and have them prepared for the invasion within two months. Any questions?”

Madigan blinked. “Two months?” He didn’t know which seemed less likely: being able to gather these men and train them to be Storm Knights in that time or breaching the walls of Sul.

“Major Brisbane is a very determined individual. Anything else?”

He paused only a moment.

“Why me?” He knew the answer, but it was better to get it out in the open.

“Do I really need to spell it out for you, Madigan?”

“I would prefer we are perfectly clear, sir.”

“No officer in his right mind wants to be assigned these dregs, and in any other time we’d boot them out of the army altogether. We both know this unit will probably be one step removed from mutineers. It will more than likely be an embarrassment to whoever is unfortunate enough to lead it, an inevitable black mark on someone’s career. At best it will be given the most unimportant, non-strategic assignments—which we can only hope will be completed without incident. As such, Sixth Platoon will be the last to be issued new equipment and resources, so as to not be a draw on the abilities of our functioning platoons. On the other hand, it isn’t like your career can get any worse. How long since your last promotion?”

“I was a captain. I got busted back to lieutenant twelve years ago.”

“Because of what you did during the Lion’s Coup . . . I’m assuming the rumors are true?”

When he closed his eyes, he could still see the fire. “More than likely, sir.”

“And you’ve been sent to every backwater duty station in the kingdom since then.” Laddermore stood up and walked around her desk. She paused in front of the map. “Our new king is far too honorable a man to ever speak ill of a knight who was following his old king’s orders, but he and Earl Hartcliff were friends. The earl had many friends, in fact, and most still hold a grudge. The entire military was divided during that time.”

“If I recall correctly, your father was on the wrong side, too.” There was a hard edge to Madigan’s voice. “But then again, I’m not an archduke with vast estates in the Midlunds.”

Major Laddermore turned from the map. He expected a sharp rebuke, but she surprised him by laughing instead. “If you think I’m about to defend Fergus Laddermore’s morals, you will be disappointed.” She walked over and sat on the edge of her desk. “Listen to me, Madigan. You were picked for this assignment by my superiors. They said, who better to lead a unit of failures than an officer who’s already a failure? Any new lieutenant fresh out of the academy would be eaten by these thugs, but at least you’re a right hard bastard who’ll keep them in line and out of trouble. For my part, I agree with the assignment wholeheartedly . . . but not for the reasons you might expect.”

“And what are your reasons, sir?”

“They dismiss you for what you’ve done, but I’ve read up on you. They see you as a disgrace, a reminder of the Inquisition and every maddened excess of Vinter’s rule.” She leaned forward and looked him square in the eye. “But I see an officer who does whatever he has to in order to succeed. That’s what you did in the Scharde Islands. That’s what you did during the Lion’s Coup. And ever since, no matter what awful assignment they’ve shoved you off to in the hopes that you’d quit or die, you’ve completed it. Every single time.”

Madigan nodded slowly. Archduke Fergus Laddermore was an arrogant, manipulative politician. Sometimes the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, but in this case it appeared the apple had rolled clear into the next province. Katherine Laddermore struck him as a very capable officer. He glanced at the list again. “Any further orders, Major?”

She had stood and was moving back around the side of her desk. “You’ll be reporting to Captain Schafer. I will warn you, he’s ambitious, though he’s not knighted yet. Also, he’s a scion of a family I believe you may have once offended, so it would be best to tread lightly.” She stopped and eyed his uniform again. “See the quartermaster and get yourself kitted up . . . and get a new dress uniform. You look like a disgrace.”

“Yes, sir.” He stood up. “One request, if I may? I’d like Sergeant Cleasby assigned to Sixth Platoon.”

“The messenger who was sent for you?” Laddermore seemed slightly incredulous. “Are you aware he filed a report about you breaking some regulation relating to the collection of bounties, thirty seconds after he reported for duty?”

Madigan almost smiled. “I figured he would do something like that, sir. All the same, I’ll take him.”

“He’s all yours. Sixth Platoon of the 47th Storm Knight Company is your responsibility.”

“Yes, sir.” Madigan gave her a crisp salute.

Laddermore returned the salute. “One last order, Lieutenant Madigan. Certain officers on the general staff expect you to fail miserably. Surprise them.”

Madigan was at the quartermaster’s when Captain Schafer found him. One look at the captain’s perfectly tailored uniform, the spit-shined boots, the Strategic Academy graduate’s ring, and the polished medals—not one campaign ribbon among them—told Madigan quite a bit about the young officer. Most postings in the military were based on experience and ability rather than solely on birth, but in a kingdom where bloodlines mattered so much, it was inevitable that unqualified fops with influential parents wound up in positions of authority. He would hope for the best and prepare for the worst.

The captain was red-faced. “Madigan! What’s the meaning of this?”

He stayed perfectly calm, even outwardly cheerful. “No idea what you’re talking about, sir.” There were a few other personnel in the area, and Madigan noted they were quick to avert their gazes and go about their business when they saw Schafer enter. That was never a good sign. “How can I help?”

“By getting back on the train and riding back to the swamp they pulled you out from,” Schafer said between gritted teeth. “I was just informed of your new assignment. The 47th doesn’t need a platoon of rejects!”

It was to be the worst, then. “My apologies, Captain. You’ll have to take that up with Major Laddermore.”

Schafer sneered. “I already have, and her mind is made up. I don’t know what Laddermore is thinking. Know this, Madigan: I’ve heard all about you. I’ve got a company to run, and this invasion is my chance for glory. As far as I’m concerned, your platoon doesn’t exist. I’ll not have the reputation of my company damaged by a bunch of miscreants. Stay out of my way. You keep your head down. The less embarrassment you cause for me, the less trouble I cause for you.”

“So that’s how it is going to be?” Madigan asked quietly.

“That’s how it is!” Schafer yelled.

“Very well.” Madigan stayed cool and professional. “You may want to keep your voice down, sir. The staff will talk. You don’t want to get yourself a negative reputation.”

“You’re correcting me?” Schafer wasn’t used to having a junior officer speak in such a manner, which told Madigan he hadn’t had any junior officers worth a damn.

Madigan shrugged. “I know a bit about how reputations grow. You don’t want to be remembered as a screamer on your first combat command, Captain—and yes, I can tell this is your first combat command. You’re trying to emulate some combat instructor from the academy, but that only works on recruits. It’s a drill instructor’s duty to yell, and it’s a recruit’s duty to be frightened; here, you just come off as petty. Soldiers don’t respect an officer who throws tantrums.”

“What?!” Schafer yelled in rage. Catching himself, he glanced around and glared at Madigan before continuing in a lower voice. “You are an embarrassment! You’d speak to me of reputations? Your name is a stain on all knighthood. You’re a dishonorable cheater and a murderer!”

“Perhaps . . . but I’m not a screamer.”

“How dare you?”

He hadn’t intended to use his “war face,” but young know-it-all officers brought out the worst in him. It wasn’t that different from his regular face, but he’d been told by many a soldier it was a terrifying expression. He was always calm, but they had said that in combat he seemed disturbingly calm, like a dead-eyed, dispassionate killing machine. Schafer flinched when he saw the change in Madigan’s expression. It was almost unfair to use his war face for political matters, but he had work to do.

Madigan leaned in close so no one could overhear. His voice was a dangerous hiss. “I dare because I was knee-deep in blood and necrotite while you were still playing with toy soldiers. I’ve been stabbed, shot, and burned by warriors who were ten times the man you are, and I still killed every last one of them before they could finish me off. I’ve gutted Khadorans that would make you look like a weakling on your finest day and beheaded Cryxians that would devour your soul. Don’t think you can intimidate me. Now you say something, and I’ll nod like we’re having a nice, professional discussion.”

Schafer swallowed. He’d begun to sweat. “I understand,” he croaked.

Madigan nodded as if the captain had just given him a valuable piece of advice. Men like Schafer were motivated mostly by their own doubts and worries of what others thought of them, so it would be counterproductive to make him look bad. Schafer would probably be brave enough in battle—if there were people watching.

“If you think this invasion is nothing more than a chance for glory, then you’re a fool, and I only pray you don’t have to bury too many of your soldiers before you understand that. I’ll keep my rejects out of your way. We’ll be no trouble at all. Your career is safe. I am a ghost. When the invasion comes, tell me where you want me. Until then, keep out of my face and let me do my job.”

The captain bobbed his head in agreement.

“Now salute your subordinate like a proper officer of Cygnar instead of a petulant child.” Madigan stepped away, snapped to, and saluted crisply. “Thank you, Captain!”

Schafer returned the salute. His hand quivered just a bit as it reached his brow. “That’ll be all, Lieutenant Madigan. Carry on.”

Laddermore had suggest he tread lightly around Captain Schafer . . . Sadly, that was Madigan’s idea of “lightly.”

Sergeant Kelvan Cleasby reported to his new duty station to discover they were living in a slum. In fact, to call this barracks a slum would be to insult proper slums. The building was really more of a barn currently unfit for livestock. It even had gaping holes in the shingles and pigeons living in the rafters. When he opened the front door, it promptly fell off the hinge.

“Hello?” he called. “Anyone home?”

Lieutenant Madigan came around a corner, looking presentable in a new uniform and even wearing the rare Star of Valor he’d earned. Cleasby’s new orders had been rushed, so he hadn’t been sure who his new commanding officer was supposed to be. Madigan must have found out about Cleasby reporting his bounty violation, and this was to be his punishment. So this is what it feels like when your career dies, he thought as he saluted.

Madigan waved off the salute and said, “Welcome to the Sixth Platoon, Cleasby. You’re late.”

“I’m sorry, sir. This barracks was rather difficult to find, the way it was hidden between a slaughterhouse and the cattle pens.”

“Only the best for Sixth Platoon.”

“Sir . . . May I ask why I’m—”

“No. Familiarize yourself with this.” He handed Cleasby a clipboard with a list of names on it. “Now hop to. We’ve got some recruiting to do.” Madigan strode out of the room. Cleasby dragged his equipment to the side, leveraged the door into place so it was approximately closed, and then rushed after his new commanding officer.

Sixth Platoon’s barracks wasn’t located in the military district with the rest of the army, but with the spin up to the invasion, the city was filling with troops. It was quite a walk across the busy streets of Caspia to get back to the main body of the army, and Cleasby was curious as to why they were stuck so far outside the regular boundaries. Then he scanned the list Madigan had given him and came to a terrible realization.

“Sixth Platoon is to be made up of criminals and madmen!”

“Indeed,” Madigan snapped. “And you are one of their NCOs, so you’d better act like it. The first one that gives you trouble, you’ll need to bust his head to set an example of proper military discipline.”

“That’s rather unorthodox.” Cleasby jumped out of the way as several massive trollkin in colorful tartans crossed the street. Then he hurried to catch up with Madigan, who walked at a very fast pace.

“When you’re dealing with such men, you can’t show weakness or they’ll eat you. Here.” Madigan handed Cleasby a letter. “See that this is telegraphed today. I need it delivered immediately.”

Cleasby looked at the address. “Five Fingers?” The Ordic city was well known as a base for pirates, mercenaries, and sell-swords. “Why Five Fingers?”

“Just do it.”

“Yes, sir.” Cleasby tucked the paper into his bag and rushed to catch up to his new commanding officer.

When they reached the edge of the military district, Madigan paused. “Now, which way is the mechanik’s yard?” he muttered. The area was a sea of blue uniforms and commotion.

Cleasby looked back at the list he carried. “Most of the men on here are in the brig, sir. It’s right over there—”

“Not yet. When you build a house, you lay the foundation first. You put up walls with no foundation, the walls fall over. Now hurry up. I hear hammering over this way.” Madigan pushed his way through the crowd.

They had to stop again as a pair of massive Ironclad warjacks crossed the street ahead of them. The ground shook as the six-ton metal machines lumbered past, smoke pouring from each set of dual stacks. Their controlling marshal walked ahead of them, directing them with a series of short verbal commands and hand gestures. Cleasby was awed by the sight, but Madigan only seemed annoyed at the delay. Once the ’jacks were past, Madigan crossed the street and Cleasby hurried to keep up.

The mechanik’s yard was easy to find once they got closer. It was the noisiest, smokiest, hottest part of the military district. The huge gate, adorned with the symbol of crossed wrenches, stood open. A veritable army of ’jacks loomed inside the walls, most of them perfectly still, almost as if they were standing at attention. Among them Cleasby saw everything from nine-foot-tall light warjacks to massive heavy warjacks, most of which he guessed were at least twelve feet tall, alongside laborjacks of all shapes and sizes. Hundreds of mechaniks were working frantically.

Near the gate a gobber was working on a partially dismantled Defender, scraping at a patch of rust. The little creature’s legs hung out of an opening in the heavy warjack’s torso. Madigan approached, and Cleasby had to step over a pile of gears and hoses that had been ripped out of the ’jack and then duck under its arm cannon. “Excuse me.” Madigan called to the gobber. “I’m looking for Neel MacKay. Is he around?”

“The angry human?” The gobber demonstrated why his species was so talented at working on machines as he effortlessly rolled around inside the confines of the Defender’s chest. His green skin was covered in rust and grease. He pointed with his wire brush at a small building. “Follow the shouting and profanity.”

“Thank you, friend,” Madigan said as he set out for the indicated shed.

Cleasby checked the clipboard. “There’s no MacKay on here.”

“There should be. MacKay’s about as antisocial as you can be without getting drummed out of the army. We served together during the Scharde Invasions. He hates people. Loves ’jacks, though.” Madigan reached the shed and slid the door open without bothering to knock.

A beefy, overweight, older fellow with a white bushy mustache the consistency of the gobber’s wire brush was leaning over the fist of a ’jack, using a cutting torch to remove a damaged knuckle. He cursed at the sound of their arrival. “Blasted interruptions! How’s a man supposed to fix all this poorly designed junk when every dunderhead in Caspia keeps bothering him?” Goggles swung their way. “What’s the meaning of—” His mouth fell open. “Madigan?”

“Sergeant MacKay. Been awhile.”

The old mechanik hurriedly turned some valves to kill his cutting torch and set it down carefully on his workbench. “They busted me back to corporal for punching some wet-behind-the-ears journeyman warcaster in his stupid mouth for insulting one of my ’jacks.” MacKay had a strong Thurian accent. He came over and engulfed Madigan in a bear hug. “Good to see you, boy!” The knight returned the hug. When they broke apart, Madigan’s new uniform was stained with grime. The mechanik grimaced. “Sorry about that.”

Madigan waved off his concern. “It needed to be broken in. How you been, old man?”

“Bored! Fixing things that shouldn’t get broken in the first place. Stupid officers. I swear they come out of the academy too proud to read the stupid manuals. I’m a field mechanik. This look like the field to you?” MacKay waved one heavy work glove around the shed. “They stuck me here and said I’m too old to fight in the invasion. Can you believe that?”

Cleasby could easily believe it. The Scharde campaign had ended eighteen years ago. Cleasby had been a baby.

“Their mistake, and their loss,” Madigan agreed. “I need a favor.”

“If it hadn’t been for you I would’ve died at the hands of those godforsaken Cryxians. Anything for you, my boy.”

“Sixth of the 47th needs a warjack. That’s my new command.”

MacKay went to a very full chalkboard on the wall and scowled. “Orders from a Captain Schafer, no warjacks for that platoon. Says here your boys are ‘low priority.’”

“Get me a warjack.”

The mechanik scratched at his grizzled chin. “That’ll take some doing.”

“Do it, then.”

“Can’t promise nothing new or fancy.”

Madigan folded his arms. “I want a Stormclad.”

“And I want to bed Ayn Vanar, but neither one is likely to happen.” MacKay paused, thinking it over. “The Stormclad’s the top of the line. Every Stormblade unit wants a Stormclad. Getting one would be hard, but not impossible . . . You’ll still need a ’jack marshal to run it, though. Get me on your platoon and I’ll get you your ’jack.”

Cleasby couldn’t believe his ears. “That’s against regulations. You can’t work outside of regular procurement, and you can’t just go moving assigned personnel around!”

MacKay looked like he was thinking about hitting Cleasby with a wrench, but Madigan just ignored the protests. “You know how to work a storm glaive?”

“Better than you do, I’d wager, since I was there when Sebastian Nemo unveiled them. Hell, I know how to build them.”

The knight rubbed his scar thoughtfully. “You’ve let yourself get fat, MacKay . . .”

He patted his gut. “My Evie can cook.”

“You’ve got two months to squeeze yourself into a suit of storm armor. It won’t do me any good to have a warjack if its controller is too fat and slow to run along behind it.”

“Deal.” MacKay’s toothy grin could barely be seen beneath his huge mustache. He used his thumb to wipe the word low from the chalkboard. “Now Sixth Platoon is priority.”

“I’ve heard they call him the Ascendant,” Madigan said as they made their way through the streets just outside of the walls of the Sancteum. “Supposedly he’s a remarkable fighter.”

“We probably shouldn’t call him the Ascendant. He’d probably consider himself unworthy and take offense.” Cleasby was master of the clipboard. “It says here that Sergeant Wilkins is quite possibly delusional. His last commanding officer found him to be insufferable, obnoxious, and a detriment to morale.”

“Then you two should get along splendidly.”

The Sancteum within Caspia was the home of the Church of Morrow. Thousands of faithful pilgrims flocked to this place every day. The Sancteum itself was a walled city within a city. A holy, contemplative place, filled with the offices and headquarters of various orders of the church. The neighborhood around the Sancteum’s main gates was anything but quiet, though. It was filled with businesses catering to the needs of countless pilgrims, visitors, clergy, and scholars. Vendors sold totems, statues, trinkets, and even supposedly holy relics. Street preachers shared their particular messages at nearly every corner. As Cleasby and Madigan passed the open gates and the sergeant caught sight of the legendary Archcourt Cathedral, he couldn’t help but gawk at its magnificence.

“You appear moved, Cleasby.”

Of course Cleasby believed in the ascendency of the Twins and the rightness of the Morrowan faith, and he attended services occasionally, but beyond that he didn’t pay such matters much heed. His appreciation was more scholarly; so many important historical decisions had been made and miracles manifested within the walls of that cathedral it was staggering. The Menite faith was about blind obedience to the Creator, whereas the Morrowans believed in nuanced morality, ethics, and intellectual achievements. The world would still be in darkness if it wasn’t for the Church. “Not really, sir. I appreciate the clergy very much, but I’m afraid I’m not particularly devout.”

“Well, our Sergeant Wilkins is, so let me do the talking.”

“Are you schooled in the doctrine of Morrow?”

“That’s the good twin, right?” Madigan asked, completely deadpan.

“Sir!” Cleasby choked. Everyone knew that Thamar was Morrow’s sister, the dark to his light, and that she was the goddess of selfishness and the merciless search for personal gain, worshiped only in secret in exchange for giving her followers dark powers.

Madigan chuckled. “I’m joking, Cleasby. Wilkins is a fanatic, but we’re about to go to war with some fanatics, and it wouldn’t hurt to have one of our own. Look for a street preacher with a Precursor’s shield. I heard Wilkins carries that with him everywhere. Thinks it’s a holy relic or some such thing.”

They found Sergeant Wilkins two streets over, standing on top of a crate giving a passionate discourse on his interpretations of doctrine to a small crowd that included pilgrims, several trollkin, a few gobbers, and an ogrun. Resting against the crate beneath the burly, square-jawed preacher’s feet was a battered steel shield bearing the symbol of Morrow and the Precursor Order.

“The ascendants have taught us there are many righteous paths to Morrow’s domain in Urcaen. Rowan renounced her wealth and helped ease the suffering of others. Doleth gave his catch to the hungry and risked his life to save drowning sailors. Gordenn tilled his fields and used that bounty to feed the poor. What do they all have in common?”

“Sacrifice!” shouted one of the listeners. “Sacrifice!”

“Correct, my brother. Though there are many paths and many philosophies, sacrificing for the good of others is the ultimate display of devotion. The wretched Menites do not sacrifice for their fellow man but instead sacrifice each other to their merciless god!” He raised his voice so the entire street could hear his words. “The Creator is a petty, jealous god. Every soul is born with the ability to choose between righteousness and wickedness. Morrow would encourage that choice, allowing us to better ourselves. We choose to sacrifice! We choose to be good! We choose to be willing servants.”

There were murmurs of assent from the crowd. Even the Dhunia-worshiping trollkin, gobbers, and ogrun seemed moved.

“But Menoth doesn’t want servants; he wants slaves. Menoth would take that agency and crush it beneath his heel until we are all ground into dust. We must not be enslaved by the Protectorate, a government that focuses only upon the rigid inflexibility of their god. No, my brothers and sisters, they must be destroyed and Hierarch Voyle cast down from his palace of gold! We all must sacrifice in our own ways to stop this Menite menace!”

The crowd cheered. Wilkins’ talk was certainly animated, though it was more militant than Cleasby was used to. Yet if Madigan had one personality trait that showed consistently, it was impatience. He wasn’t the type to waste time listening to a lay preacher. The knight stepped forward. Several members of the audience, seeing the medal on his chest, respectfully moved out of the way. “Sergeant Aiden Wilkins?” he said above the clamor.

The preacher looked down. “Yes, my brother?”

“You’re not my brother. You’re my subordinate. Get down.”

“We all must answer to Morrow eventually, and if we’re to have victory over the Menites, we will need his light to guide us.” He glanced at the patch on Madigan’s shoulder to ascertain his rank. “So tell me, Lieutenant, who among the ascendants do you follow most closely? It appears you are knighted, and Ascendant Katrena is the patron of knighthood and nobility, yet you carry yourself as a common soldier, and they are watched over by Ascendant Markus. So who guides your path?”

Cleasby was actually curious about the answer to that question.

Madigan’s expression did not change. “King Leto Raelthorne guides my path, by way of his holy prophets Lord Commander Stryker and Major Laddermore, and they’ve ordered me to scrape together a unit to go ruin some Menites’ day. So if you want a piece of that action, shut your mouth and get off the crate.”

“Yes, sir!” Wilkins hopped down.

The crowd, disappointed that the fiery preacher was done, began to drift away. Cleasby found himself apologizing to a disgruntled trollkin who muttered something about the army ruining the best shows before stomping off.

Wilkins approached them and saluted. “The opportunity to bring the light of righteousness to confront the evils of the Protectorate fills my heart with joy.”

“If you ever question my orders again, you’ll have the opportunity to fill your backside with my boot. Understood, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir!” Wilkins stood at attention.

“Cleasby. Clipboard.” Madigan thrust out his hand. Cleasby gave him the list. Madigan pretended to study it, though Cleasby was fairly sure he’d already memorized it, and addressed the sergeant again. “You were a Precursor knight, a soldier for the Church. Why did you leave the order?”

Wilkins stuck his chest out a bit. “I had a prophetic vision, sir.”

“A vision?”

“Yes, sir. Ascendant Katrena spoke to me in a dream. I saw a world filled with lightning. I understood then that Morrow’s path for me required me to become a Stormblade. I enlisted immediately.”

Cleasby scratched his head. That explained the possibly delusional part. Even in a world with magic and miracles, it wasn’t like the ascendants made a habit of talking to people directly.

“And how’s that path working out for you?”

“There have been . . . setbacks.”

“As in you’re a self-righteous busybody and nobody wants to serve with someone who’s always judging them and telling them what to do.”

Wilkins scowled. “It is my sacred duty as one of the pious to point out when my brothers and sisters are faltering, distancing themselves from Morrow’s light.”

“I bet they love that.” Madigan scowled. “I’ve been told you’re good in a scrap.”

“Morrow has blessed me with courage and a strong arm.”

“Do you really want to protect the good citizens of Cygnar from the wrath of Menoth?”

“Of course I do, sir.”

“Excellent—but no matter how strong you are, you’ll never get the chance if you can’t function as part of a unit. You want to be a Stormblade, you have to fight as a Stormblade, but they won’t have you. That’s quite the conundrum, isn’t it, Wilkins? Good thing your sermon holds the answer. What was it you were saying all the ascendants had in common?”

“I believe they all chose to sacrifice something of great value.”

“Then you’re going to have to learn to sacrifice being judgmental and telling your comrades what to do. The only demands to the men I want to hear from you should be related to the quality of their soldiering and not the state of their eternal soul. You want to lead them to Morrow, you’ll do it by example.”

Cleasby was grudgingly impressed. He hadn’t expected Madigan to use the Morrowan’s own sermon against him.

Wilkins swallowed hard. “That will be very difficult for me, sir.”

“It wouldn’t be much of a sacrifice if it wasn’t difficult, now would it? Welcome to Sixth Platoon, Wilkins. Now, let’s get you two sergeants properly suited up. I want to make a grand entrance for this next one.”

The area around the Black River docks was the roughest part of Caspia. It was a rather stark difference from the pristine marble churches of the Sancteum. The buildings here were just as tall, only instead of being filled with books, artwork, and holy relics, they were packed with poor people. The farther they got off the main road and into the warren of tenement buildings and smoke-belching factories, the more uncomfortable Cleasby became.

It didn’t help that he and Wilkins were clanking along in full suits of blue and gold heavy storm armor and carrying huge galvanic swords, so everyone was coming to their windows to gawk. He felt awkward, clumsy, slow, and loud. The armor hadn’t been properly sized yet, and bits and pieces chafed against his skin in the most obnoxious manner.

It was very late in the day, but the street still held many people. Most of them seemed rather shady. Near the gates they had seen beggars, but none seemed to try their luck here. He imagined this was first because there was no money to beg and second because as soon as any unfortunate closed his fingers on a coin he’d be mugged for it. Cleasby had been trying to pay better attention to such things since his embarrassment in the Thornwood. “There’s a notable lack of city watch in this area.”

“The few guards around are probably bribed easily enough,” Madigan agreed as he looked around. “Good choice of location, clever use of existing terrain. The area is perfect for this sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing would that be, sir?” Cleasby asked.

“You’ll see.”

The lieutenant had forgone armor, and the other two still didn’t know why they’d had to suit up. They might look impressive, but Cleasby had never worn the insulated, electricity-proof armor before, and he’d never wielded a sword capable of channeling lightning. He hadn’t powered up the sword yet and was frankly a little nervous to do so. At least Wilkins seemed confident.

More alert, too, he noted when Wilkins shifted to the side and lifted his shield as something small moved in a nearby alley. It was a female gobber, barely three feet tall, with grey skin and clothing made from old flour sacks. “You Madigan?” she hissed as she looked both ways, making sure none of the locals saw her talking to the army.

Cleasby and Wilkins exchanged a glance.

“That’s me. Where’s the ring?”

“Coin first!” the gobber insisted.

Madigan flicked a gold crown toward the alley, and the gobber snatched it from the air with one tiny fist. She bit the coin to satisfy herself that it was real and then told them, “End of the road, go left, half a block. Big warehouse with green doors.”

“Thank you.” Madigan gave a small bow.

The gobber turned and scrambled away, quickly disappearing into the warren of garbage and boxes.

“You sure seem to have a lot of friends wherever you go, Lieutenant,” Cleasby said.

“Enemies too, but I’ve outlived most of those. Come on, lads. We’ve got work to do.” He started walking again. The lieutenant’s fast pace had proven difficult to keep up with in the best of circumstances. Cleasby practically had to jog in the armor, which just made the pinching worse.

They reached the end of the street and turned left. This area looked even worse, if that were possible. Some of the tenements had been damaged by fires and never repaired. Although most of Caspia had a good sewer system, from the smell he’d say either this area didn’t or it was backed up and leaking into the streets. The air was cold and damp, and he saw people sleeping in alleys and huddled around barrels, burning trash for warmth.

“Rowan weeps, this is shameful,” Wilkins said. “These poor souls. The Church should do something about the poverty in this place.”

Madigan grunted. “When the war is over, you can help here all you want, Wilkins.”

“When my shield is no longer needed to defend the righteous from the Menite scourge, maybe I will. These poor souls need to hear the words of the ascendants and pull themselves up from this filth.”

“Good luck. The Church does a little, sure: feeds the hungry, hands out a few blankets in between building marble cathedrals in Caspia. But some neighborhoods aren’t inclined to take help. Sooner or later some gang gets tired of being preached at. The pushy preachers end up taking a swim in the harbor.” He turned his head to Cleasby. “Remember when I asked why you enlisted? I grew up not far from here.” The lieutenant gestured at a crumbling tenement. A mangy dog ran past them, tail between its legs. A young gobber chased after his escaped dinner with a stick. “This is why I enlisted. Three square meals a day made fighting Cryx sound like a fine deal.”

That explained a lot.

Madigan stopped in front of a rundown warehouse. “This is the place.”

“Should we power up our swords?” Wilkins asked, eager.

“Feel free.”

Cleasby activated the weapon by rotating the haft in opposite directions until it locked in the armed position. It took a moment for the storm chamber to warm up. Then the sword began to hum at a very low pitch. The coils running through the copper tube in the center of blade began to glow with a pale, flickering light. Energy that had been gathered in the arcane accumulator flowed through the conductive lattice of the blade. There was a trigger stud beneath the guard to discharge the energy. Cleasby had never seen one of these used, but he’d heard they were absolutely devastating against tissue—including the user’s own, without proper attire. Suddenly he found that the storm armor didn’t seem quite so uncomfortable.

Wilkins was grinning. “Who are we fighting?”

“Nobody. You two just need to look official and intimidating. Lower your visors.”

Cleasby reached up with one insulated gauntlet and moved the visor down. The world seemed to close in as his vision was drastically curtailed. His breathing seemed very loud.

Madigan went up to the door and knocked. A small portal rasped open, and a pair of eyes appeared. “Password?” Then the guard saw the two glowing, fully armored Stormblades flanking an officer. “Uh oh.”

“The place is surrounded. Open this door now or I’ll have my warjack make a new one.”

“Right away!” The portal slid closed. They heard the scrape of a heavy metal bar being moved on the other side of the door.

“Warjack?” Wilkins asked in a low voice. “Surrounded?”

“Does Morrow have a problem with lying in order to gain a tactical advantage, Sergeant?”

“Not that I’m aware of, sir.”

“Good. Me and him will get along fine then.” The door opened. The guard was a fat, unkempt thug, but he got right out of their way, apologizing profusely. As soon as Cleasby was past him, the man took off running down the street.

The front of the warehouse had been portioned off by walls made of old boards and canvas curtains. The sound of many loud, excited voices echoed in the large space—easily dozens of voices, cheering and booing. It sounded like a sporting event. Madigan led the way through the curtains and bumped into a man wearing an armored great coat on his way out. The two men studied each other for a moment. They seemed to recognize each other. The man in the great coat looked over at the Stormblades, then back at their leader. “Madigan.”

“Caine.” Madigan nodded in return. “Here on business?”

“Always.” Then the man in the coat brushed past the Stormblades and walked outside.

“Who was that?” Cleasby asked Wilkins. The other sergeant shrugged.

Their commander shoved the last curtain aside and entered the main area of the warehouse. There had to be at least a hundred people inside. Crates and shelves had been arranged around a wide space in the center, almost like the seating of an amphitheater. In the open center of the warehouse two shirtless men were beating each other to a bloody pulp in a bare knuckle boxing match. Throughout the crowd money was changing hands rapidly as bets were placed. The crowd went wild as a gob of blood, spit, and a few teeth were sent flying across the ring by a particularly nasty right hook.

Madigan didn’t bother trying to shout over the racket. “Wilkins, get their attention.”

There was a wooden barrel off to the side. Wilkins looked inside, probably to make sure its contents weren’t dangerous, then lifted his sword. It hummed as the storm chamber charged, and he brought it down hard against the wood.

CRACK!

The release of electrical energy was far louder than Cleasby had expected. He flinched and closed his eyes, but a glowing blue afterimage remained etched on the inside of his eyelids. When he opened them again, the barrel had been blasted into splinters. The metal barrel rings lay in a pile, scorched and blackened.

That had certainly gotten everyone’s attention. The crowd was still, all staring their way, wide eyed, trying to decide whether they should bolt or not. Even the fighters had stopped—one, because he’d passed out.

Madigan cleared his throat. “That’s better. It’s against army regulations for soldiers to be participating in underground gambling establishments, especially while on deployment. A violation of this regulation is punishable by flogging and a dock in pay . . .”

He noted a lot of panicked looks being exchanged in the crowd.

“But today is your lucky day; I’m only here for the Storm Knights. They can stay seated. Don’t even think of trying to sneak out, because my men will be checking everyone outside, and they don’t take kindly to sneaking,” he lied. “If you’re a civilian you’re probably breaking some law, but that’s not my problem, so get out. If you’re regular army, you’re also not my problem, so get out.”

The vast majority of the spectators got up and hurried for the exits. Cleasby stepped out of the way so they could file past. Everyone was wearing cloaks or coats, but he caught glimpses of uniforms beneath: long gunners, mechaniks, even stormcallers. The unconscious fighter was carried out by two trenchers, which suggested he was one of them.

Cleasby leaned toward Madigan and spoke through his visor. “We should at least take their names and report them to their commanding officers. They’re all in violation.”

Madigan was just scowling at the soldiers as they shuffled by. When he turned to Cleasby, the scowl was gone, and it was obvious the lieutenant was trying not to smile. “You shove twenty-two thousand extra troops with energy to burn into a city, and these sorts of things are to be expected.”

“Morrow warned against gambling,” Wilkins said to the soldiers as they filed past him. “Gambling will attract the gaze of Scion Bolis. Do not let yourself fall under the influence of the Dark Twin or her minions!”

“Wilkins, shut up,” Madigan ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

Once the room was cleared, Madigan walked to the interior. One man and two women still sat on an overstuffed leather couch that looked like it had been removed from a baron’s estate. The man had his boots up on a table and an arm around each woman. Judging from the piles of coins on the table as well as the chalkboard marked with betting odds, he was the fellow running this operation. He was a thin, pale, young man dressed in an aristocrat’s fine suit. Cleasby couldn’t help but stare, not that anyone could tell with his visor down. Both women were very attractive and not wearing much in the way of clothing.

“I said civilians can leave,” Madigan said.

“There was some confusion on that, since they’re employees,” the young nobleman answered with a smile. “Care for a drink, Lieutenant . . . ?”

“Madigan. No thank you. I’m on duty. You must be Corporal Gilford Thornbury.”

It took Cleasby a moment to get the clipboard out of the leather sack on his belt. The gauntlets made that difficult, but taking them off would increase the risk of getting electrocuted by his own sword. Thornbury’s name was on the list next to “Conduct unbecoming a soldier.” He found that a rather vague charge.

“Call me Thorny. Madigan, eh? I’ve heard of you.”

“And I’ve heard of you.” Madigan roughly kicked the young man’s boots off the table and sat on it. Thornbury looked mildly offended. “Sorry, ladies,” Madigan continued, “but this is a private conversation.”

They looked to Thornbury, who nodded. The women fled, though they flashed smiles at the two Stormblades on their way past. Wilkins turned away, somehow refraining from warning them about their dangerous path even though there was surely a scion of harlots.

Thornbury was the first to speak. “Madigan . . . that’s Sir Madigan? You’re the one Laddermore has putting together a unit of misfits. Aren’t you the knight who burned an earl to death, along with his wife and children, back during the coup?”

“That would be me.” Madigan spread his hands in mock apology. “Things happen.”

“My father was knighted, and he never felt the need to burn any children. So I take it you have an issue with the aristocracy?”

“Oh, no, Corporal. I’m landed gentry myself now, though King Vinter only saw fit to grant me a few useless acres of rock in the Wyrmwall. I’m not here with a grudge. I’m here to inform you of your reassignment to the Sixth Platoon.”

“Ah. I can see there’s been some confusion.” Thornbury picked up a goblet, swirled the wine a bit, and took a sip. “That whole military service thing was a big misunderstanding. You see, my father is a very important nobleman, and in some social circles being a Stormblade can be seen as rather prestigious—even dashing. I don’t think anyone ever expected me to do any actual soldiering, especially amid all this unpleasantness with the Menites.”

“Permission to teach this dandy a lesson, Lieutenant?” Wilkins asked.

“Permission denied . . . for now.” Madigan leaned forward. “Let me break this down for you in very clear and simple terms, Thorny. If you know who I am, you know how little I care about who your father is. I’ve already been given the most god-awful, dead-end assignment in the kingdom. It doesn’t get any worse.”

Thornbury scowled. Obviously he hadn’t thought of that.

“As of right now, you are guilty of dereliction of duty and criminal activity. The army thinks you are a spoiled, useless, cowardly fop. You can either come with me, do the duty you signed up for, and prove them wrong, or you can spend the next year in the brig.”

“We both know I’d be released as soon as someone on the command staff heard. They wouldn’t want to be disinvited from the best parties.” He laughed. It was a bluff; even for nobles the repercussions for such behavior were severe, and everyone knew it. “Come on, Madigan. I don’t know why you’d want me anyway. Sure, my father was a great warrior, but me? I’ve no gift for soldiering.”

“I’ve got no shortage of men who can swing a sword.” Madigan gestured around the warehouse. “Look what you’ve accomplished here.” Madigan picked up one of the coin purses that lay beside him and weighed it appreciatively. “Good night’s work.”

“Not so. There are associated costs of doing business. Local gangs get a cut for using their turf. Gate guards get a cut for letting all these soldiers through. Fighters get a percentage of the house . . . With you cutting me off after only five fights tonight, by the time I pay everybody, I probably won’t even cover my advertising costs.”

“Next time you should hire some of the local guttersnipes for lookouts. They work cheap. Good insurance.”

“You’re a strange sort of officer, Madigan.”

“And I’m putting together a strange sort of platoon. I need a scrounger.”

“A what?”

“When you’re campaigning, living off the wilderness, every unit picks a scrounger. That’s the man who can find you food to eat and a dry place to sleep. He’s the one who collect favors and make things happen. Right now my platoon is at the end of the logistics chain; Captain Schafer’s got no use for us. We’re the runt of the litter, and the runt always eats last. Worst equipment, worst supplies, worst mechanika, you name it. I need a man who can alleviate that.”

Once again, Cleasby spoke before thinking. “It’s true. Wait until you see the barracks they assigned us.”

“A scrounger?” Thornbury seemed thoughtful. “What’s in it for me?”

“Come on. I’ve ridden past your family estates. We both know you aren’t doing this for the money. You’re bored. That’s why you play these games. I’ve known men like you. There’s no point if there’s no challenge, and where’s the challenge in having everything in life handed to you on a silver plate? You come with me, right now, and you’ll have your challenge—and when this war is over, you’ll have stories to tell all your little aristocrat friends. The noble ladies swoon over a war hero.”

Thornbury adjusted his silk cravat. “I don’t need much help in that department, but I’m intrigued.”

“It is the way of the Dark Twin to think only of your personal benefit—” Wilkins began.

“Sacrifice, Wilkins, sacrifice.”

Wilkins sighed. “Yes, sir.”

“Tell you what, Madigan. I’ll check it out. I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“Good, good,” Madigan smiled, but his eyes stayed cold. He leaned in even closer, right into Thornbury’s face. The aristocrat shrank back into the couch. Cleasby had seen that expression on the lieutenant a few times now, and it was unnerving, like the only reason you were still alive was that it wasn’t worth his effort to kill you.

“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?”

“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.”

“So I’m to be transferred then?” That was a relief.

Schafer gave him a gentle smile. “Sadly, no. I have need of you at the Sixth.”

Cleasby tried not to let his disappointment show. “Whatever best serves the needs of Cygnar.”

“A fine attitude to have, and I am sure your talents are being wasted. Which is why I need you to do something for me. I will look upon it as a personal favor. I have been promised a promotion—after this campaign is concluded and I have proven myself, of course. My uncle is the general of the Tenth Division at Point Bourne, and I have been groomed for a position on his staff. I will need good organizational men there, and I would like to keep you in mind. Do this favor for me and it will be remembered.”

Some said he was naive, but Cleasby certainly wasn’t stupid. If the request was above board, they wouldn’t be meeting in secret about it. Schafer would just give the order and that would be that. “What do you need?” he asked hesitantly.

“I need you to keep a detailed record of everything the members of the Sixth Platoon do that is against regulations. Everything. When Laddermore’s folly has totally embarrassed himself, I don’t just want Madigan drummed out of the army. I want him shamed. I want his title revoked. I want him hung. Do you understand?” Schafer’s composure had slipped a bit. “I want his head on a pike in front of the military district. You will record every wrongdoing, violation, and transgression, compile them, and present the report to me at the conclusion of the campaign.”

Cleasby didn’t like where this was going at all, but he was by nature an honest man. “Uh . . . well . . . I am already doing something like that.”

“Really? That’s what I like to hear. I knew I could count on you, Sergeant.”

“I bear no special animosity toward Lieutenant Madigan. I’m just following the regulations. They are rather clear on the matter, sir.”

Schafer leaned forward in his chair. “My, you really are a stickler, aren’t you? Very well, then. I will remember this favor.” The captain seemed very pleased. “Don’t let Madigan catch you. I hear he’s a crafty one. That will be all.” Schafer picked up some reports from a pile on his desk and began reading them. “Dismissed.”

Cleasby stood up, adjusted his uniform, and thought it through. He could just walk away and reap the career benefits later, but that wasn’t the proper knightly thing to do. It needed to be said, no matter how awkward it made things. “Sir, I’m afraid Madigan is already aware of my cataloging the transgressions.”

The captain tilted his head to the side. “What? How?”

“Uh . . . Well, because I told him.”

Schafer’s hands clenched, crumpling the report in his hands. “You told him?”

“Yes, sir. As per regulation fifteen dash two zero five of the handbook, I have alerted my superior as to any inadvertent violations. I have been rather open about it.”

The captain turned a funny shade of red when he was angry, Cleasby noted. Schafer pointed at the door. “Get out of my sight.”

Cleasby saluted and then ran for his life.

“It is the fifth of Cinten. If rumor’s to be believed, Brisbane’s bombardment against the walls of Sul will begin any day, and Stryker wants those walls down by late Rowen. That gives us less than two months to turn this rabble into a proper fighting unit.” Madigan and most of his “foundation” were watching the troops drill with wooden swords, which weighed slightly more than their still-to-be-issued galvanic blades.

“We’ve only been issued four storm glaives, six voltaic halberds, and eight suits of insulated armor for the entire platoon,” Cleasby said. “Not a single storm rod, either. So even if we don’t mind a couple of men risking electrocution, less than a quarter of us are actually combat effective.”

“From how hard Wilkins is pushing these men, I wouldn’t be surprised if we could kill a few Menites with just those planks at this point, but that won’t do. Pull eight men at a time and run them through the weapons in shifts. I want everyone to have a chance to practice on what issue equipment we have. Thorny?”

The aristocrat was leaning on the fence, eating a cupcake decorated with pink frosting. Cleasby had no idea where he’d found such a frivolous thing. “Yes, Lieutenant?” Thornbury asked, with his mouth still full.

“I’m tired of waiting for logistics. I think Schafer’s reaming us on principle. Get me the rest of my gear.”

“Challenge accepted!” He pondered a moment. “I may need to raid our operating budget, though. There’s a lass in the quartermaster’s office who is rather fond of the opera. It’s sold out, but I know the Ordic ambassador cancelled, so his box is open. I bet if I seduce the quartermaster’s assistant, I can get a few lightning swords out of the deal. I’m willing to take one for the platoon.”

Cleasby raised an eyebrow. He’d continued keeping meticulous notes about the many regulatory violations of the Sixth, but he didn’t even know what this would be categorized under. “That hardly seems like a sacrifice, Corporal.”

“You haven’t seen her!” Thornbury laughed. “She’s got a face like a Tharn. Don’t ever say I don’t give my all for this platoon.”

“Enjoy your opera,” Madigan said. “Then go see MacKay at the mechanik’s yard. If you can get him parts or broken weapons he can make us new ones. And I want my Stormclad! I don’t care if you have to back a wagon up to one, shove it in, and gallop off.”

Their scrounger saluted. “I’m on it.” Thornbury vaulted the fence and took off at a jog.

“He’s motivated,” Madigan said.

“You have that effect on people,” Cleasby said, and he meant it.

“I bet . . . Rains! Come here.”

The former Menite broke out of formation and ran over. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

“I’ve been watching you with the soldiers. Are you having any problems with them?”

“A few,” he answered truthfully. There had been some talk of the apostate Menite being a traitor, but Rains worked twice as hard as everyone else to make up for it. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“I’ve seen your swordplay. Bevy and Hellogand tried to spar you. They’re good, but you smacked them about easily. Some of these men, especially the ones sent from the long gunners, can’t fight worth a damn with a sword, but you’ve killed Khadorans using a glaive. You’ve been through real Storm Knight training at Fort Falk and know how to run storm equipment. I need another squad leader. Congratulations—you’ve just been field promoted.”

Rains looked shocked. “Thank you, sir, but I can’t accept this honor. I’m not a leader.”

“You are whatever I say you are, Sergeant. Next up, how much do you know about Protectorate troops and tactics?”

“Truthfully, not much.”

“Nobody here has faced them, so that’s more than the rest of us. Put together a briefing. Everything you know. What they field. How they fight. How they think.”

“I never served in the Protectorate military, sir,” he protested. “I fled when I was a teenager—” He stopped, as if realizing that was the most he’d ever said about his past. “I apologize. Many in my family served, and I’m familiar with how they move about Sul. I’ll do my best.”

“If what you share now saves even one of these men’s lives during the invasion, then it will be time well spent. Get to work, Rains.”

He saluted. “I’ll get right on it, sir.”

Madigan returned the salute and moved on to the next problem. “Wilkins!”

Cleasby smiled. “I can’t wait to see the look on his face when you tell him you just promoted Rains. That was a violation of the rules of conduct, by the way. You needed Captain Schafer’s permission to do that, and it has to be approved by the Bureau of Personnel.”

“Throw it on the list,” Madigan snapped. Cleasby made another note on the clipboard. Wilkins arrived and saluted. “How are the men shaping up?” the lieutenant asked.

“Most of the ones who have been through real Storm Knight training will do well, provided they are able to resist drink and they don’t give in to anger and try to murder each other over imagined slights and bruised pride. The trenchers are quite fit, but they have been trained to duck and look for a protective hole, and they are having trouble fighting that instinct. The long gunners? Most of them can get their boots on the right feet, I suppose, but as far as combat effectiveness as heavy infantry goes . . .”

“You’ve got two months.”

“It will be done.” Wilkins nodded. “But it would help a great deal if we could train with our actual equipment. I’m having the storm gunners point sticks and yell ‘Boom!’ Also, we both know it takes time to get used to maneuvering in plate armor, let alone fighting in it, and some of these soldiers have never done that.”

“Thorny’s working on it.”

“That boy’s manipulative soul is in grave danger of corruption . . .” Wilkins muttered, then continued in a rush before Madigan could correct him. “And I thank Morrow every day that Thornbury is on our side. Speaking of which . . . if I may be so bold, Lieutenant, it has been a few weeks. I sincerely believe a shrine to Ascendant Markus will give us a proper soldier’s blessing. I’d lead a nightly prayer—but only for volunteers, you have my word.”

Madigan scratched at his scar. “My answer depends entirely on how well you handle what I tell you next. I just promoted Enoch Rains to sergeant.”

“The Apostate?” Wilkins blinked rapidly for several seconds. For a moment Cleasby thought he might have broken something inside his brain. “Very well, sir . . . That’s . . . Well . . . Huh.”

Madigan folded his arms. “Is that all you have to say, Sergeant?”

“Rains fights well. He’s probably one of the best among us, but he’s a Menite—or was a Menite.”

“That’s not against the law, and there are soldiers in this army fighting and dying for Cygnar this very minute wearing Menofixes beneath their shirts, keeping their faith secret so as to not draw the ire of people like you.”

Wilkins swallowed hard. “I will defer to your judgment of his character. I am certain Morrow has inspired you, and perhaps it is our righteous destiny to be led into an ambush and have our throats slit by Menite assassins, and you are my commanding officer, so I’ll be quiet now.”

“Good enough. Build your shrine. You can have a short ceremony for the pious before lanterns out. First day of the week you may have a brief sermon. Before you ask, if my tea has time to get cold it has gone on far too long. And no dirges—so help me, I can’t abide mournful singing. Dismissed.”

“Thank you, sir.” Wilkins ran back to the drills with a renewed spring in his step. His bellowed orders seemed to have even more enthusiasm than before, if that were possible.

Cleasby had to smile. “All things considered, sir, that went better than I expected.”

“They all may all have problems now, but they have to have shown some potential at some point to be assigned to the Storm Knights. We just need to remind them of that. In the meantime, I’m just happy we’ve kept the stabbings to a minimum.” Madigan rubbed his face with both hands, an unusual display of fatigue from the normally stoic lieutenant. Cleasby had noticed he never allowed himself to show weakness in front of the men. “They’ve got a long way to go,” Madigan continued. “We have some solid men here, but a soldier is only as strong as the ones watching his flanks. They need loyalty to each other. What little they’ve got is as fragile as glass. They’ve got potential. I can see it, even if nobody else can, but I don’t want to see this unit shatter the first time it faces a test. If that happens, men die.”

“You said yourself it’s doubtful the War Council’s plans will put us in any place of importance.”

Madigan gave a sardonic laugh. “War has a funny way of changing plans. Time’s not on our side, but our job is to get this unit as ready as it can be regardless. Building a unit is like playing Fellig’s Fortunes. You stack your deck with every card you can get, but it’s hard to win a hand when all you can draw from is the discard pile.”

There was some commotion at the front gate. A visitor on horseback was hailing them and asking for directions to the Sixth. Madigan glanced over, and a broad smile formed on his face when he saw the visitor. “Well, I’ll be . . .”

Cleasby didn’t recognize the man. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, unshaven fellow wearing a battered, dusty great coat and a wide-brimmed hat. The coat looked like it might have been part of a military uniform once, but it was so faded Cleasby couldn’t hazard a guess as to which kingdom had issued it, and it bore no insignia now. The visitor carried a rifle on one side of his saddle and a scattergun on the other. He dismounted—revealing that he was wearing at least one pistol, a sword, and a bandolier of ammunition—quickly tied his horse to the hitching post, and then walked their way.

“Who is that, sir?”

“That, Cleasby, is the continued stacking of our deck.” Madigan turned to shout at their visitor. “I didn’t expect you so soon.”

“Five Fingers is far away.” He was a very dark-skinned Tordoran, in his thirties, and he spoke with a thick Ordic accent. The man removed his hat, revealing that he’d gone completely bald. “Lucky for you I wasn’t home.”

“I figured the postmaster in Ramarck would know where you were working.” Traveling dust was knocked free as Madigan shook the man’s hand. “I’m glad you came, Savio.”

“You always manage to pick the best battles. So who is in need of killing this time?”

“The Protectorate of Menoth.”

“Excellent.” The Ordsman’s smile was eerie, even predatory. “I have never had the opportunity to kill them before. It should be enlightening.” He looked at Cleasby. “This is your second?”

Madigan nodded. “This is Sergeant Cleasby. Cleasby, this is Acosta. He’s an old friend of mine. Take care of whatever he needs.”

There was something frightening about the way the Ordsman immediately sized up Cleasby, like he was seeing if there were any possible challenge there. “You are a duelist, no?”

How did he know that? Cleasby shook his head. “I’ve had some training.”

“Not enough to be worth my time to fight. I am Savio Montero Acosta. I will require this . . . how you say? Storm armor. And one of the swords which makes lightning.”

“A storm glaive?” Cleasby asked.

“Madigan promised I would have the opportunity to master these lightning things in exchange for killing his enemies. I will need this storm glaive immediately so I may begin practicing.” He turned back to Madigan. “Where do I sleep?” Madigan nodded at the Barn. “Good. I have been awake for three days. Have someone care for my horse and bring me the rest of my firearms.” Then the Ordsman just walked away.

Cleasby watched as Acosta entered the barracks. “Uh . . . sir? I don’t think he’s from Cygnar, let alone the Cygnaran Army. I can’t—”

“Just give that man whatever he asks for.”

Cleasby held up the clipboard. “I know he’s not on here.”

“Sure he is.” Madigan took the clipboard and scanned the list until he found a deserter they hadn’t been able to track down. “As far as the army is concerned, that’s Private Aldous Whitman from Bainsmarket.” Madigan handed the clipboard back. “His friends call him Savio.”

Had Madigan just hired a mercenary? “I can’t even count how many regulations this breaks,” Cleasby stammered.

“Once we get into combat, you’ll thank me.”

It was a few days later when a commotion woke everyone in the Barn. Cleasby snapped awake, sleepily unsure if he should reach for his boots or his sword first, when he realized the sound was cheering.

He stumbled into the yard to discover Thornbury had returned, and he’d done so in style, driving a train of four big wagons. The guards were hooting and clapping as Thorny pulled away tarps, revealing . . . plunder was probably the correct word. There were weapons, armor, and all the equipment necessary for a unit of Storm Knights.

The men were streaming out of the Barn, and when they saw their gear had arrived, they became excited. Cleasby was surprised to see that they were actually enthusiastic. Madigan was there in full uniform, holding a lantern. Does that man ever sleep?

“See that, Cleasby? Treat a soldier like a soldier, and soon enough he’ll act like one. Now grab Wilkins and Rains and have them make sure nobody starts playing around and electrocutes themselves.”

Cleasby found the other sergeants and passed along the order. Sure enough, ten seconds later a private managed to charge up a storm thrower, and the resulting bolt into the sky temporarily deafened everyone and startled the nearby cows enough to make some of them crash through the fence to escape.

After a few moments of chaos, Wilkins shouted for order while Pangborn and a few soldiers ran to herd the cows back into their enclosure and Rains berated the private. Cleasby found the lieutenant talking to an agitated Neel MacKay, who was gesturing wildly. Cleasby followed the hand signals and saw that the last wagon’s huge load remained covered. Whatever it was, it was so heavy it needed to be pulled by twice as many oxen as the other wagons. He went to his commander’s side.

“You’re a genius, old man,” Madigan said as he clapped the mechanik on the back.

“Don’t get too excited. He’s got a few issues that might require some work around, but he’s a Stormclad, just like you asked.”

“Let’s see this mighty warjack of yours.” Madigan put one hand on the tarp.

MacKay sighed. “I’ve got to warn you—”

“You see how much the morale has improved just because these soldiers know they won’t be fighting with planks? Let me show them they’ve got a ’jack.”

“If it’s morale you’re worried about, Madigan, I’d leave the tarp on until they get inside. He’s one powerful ugly warjack.”

Madigan let go of the tarp. “Wilkins!” he shouted. “Have the men secure all these crates in the Barn and then lights out. Busy day tomorrow.” Wilkins began barking orders, and the men fell into line, quickly dragging their weapons and armor inside.

The rest of the foundation drifted over without being summoned. Cleasby wasn’t exactly shocked to see Acosta appear, and Madigan seemed to expect him to be there. With his beard shaved except for a Tordoran-style goatee and now wearing Cygnaran dress blues, the Ordsman no longer looked like a mercenary.

Thornbury joined them, proud as could be. “I worked my magic, Lieutenant. The opera wasn’t half bad, either, though I did get into a fight afterward when I had to protect the young lady’s honor from some thugs I am totally certain I’ve never met before in my life. It was convenient how I chased those rogues off like that and impressed her so.”

“Good man,” Madigan said. “Captain Schafer hasn’t had you arrested, so I’m assuming all went well.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but at least my new friend at the quartermaster’s will make sure Captain Schafer won’t see this requisition paperwork cross his desk for a few days. It’s funny how his signature and seal wound up on this logistics order. He must have been distracted. Imagine him signing off on a shipment of munitions for Sixth Platoon instead of ordering himself that new horse.” Thornbury shrugged. “But such are the dangers of bureaucracy.”

Cleasby sighed. He’d left the clipboard inside the Barn.

A few minutes later Wilkins came back. “The men are settled inside. I told them the first one unable to resist the temptation to charge up a storm chamber gets to do pushups until his arms fall off. That should buy me ten minutes.”

Madigan lowered the shutters on the lantern, leaving them in relative shadow. Cleasby found he was extremely excited. Warjacks had always impressed him—there was something simply incredible about the huge steel war machines. He felt like a child about to unwrap a present. From the looks the NCOs were sharing, he wasn’t alone in the feeling.

“Just remember, I warned you . . .” MacKay pulled away the tarp to reveal the warjack.

They crowded in close to see. The warjack was in a sitting position, the soles of its giant feet pointing toward them. It was hunched over, but even in the dark it was obvious something was wrong. “Why is it painted red?” Cleasby asked, shocked at seeing Khadoran colors on a Cygnaran ’jack.

“That’s not paint. That’s rust,” MacKay answered. “Nothing a little tender love and care can’t fix up good as new.”

There were holes in it. Bullet holes from the look of it. The once-mighty Stormclad was dented, battered, scratched, and even burned. The furnace door was missing, and the boiler was cracked. Powered down, the ’jack looked like it had crawled onto the wagon and died.

“It’s all broken,” Pangborn said. “We had an old laborjack on the farm in better shape than this.”

MacKay was indignant. “This isn’t no laborjack, you big moron. This is a top-of-the-line warjack.”

Pangborn didn’t take insults well, but apparently he had enough respect for the old mechanik to let the comment slide. “Then how come its arm fell off?”

“Give me some strong lads and a small crane, and I’ll have that back on in no time.”

“If this machine were a horse, I would put it out of its misery,” Acosta stated flatly.

“He isn’t a horse!” MacKay was getting offended. “This is a fine ’jack who has just had a spot of bad luck!”

There was a long hesitation while everyone waited for Madigan’s response.

“You weren’t lying about hurting morale. What happened to it?”

“He took some damage from a Khadoran barrage in Llael, then got loaded onto a train car that was rerouted and got lost. He’s been sitting in a train yard forgotten and neglected, and the train car had a leaky roof. They found him and were going to scrap him for parts.” MacKay climbed up into the wagon. “That’s how come I was able to get him for you.”

“Honest answer, MacKay. Can you fix this thing in time for the invasion?”

“I swear on my righteous mother that this here Stormclad will do you proud, sir. The cortex is undamaged. Everything else I can repair or bodge together. By the time the invasion rolls around he’ll be blasting thunder and calling down the lightning, stomping Menites underfoot like rats.”

Madigan nodded. “That’ll do. The rest of you are dismissed. MacKay, I want to talk to you for a minute.”

The foundation of the Sixth walked away. Their ’jack might be busted up, but at least they now had their individual load outs, so they were in good spirits. Cleasby was pleasantly surprised to find he was feeling optimistic. Sixth Platoon was actually starting to look like a real unit, on paper at least. Then he realized he needed to ask the lieutenant a question about issuing the equipment, so he returned to the wagons.

“All right, Madigan. You got me. I’ll come clean,” MacKay was saying. Cleasby stopped just outside the muted ring of lantern light and waited, not wanting to interrupt. “There’s more to it.”

“No matter how inefficient the army can be at times, they don’t lose Stormclads. This is too new and too advanced.”

“Maybe not lost, exactly. It would be more accurate to say he was willfully forgotten. Nobody really wanted to mess with him after his run of bad luck. Cortexes can get quirks, even high-quality ones from the Fraternal Order of Wizardry like this one. Warjacks are smart and dumb at the same time, and sometimes their cortexes get a little wonky on you, pick up bad habits, and need to get wiped clean, to start fresh.”

“And why didn’t they do that?”

“Oh, they did. They wiped it before they shipped it home. It’s ready for a fresh start, but we mechaniks can be a superstitious lot. The boys in Llael said this Stormclad was bad luck, and that sort of stuck.”

“What’s the problem with it?”

“Well . . . Keeping in mind this was before we wiped his cortex, he was kinda . . . homicidal.”

Madigan chuckled. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing in a war machine.”

MacKay took a deep breath. “Maybe a better term would be bloodthirsty. He was aggressive. Angry even, though I don’t know if that’s really possible. He has a hard time exercising restraint. He . . . well . . . how to put this gently? He got uppity and electrocuted his last controller for telling him to hold back. Just fried the poor ’jack marshal on the spot. They said there was nothing left but a black scorch mark and a pair of boots with feet still in them.”

“I see.”

“So you can understand why even though he’s got a clean cortex, the boys have been hesitant to fix him up and take him out for a spin. So that’s why I said ‘willfully forgotten.’”

Madigan seemed to think about it for a long time. “You’re the ’jack marshal. If this thing is going to obliterate anyone, it’ll be you. So if you’re fine with it, so am I.” MacKay’s shoulders relaxed as relief tinged his expression. “One more thing, though. I want you to leave this Stormclad ugly on the outside for now. Make sure it runs and is reliable, but don’t pretty up the exterior until I give you the go-ahead.”

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.

“Oh, I am very devout, my friend.” Acosta had an unnerving smile. “I have enjoyed our discussion. Good night.”

They watched the Ordsman walk away.

“I don’t know which one of you two worries me more,” Wilkins muttered under his breath.

For once, Rains found himself in agreement with Wilkins. “Him. Definitely him.”

No official word had come down yet about the date of the invasion, but it had to be growing close. The men of Sixth Platoon were as charged up as their voltaic blades. They had been training hard. Madigan was a ruthless taskmaster, driving his soldiers on, forcing them to practice from before dawn to long after sundown every day without fail. Their lightning-based weaponry had been getting a lot of use—so much, in fact, that the nearby livestock, so panicked early on, had all gone deaf from the constant thunder. Armor that had been awkward a month ago was now like a second skin, often worn for days at a time. Madigan even made the men sleep in it, which was a terribly uncomfortable experience.

Whether it was hot or cold, wet or dry, they trained. Depending on the weather, the ground around the Barn was either packed hard as rock or churned into mud, but no matter what, they trained. It was after a continuous three-day stretch in the armor with very little sleep and constant physical exertion that Kelvan Cleasby found himself at his breaking point. He had never thought it was possible to be this exhausted, but still Madigan watched them, constantly shouting orders and corrections.

The men were disgruntled. Many of them had wound up here because they had taken issue with authority, others because they were naturally quarrelsome. They were being kept in line by the sheer force of Madigan’s will, and sometimes Pangborn’s fists, but even those threats had their limitations.

It was raining. Savio Acosta was leading the men through a series of drilled maneuvers. Whatever the Ordsman had been before—and the platoon had no problem coming up with all sorts of ideas and rumors, including bandit, mercenary, and even pirate—Acosta was an extremely knowledgeable warrior and seemed to enjoy teaching soldiers to fight as part of a cohesive unit. At the moment they were shoulder-to-shoulder, standing as a line, and Sergeant Wilkins was directing another squad to crash into them over and over and try to break through.

From a scholarly point of view, Cleasby was delighted to discover he could actually be mostly asleep, yet his mind was still capable of giving and following orders and his arm was still capable of swinging a sword. It would have been fascinating if it hadn’t been so damned painful.

Someone failed to pull their blow and a padded halberd struck with far too much force, putting a soldier into the mud. Tempers flared, and soon friends of the fallen man were in a real fight with friends of the attacker. It was interesting to see all the practiced martial discipline quickly turn into a free-for-all of canvas-wrapped swords, steel gauntlets, and insulated boots.

Cleasby was an NCO, but he was also too tired to care, so he stumbled to the side, sat on a log, and waited for the fight to resolve itself. He opened his visor and the interior of his helmet, already wet with sweat, began to fill with a cold rain.

Lieutenant Madigan sat down next to him, seeming totally oblivious to the fisticuffs. “So how goes it, Cleasby?”

“Not well, sir.” He gestured with one gauntlet toward the pile of muddy soldiers doing their best to murder each other. “It’s like you said. They’re made out of glass. Ready to shatter.”

“Better that I break them here than the Menites break them in Sul. I’ll spill tears, but the Protectorate will spill blood. Your books about heroes didn’t cover this part, did they?”

“No, they seem to have left this part out. The soldiers need a rest . . .” Cleasby exhaled and it blew water out the front of his helmet. “We all need a rest.”

“This is nothing compared to a real campaign, lad.”

Wilkins and Rains were trying to break up the fight. It was funny; though the two still hated each other, they were both natural leaders. When their interference didn’t work, they called for Pangborn, who started muscling soldiers from the crowd. Then somebody got in a lucky swing and tagged Pangborn in the face, and the big man began tossing soldiers violently through the air.

“If this were Khador these men would be flogged until they had no skin left on their backs,” Acosta said as he approached, shaking his head sadly. “It seems Cygnar’s finest has some troublemakers among its ranks. Would you like me to kill them for you, Madigan?”

“That won’t be necessary, Acosta.”

“As your Cygnaran Army frowns upon summary executions, I could make it look like a training accident . . . Or perhaps suffocate them in their sleep?”

Cleasby was a bit befuddled, but he was fairly sure the Ordsman wasn’t joking. One of the rumors was that Acosta was secretly a devotee of the Dark Twin, but everyone other than Wilkins found the idea that Lieutenant Madigan would bring a murderous Thamar worshiper into their unit absurd. Probably.

“Don’t worry. This is expected. These men are good soldiers, or they were good soldiers once. They just need to be reminded of it. Now, Sergeant Cleasby, I may soon be absent for a bit. If so, you’ll see to the organization while I’m away. Have the squad leaders continue the training.”

He was very tired, but he was fairly sure he’d heard right. “Why would you be absent?”

“With enough time I could mold these men into a properly functioning platoon, but time is a luxury we don’t have. You know what this unit really needs, Cleasby? They need to be like brothers, united as one, fighting for each other instead of against each other. Easiest way to do that is to give them something to be united against.” Madigan turned toward the gate. “This will do . . .”

“What?” Cleasby turned his aching neck to see what Madigan was looking at and was surprised to see a large group of soldiers approaching on horseback. The man in the lead wore the insignia of a captain, and he certainly didn’t look happy to be here.

“Right on time,” Madigan said, unsurprised.

He realized it was Captain Schafer. “An inspection?” Cleasby looked around their practice yard. Their barracks, though repaired, was crumbling. MacKay had erected a rough shelter next to the Barn and their ’jack was visible inside, still rusty, battle damaged, and hideous. And their men were covered in mud and acting like buffoons. It certainly wasn’t looking good for the Sixth. “Why now?”

“I had Thorny drop off a thank-you note for our warjack this morning. Schafer has a grudge against me, so I thought I’d poke him with a stick. And it appears he brought his entire staff. Good. The peacock will feel the need to strut.” Madigan stood up. “Remember what I said.”

“This is your commanding officer, no?” Acosta asked, and when Madigan nodded, the Ordsman quickly closed his visor. “I will be elsewhere now.” He quickly walked away.

“What are you doing?” Cleasby whispered to Madigan.

“Getting in trouble,” Madigan whispered. before he stood, saluted, and shouted, “Good morning, Captain!”

Captain Schafer rode up to the lieutenant and returned a brusque salute. One of his accompanying soldiers rode near him, and the others stopped their horses several paces back. “What’s all this?” Schafer snapped.

“Some minor disciplinary issues, sir,” Madigan replied. In the background, Pangborn was being pulled off of another soldier by four men. Most of the others had realized they were being watched and were snapping to. Within a few seconds they had gotten themselves sorted out, as nobody particularly wanted to go back into the stocks. “And it would appear that my squad leaders have it well in hand.”

“I see,” Schafer said dismissively as he looked over the muddy soldiers. “What a pathetic lot.”

“So what brings you to the Sixth today?” Madigan asked.

“I’ll ask the questions here, Lieutenant!” Schafer snapped. One of his junior officers snickered, and Cleasby was suddenly filled with an inexplicable urge to knock him off his horse. “It would seem there’s been a mistake made by the quartermaster’s office.”

“I’m unaware of what that would be, sir.” Madigan was being very polite. “We’ve put in requisitions for our basic table of equipment and those were recently fulfilled.”

The men were listening intently now. Nervous eyes flicked between Madigan, the devil they knew, and Schafer, the one they knew only by reputation.

“The Sixth wasn’t supposed to be issued a warjack, let alone a Stormclad. Those are valuable material items meant for real Storm Knights.”

The men began to mutter. Madigan spread his hands apologetically. “We might not be pretty to look at, but I assure you, my men are a real Storm Knights.”

Schafer laughed bitterly. “Please. These malcontents? If it weren’t for Lord Commander Stryker’s orders most of these men would either have been drummed out of the army or placed in a prison chain gang.”

“Treat a man like a criminal, and don’t be surprised when he acts like one.” Madigan raised his voice so everyone around the Barn could hear him. “I prefer to think of my soldiers as soldiers. My men are Storm Knights and should be treated with the respect due to an elite unit of the kingdom.”

The captain sneered. “Some were at one point, but look at them now!” The soldiers glanced at each other in their muddy, disheveled state. “They’re a disgrace! They’ve all embarrassed themselves, or they wouldn’t have wound up with you.”

“Insult me if you want, but I will not abide you insulting these men.”

Schafer didn’t seem shocked by the reply. It was almost as if he’d come expecting a bullheaded response from Madigan. “I’m their captain. I can say whatever I feel needs to be said. I can say this platoon is as sorry an excuse for soldiers as I’ve ever seen, and you’d have to like it.”

“And you would be wrong, and I’d ask you to apologize to them.”

Cleasby looked to the men. They all seemed as surprised as he was. They were not used to anyone standing up for them.

“One more word of disagreement from you, Madigan, and I will have you officially reprimanded for insubordination!”

“That’s Sir Madigan, you whelp.”

“What?” His men shifted nervously. Even their horses sensed the sudden change. “What did you say?”

“My patron king may have been a murderous tyrant, but I have not been relieved of my title yet,” Madigan explained in the most reasonable manner possible. A few of the men had to quickly stifle laughs.

The captain turned to his nearest subordinate. “See to it that Lieutenant Madigan is docked one month’s pay and issued an official reprimand for insubordination.”

Madigan shrugged. “I’ll throw it on the pile with the others. These are good men, sir. Sixth Platoon is as fine a group of soldiers as I’ve ever known. You obviously misspoke when you said they weren’t Storm Knights. Some earned that appointment in the past, and regardless of their transgressions since, they are Storm Knights again today. Others were assigned to this post, and they will prove themselves Storm Knights in battle soon enough.” Madigan walked through the mud, gesturing at the men standing behind him, and as he did so, they pulled themselves up, a little straighter, a little prouder. “It is an honor to serve as their lieutenant, and you would be proud to be their captain if you hadn’t so quickly dismissed them.”

“That’s enough out of you, Madigan,” Schafer snarled.

“Of course, sir.” Madigan nodded. “Now will you be apologizing to my troops or not?”

Cleasby hadn’t known it was possible for someone’s face to turn that red. “Trent, Dobbins! Take Madigan into custody.” Two of Schafer’s staff dismounted. “Have we ever put an officer in the stocks before? There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.”

There was a lot of grumbling and some swearing at that. A few of the men started forward to help Madigan, and Cleasby surprised himself by shouting “Stand down!” Even more surprising, they did.

The two staff soldiers seemed leery of the infamous knight, but Madigan offered no resistance. “Sergeant Cleasby, you have active command of the Sixth in my absence until otherwise directed.” Madigan nodded at the soldiers. “Carry on, lads.”

“Now, where’s this stolen Stormclad?” Schafer demanded.

“According to the table of equipment, a Stormclad warjack is to be standard issue equipment for a Stormblade infantry platoon. We can’t properly steal something that’s supposed to be our standard issue,” Madigan said. Schafer ignored him.

Schafer’s nearest soldier pointed toward MacKay’s improvised shack and the rusty, battle-damaged ’jack inside. “There it is.”

Schafer scowled in the direction of the shed, then laughed hard. “That piece of refuse is their Stormclad? I rode all the way out here in the rain for that?” Some of his staff joined in his laughter, though the few who realized just how badly things had unfolded did not. “That thing isn’t even worth the effort to load it into a wagon. Come on, men, let’s get back to the business of the real army.” Schafer pulled on the reins and directed his horse back toward the gate. His soldiers caught up the reins of the extra mounts and followed.

Lieutenant Madigan walked along behind the horses, flanked by two very wary soldiers. He took one last look back at the troops assembled around the Barn.

“Sixth Platoon!” Cleasby shouted. “Commanding officer departing!” There was a loud clanking of metal on metal as dozens of Storm Knights saluted simultaneously. It was the single most orderly military tradition anyone had yet seen from the Sixth. They held the salute, standing parade ground straight. The honor certainly wasn’t directed at Captain Schafer.

Madigan gave his soldiers a small nod of respect, and then they were gone.

The men were watching, muddy, cold, and tired, but they were all thinking the same thing. Madigan was a tough old bastard, but he was their tough old bastard. There was some muttering, mostly related to Schafer’s parentage, but then Sergeant Wilkins barked an order and the soldiers quickly fell back into line. Wilkins shouted, “What’ll it be, Sergeant Cleasby?”

He wanted nothing more than to take off the damp, chafing armor and lie down to sleep for a week, but that’s not what Madigan would have wanted. “You heard the lieutenant. We carry on.”

Spite is one of the basest motivators, but it’s also one of the most effective. The men took up their weapons with renewed enthusiasm. As of that moment they were no longer a collection of problems but a unit of Storm Knights.

“Nicely done, sir,” Cleasby whispered as he flipped down his visor and got back in line.

Luckily for him, Captain Schafer came to his senses enough not to put a knighted officer of the Crown in the stocks. The occupants of the stocks were subject to very public ridicule—any sod on the street could mock and throw rotting fruit at them—and one simply did not do that to a knight, even one with as dark a reputation as Madigan’s. Certain societal covenants should never be broken, for the good of the kingdom.

Military order had to be kept, however, and not only had Madigan been insubordinate to a superior officer, he had done it in a public manner. That deserved punishment; not to punish him would be to invite chaos. So Madigan had been placed in the brig. As a knight, he had even been given his own private cell. It was far more comfortable than the Barn, and best of all, it was quiet.

It was a rare treat for an officer to have time alone to think.

His platoon would either solidify in his absence or come apart at the seams. It was a gamble, but such was life.

Three days passed before he had a visitor.

Madigan, who had anticipated being placed in the brig well before insulting the captain, had stashed a deck of cards in his pocket. He was sitting on his cot when keys jangled in the lock, a solitaire game of Fellig’s Fortunes spread on the blanket before him. He checked his pocket watch, but it was too early for dinner.

The heavy wooden door creaked open. “Sir Madigan? Sorry to disturb you, sir,” the jailer said.

He could only assume most guests didn’t receive such deferential treatment. “Yes, Private?”

“There’s someone who wishes to speak with you.” The jailer stepped out of the way so an elderly gentlemen could enter.

The old man walked with the aid of an ebony cane. He was dressed as a civilian but still carried himself with a military bearing. His suit was finely tailored, and a silver medal shone on the breast. It was the Royal Order of the Cygnus, the highest honor awarded in the kingdom.

Madigan stood and saluted as soon as he realized who it was. “General Durham!”

“No need to call me ‘General’ anymore. I’ve been retired for years.” Lord Durham waved away the salute and sized up his surroundings. “Nice accommodations you have here. I think I may have spent a few nights in this brig myself due to a few youthful indiscretions. I remember more rats, though.”

“Our rat catchers are the finest in Caspia,” the jailer said proudly.

“Wonderful. Leave us,” Durham ordered. The jailer seemed rather happy to escape. The old knight pulled up a wooden stool and took a seat. “Forgive me. These knees aren’t what they used to be.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“It has been a very long time, Sir Madigan.”

“Twelve years.” The last time Madigan had seen his old friend, mentor, and former commanding officer had been during the Lion’s Coup, where they had been on opposite sides and had met in battle, making this a rather awkward meeting. “Forgive me, Lord Durham, but I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Ha! Meaning you thought surely I’d be dead by now, though I could easily say the same for you. Please, sit down. I’m no longer your commander so you don’t have to stand there making this uncomfortable.” Madigan reluctantly sat on the edge of the cot. “Still playing Fellig’s Fortunes, eh?” The older man’s eyes flicked over the spread of cards. “It appears you could win in three if you play your priest, then your ’caster . . .”

“You always were the superior tactician.”

“Cards are a vice, but everyone needs a hobby. I must say, Madigan, I was rather entertained to hear you were back in Caspia and up to your old tricks. You’ve not changed much at all, have you, lad?”

“How do you mean?”

The former General of the Second Army made an exaggerated show of looking around the cell. “Let’s see . . . Refusing to give up despite being given a bootless assignment. Disregarding the rules in order to get the things you need to get the job done. Goading a young officer for your own ends. Stop me when one of these sounds familiar.”

“You’re remarkably well informed for someone who is retired.”

“When you’re stationed in this city for twenty years, you make a few friends. Insulting a superior like that could be seen as fomenting rebellion. That’s a serious offense in war time, Madigan. Just because we’re about to launch an attack and nobody else wants to be saddled with you doesn’t give you the right to break tradition. My heart nearly failed me when I heard they had summoned you back to Caspia. Those fools don’t seem to realize what they’ve done.”

“I was given an order. I intend to see it through. Isn’t that what you taught me it meant to be a knight?”

“We both know I taught you more than that, but you paid no heed to the parts of knighthood you weren’t inclined toward, like chivalry. No, Madigan, you haven’t changed a bit. I thought maybe your exile would have dulled the edge, but I suppose some swords stay forever sharp.” Durham’s voice grew hard. “At least until they break.”

“The sharpest swords cut both ways, Lord Durham. I am what the army made me. If you’ve come here expecting me to beg for your forgiveness, I’m afraid you’ll leave disappointed. I did what King Vinter ordered me to do.”

“Vinter was a bloodthirsty madman, but he had a talent for sending the right man for the job. Earl Hartcliff was a popular leader among Leto’s supporters, with his own private army and an estate that was a veritable fortress. Who better to send against him than a knight who would sacrifice anything to achieve victory? You’ve never apologized, have you? Not even to King Leto himself.”

“Don’t preach to me about knightly ideals. Do you want me to weep bitter tears, old man? I’m a soldier. My duty is to win for my king. I gave Hartcliff a chance to surrender, but his ‘knightly honor’ required him to fight even though I’d already outmaneuvered him and had him trapped. He was the idiot who turned it into a siege—but I didn’t know his family was inside when I ordered that mansion burned down.”

Durham shook his head ruefully. “I wonder, would a man who would so readily sacrifice anything in order to achieve victory have held back the torches even if he had known there were children inside? I think Vinter already knew the answer when he sent you.”

Madigan was quiet for a very long time.

Durham leaned back and placed arthritic hands on top of damaged knees. “I ask you, Sir Madigan: What is the worth of a knight who would sacrifice his honor so easily? His compassion, his mercy, even his good name? Is he a truly a knight at all? If a man would sacrifice everything to win a fight, then what does he have left to fight for?”

“You always were one for the philosophical games. I’m a simple soldier. What brings you here, Lord Durham?”

“A certain morbid curiosity. The people who sent for you do not realize what they’ve done. They do not understand what lengths you will go to in order to succeed. I suspect Laddermore does, because she is a clever one. She believes you can reform these fallen soldiers, but even she does not realize she does them no favor by placing their lives into your bloodstained hands.”

“Building Sixth Platoon is my mission, and I’ll have them ready and in shape for this invasion, no matter what.”

“I have no doubt they will be taken care of, just like any other assignment set before you.” Durham took up his cane and leaned on it heavily it to rise, then stood on shaky legs. Some war wounds never heal. Madigan got to his feet as well. “Enough beating around the bush. Do you know why I busted you back to lieutenant?”

“I thought it was because during the battle between your army and the loyalists, I personally gave you that limp.”

“You assume everyone is so petty.” Lord Durham let out a long sigh. “That was war. Many of Vinter’s loyalists, even members of the vile Inquisition, still serve the kingdom today, because unlike his older brother, King Leto is a merciful and forgiving man. No, I demoted you and sent you off to the hinterlands because an officer so consumed with a desire to achieve victory despite the costs is a greater danger to his men than the enemy they face.”

“Sixth Platoon is my problem, Lord Durham. I’ll see to them.”

“No doubt. You say they are your problem, and like any problem, you will sacrifice whatever you have to in order to solve it, but I wonder . . . What happens when there is a bigger problem presented to you? Will you be so quick to sacrifice your men to solve it?”

He had no ready answer for that.

“You were one of the most promising officers I ever served with, but there is a darkness in your soul.” Lord Durham limped to the door and knocked on it firmly with his cane. “Farewell, Sir Madigan.”

The jailer opened the door to let out Lord Durham, who did not look back again. Madigan returned to his cot and his card game.

The invasion began while Madigan was still in the brig. The artillery bombardment against the walls of Sul started during the night and woke all of Caspia with a continuous roar of thunder. During his career he had been on both sides of artillery barrages, but he had never heard one as awe-inspiring as this.

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

The 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.”

They came out the far side of the market. The smoke was thicker here, and several nearby homes were being consumed by fire. They were close enough he could feel the heat. It was hard to ascertain the situation with such poor visibility, but the Menites had their backs to them. The Temple Flameguard were focused on the main body of the Sixth, trying to force their way through the halberd line. The Menite’s impressive shield wall wouldn’t do them much good from this angle. Cleasby pointed his storm glaive. “Attack! Attack!”

His squad rushed forward. The Temple Flameguard never knew what hit them. They plowed into the enemy, glaives swinging, blood flying. Flesh scorched and clothing caught fire. The air was filled with crackling energy that rippled across the steel of their armor, but the insulation beneath kept it from their vulnerable skin. The cobblestones were singed as the lightning danced from body to body.

The shield wall broke apart, and the entire street dissolved into a general melee, soldier against soldier, stabbing and slashing, invader against defender, in a savage fight to the death.

Madigan had been right. This was nothing at all like the stories.

Cleasby lifted his sword and brought it down on the shoulder of a Menite. The man screamed as his collarbone was split in half. The sergeant wrenched the glaive out and turned to the next target. Already the Temple Flameguard were reacting, turning to face this new threat. One of Cleasby’s men cried out and collapsed to the ground as a flame spear pierced his armor. Cleasby couldn’t even tell who it was in the confusion, but he pushed forward and slammed his buckler into the attacker’s face before he could finish the Storm Knight, then grabbed his fallen man by a strap on his armor and dragged him back toward the market.

It was Private Crispin, screaming and trying to hold in his guts with his hands.

He had to get him away from the fight. “Hang on, Private!” Cleasby shouted. The ground shook beneath his boots. Something big was coming their way. He turned in time to see a great, white shape smashing its way through the market stalls as if they were made of paper.

“Incoming warjack!” someone cried.

The Protectorate ’jack seemed impossibly tall as it loomed over them. One giant hand held a shield bearing a scarlet Menofix, the symbol of Menoth seen throughout the Protectorate army, and the other hand was pulling up a length of heavy chain. Dangling from that chain was a horrific ball of spiked steel as big around as Cleasby’s torso. The chain rattled as the warjack lifted the massive flail, preparing to swing.

“Look out!” Cleasby ordered as he threw himself to the ground, but it was already too late for some of the others. Metal joints rotated smoothly as the warjack’s arm moved in a wide arc. The chain whistled by inches above Cleasby’s visor. The flail stretched outward, tearing effortlessly through friend and foe alike, sending bodies flying in every direction. The ’jack pushed forward, swinging again, heedless of who it was tearing through.

It was almost like it was clearing a path . . . but for what?

Cleasby rolled over and forced himself up as quickly as he could. The Protectorate ’jack was practically on top of them. Crispin had gotten to his knees, the lower half of his breastplate covered in blood, but then he disappeared as the flail struck again, obliterating the young knight and driving him into the ground.

“No!” Cleasby shouted, and before he realized what he was doing, he was hurling his body at a heavy warjack.

The flail head was yanked from the hole it had made in the road, but Cleasby was already past, rushing beneath the giant machine’s boxy head. Dirt and stones pelted him as the ’jack lifted one metal foot to smash him, and his glaive struck the thing in the leg. Electricity sparked and the plate scorched and buckled. The machine barely seemed to notice. It swiveled at the waist and its huge shield crashed into Cleasby.

It was like being hit by a train.

Cleasby spun through the air and then hit the ground hard, bouncing and rolling, armor clanking. His storm glaive went skittering away across the cobblestones.

He could taste his own blood. The Protectorate ’jack took a halting step forward. Lingering sparks fell from its leg. Flakes of burning paint floated away. Then it took another step, and the steel toes hit the ground only inches from Cleasby’s visor. He tried to scramble away, but the other foot rose, ready to stomp him flat—

CRASH!

The Protectorate warjack went tumbling away, falling and tearing through the cobblestones.

A huge shadow fell over Cleasby. He looked up to see the massive figure of the Sixth’s Stormclad standing over him. The head rotated slightly as it studied him through the two glowing yellow slits that served as eyes, and for the briefest moment Cleasby could have sworn the great machine was considering stepping on him. He flinched as it lifted a foot over his body, but tons of steel touched down carefully just past him, and then it was moving after the fallen enemy ’jack. The Stormclad’s generator blade, a gigantic version of the knights’ storm glaives, positively churned with electrical energy as it went after the Protectorate warjack.

“Come on, boy!” Strong hands grabbed Cleasby’s armor and pulled. It was Neel MacKay. At some point he had lost his helmet, his face was blackened with soot, and his mustache was singed. “Get back into the fray.” MacKay turned to run after his ’jack. “Get him! Thrash that Protectorate junker!”

The twin smokestacks on the Stormclad’s back belched black smoke and tufts of fire as it burned hot. The huge generator blade rose and fell, striking the Protectorate war machine as it struggled to stand. There was a blinding flash and a boom. The Protectorate ’jack got to its feet, but the arm holding its flail remained on the ground. Oil was pumping from a severed line. Heedless of the crippling injury, the machine collided with the Stormclad and the two fell into one of the burning houses.

He found his storm glaive. The street was pandemonium, blue and gold desperately clashing with white and red. Cleasby didn’t know where his squad was. At this point he wasn’t a leader and he certainly wasn’t a scholar or a gentleman; he was just another soldier with a blade. “For Cygnar!” he shouted as he threw himself back into the fight. He knocked down an enemy soldier and began hammering against the man’s tower shield as he tried to hide beneath it.

There was the pounding of hooves and the noise of wheels being driven far too fast. Cleasby looked up to see a wagon carrying several passengers and a driver who was whipping the horses like mad. Riding alongside the wagon were several mounted Protectorate soldiers wearing what had to be the heaviest and most intricate armor he’d ever seen. His stomach lurched as he realized they were some of the dreaded Exemplars, elite knights of the Protectorate.

Then he realized they weren’t here to join their comrades at all but were retreating through the gap created by the Protectorate warjack.

They were fleeing . . . ?

He had studied everything he could about all of the knightly orders of the Iron Kingdoms. The fanatically obedient Exemplars were not the running type.

A single Storm Knight cut his way through the mob, trying to intercept the horsemen. A few of the Exemplars were armed with crossbows and launched bolts at the brave soldier. One missed and the knight caught another with his buckler, and then he was among the galloping horsemen. He triggered an electrical blast, which caused one of the horses to rear in terror, exposing its unarmored underbelly. The knight slashed with his glaive and the horse toppled over, taking its rider to the ground.

The lone Stormblade was Enoch Rains. The apostate leapt over the kicking, thrashing horse and went after the other riders. A sword fell, striking Rains in the shoulder, but his armor held. Rains inexplicably hurled his glaive. Another horse screamed and its two riders, one masked and unarmored, were thrown from the saddle. Then Rains was knocked aside by another armored warhorse.

The Exemplars could have easily finished Rains, but they were focused on protecting the occupants of the wagon. In the space of a few breaths they were free and riding hard away from the battle, eastward, deeper into Sul.

He’d been so distracted by Rains’ display of suicidal courage that he’d nearly lost track of the man he’d been trying to kill. The Temple Flameguard had been protected by his shield, and he was trying to maneuver himself up enough to stab his spear at Cleasby’s legs.

Lieutenant Madigan lopped the fallen man’s head off. “Pay attention, Cleasby. The battle’s almost over, so don’t get murdered now.”

“Sorry, sir.” He pointed. “Rains is down. Over there.”

The old knight lifted his visor so he could see more clearly. He scowled when he saw the wagon. “It can’t be . . .” They lost sight of the wagon behind a wall of smoke. Looking like he’d seen a ghost, Madigan shook his head and flipped his visor back down. “The Flameguard are routed.” Cleasby hadn’t realized it, but the Menites had sounded a retreat. The Stormclad, its banner still on fire, had come lumbering out of the wreckage and was chasing after the running enemy. Wilkins’ squad was still fighting a group of Flameguard who were standing their ground as a delaying action. “Don’t just stand there. Go help Rains.”

Heedless of the pain in his legs, Cleasby ran as fast as he could toward where Rains had fallen. One of the horses was on its side kicking and thrashing, its armored rider partially pinned beneath it and taking blows from its flailing hooves. The other horse lay barely twitching on the street, bleeding heavily near its fallen riders, neither of whom moved. Rains was on his hands and knees, with the breath knocked out of him. Unable to get out from under the thrashing horse, the pinned Exemplar freed his sword, swung at its neck, and killed his mount. With the horse still, the enemy knight struggled to free himself.

Cleasby swung his glaive at the Exemplar’s helmet. Surprisingly, his enemy got his sword up in time to block. Lightning flashed as the blades met. “For Cygnar!” Cleasby attacked again, but the Exemplar knocked that blow aside as well. Even pinned beneath a horse the man was a superb swordsman.

Rains reached the Exemplar, and since he was missing his glaive, he slammed the edge of his buckler into the Exemplar’s helmet again and again, causing him to grunt and denting the helmet but not accomplishing much else. The Exemplar grabbed hold of Rains’ leg and pulled with a yell, sending the Stormblade down. Cleasby struck with a clumsy overhand blow, but the glaive was turned aside on the heavy steel of the Exemplar’s shoulder. The armor was so intricately carved it was practically a work of art, but it also worked infuriatingly well. The enemy counterattacked and the edge of his blade hit Cleasby’s knee. The armor plate stopped it, but the blow was enough to make his leg go numb, and he fell backward, off balance.

“Allow me, Sergeant,” Acosta said as he walked past Cleasby. The Exemplar stabbed at the Ordsman, who calmly batted the tip aside, and then stomped on his opponent’s sword so it was pinned to the earth. The Exemplar cursed and tugged, but Acosta didn’t budge. “This is a good learning opportunity. You two have obviously never fought someone in such heavy armor before.” Surprisingly, Acosta turned the storm chamber on his glaive off.

Cleasby tried to reply, but he was panting too hard.

The Exemplar got both hands on his sword and pulled. Acosta’s glaive brutally struck the man in the hands, breaking his fingers. The Menite yelled in pain, and his sword fell into the dust. “You can’t just hack at your enemy. The hard part is knocking them down. Then you must be precise. Methodical. Think of it like opening a tin of meat.”

The Menite put both of his injured hands on his armored horse and pushed, straining, trying to free himself before he could become a lesson in armor cracking. Through the emotionless mask of the man’s ornate helmet Cleasby could hear a prayer to the Lawgiver.

Acosta continued, “This weapon is designed for cleaving rather than thrusting, but it will still serve, if you use the tip of your blade. Insert it into a seam like so.” He jammed the end of his storm glaive into the crease where the two halves of the heavy torso armor came together. Acosta shoved. The prayer stopped and the Exemplar bellowed in pain. “Yes . . . This is truly fine plate, very well fitted. In such a case you must work through it using the principle of leverage.” He placed one hand on his glaive, about halfway up the blade, and kept the other on the handle. “Your gauntlet will protect your palm. Then work the blade like so . . .” He began to lever the blade back and forth, prying the breastplate apart.

The Exemplar began to scream as steel pierced flesh. Blood spilled from the widening seam. Still Acosta moved it back and forth, with no more expression than one of the butchers from the slaughterhouse next to the Barn nonchalantly performing a mundane task. Cleasby cringed.

The Ordsman stopped. “I have had an intriguing thought.” He twisted the glaive’s hilt, charging the storm chamber. “Since I have this magnificent lightning device, let’s see what happens when we get to the delicate bits.” Acosta triggered the release. The Exemplar’s body jerked and thrashed, and he made a terrible gurgling noise. This lasted for several awful seconds before Acosta powered down the sword. The Exemplar’s helmet hung limp. Smoke came out the eye holes. “That seems to work too.”

Cleasby felt dizzy and nauseated. He looked to Rains, but the other Stormblade had retrieved his glaive and was moving to the unarmored Menite. The other fallen Exemplar lay in a still, silent heap with his head at an odd angle from his body, but this one had landed flat. Cleasby could hear quick, shallow breathing, indicating the Menite wasn’t long for Caen. He’d seen a classmate die in such a manner back at the university, which was one reason he’d neglected his practice in horsemanship.

Rains reached down, took hold of the iron mask, and ripped it from the fallen Menite’s face. It was a woman, and she was bleeding from her ears, having struck the back of her head against the cobblestones hard enough to crack her skull. The apostate stood there, looking down at the dying Menite, not saying a word. Cleasby and Acosta approached. Rains seemed transfixed, but Cleasby saw nothing special about the woman. “Who is this?”

“A vassal of Menoth . . .” Rains muttered, but he didn’t elaborate. “Menoth took her as a slave in life, and now he can have her in death.” He hurled the iron mask to crash against a nearby wall, then turned and walked away.

“What was that about?” Acosta asked. Cleasby had no answer. “It appears the others are mopping up the resistance. The Menites do not strike me as being fond of surrender.” He pointed. “But Sergeant Wilkins has them on the run.”

All that remained of the Menites in the street was a small group fighting a delaying action, buying time for the others to retreat, and Wilkins’ squad was assaulting them. Wilkins had forgone the standard Stormblade-issue buckler in favor of his prized Precursor shield, which he was using to push against the Flameguard’s shields, striking over the top with his glaive. As they neared, Cleasby could hear that Wilkins was loudly praising Morrow and cursing Menoth, which seemed to infuriate the few surviving Temple Flameguard to no end.

By the time they got there the last of the Menites were completely surrounded, though they continued to fight ferociously. Their leader shouted a command, and then Wilkins was engaged in single combat with the officer, while the other surviving Menites tried to reform their shield wall for one last push.

“This is your only chance,” Madigan offered. “Surrender or we will cut you down.”

The officer struggling against Wilkins shouted his defiant response. “We will fight to the last for the Creator’s glory!” His few battered troops cheered. Cleasby and at least twenty other Stormblades approached, but the handful of fanatics seemed excited for their end.

But Madigan was done losing men for the day. “Storm throwers! Light them up!” There were a series of booms and flashes, and then all but the Menite officer were dead. The Stormguard approached and poked at the smoking corpses with their halberds to be sure.

The Menite officer took a few halting steps away from Wilkins. His helmet was missing, revealing a remarkably young, handsome face above the tattered, bloody rags of his uniform. His shield was broken, his spear shorn and useless. He’d been severely burned by their electrical charges and had terrible wounds on all of his limbs, yet somehow he was still standing. The officer looked at Wilkins and snarled when he spied the Morrowan symbol upon his shield. “Your god is weak. Menoth stands with us and cannot be defeated. You will be expelled by the faithful. Every home, every road, every corner: we will be there, waiting to bleed you. You do not know what you’ve done.”

The flutter of a curtain and a quick glimpse of someone at a second-story window across the street caught Cleasby’s eye, and he realized there were still citizens of Sul here. They had not all evacuated. Scanning the buildings, he could see frightened faces risking glimpses out of windows or peeking out from various hiding places. It made him very uncomfortable.

“The faithful will fight. We will never stop fighting, for Menoth compels us, and in death he embraces us. Hierarch Voyle speaks with Menoth’s words and strikes with his fury.” The officer stumbled but braced himself with what remained of his spear. “Repent! Repent and flee before the righteous! It is your only hope.”

Wilkins looked to Madigan. The lieutenant held up one hand, indicating that the sergeant should stay his blade, and then he opened his visor. “I am Lieutenant Madigan of the Cygnaran Army. Tell me who those Knights Exemplar were protecting in that wagon.”

The Menite smiled with red-stained teeth. “One who will bring the fires of purity to burn your evil from this world!”

“Sergeant Wilkins. Do this man a favor and send him to the Creator.”

“Yes, sir.” Wilkins approached cautiously. The wounded young officer pushed his shield into the Cygnaran’s with surprising force. The Menofix on one shield crashed against the Radiance of Morrow on the other. Wilkins struck, quick and clean, and the two devout men wound up eye-to-eye. “Go to your eternal labors, you poor deluded bastard.”

“Nicia, my love . . .” he whispered. The Menite took a few halting steps back, sank to his knees, lowered his head, and died as if kneeling in prayer.

Wilkins stared at the dead officer for a moment. “If this is the measure of the men we face here, may Morrow preserve us.”

Madigan sighed. “So much for the idea that this invasion would be simple.”

Sixth Platoon’s first contact with the enemy had left them with three dead and six wounded, with two of those severely enough that they needed to be evacuated back to Caspia. Cleasby had lost one man in his squad. When he closed his eyes he could still see Wayne Crispin being smashed beneath the warjack’s flail so hard it had left a crater in the road. They’d almost had to pour Crispin out of his armor. Up until a few days ago he’d been just another name on a clipboard, assigned to the Sixth because he couldn’t control his urge for petty thievery. Then he was Cleasby’s responsibility, and suddenly he was dead. It was a lot to take in, but all Cleasby could feel was numb.

What was more, he knew the Sixth had been held back to a minor position. There had been no reason to run up against so many enemy troops there. This fight had been over an unimportant, strategically insignificant, out-of-the-way market, and the Menites had still fought for every inch. Madigan had sent a runner to Schafer with a report, and other runners had passed through. The word was the same each time. Resistance was far heavier than expected. Serious casualties were being taken all across all of Sul.

They’d been told to hold this block, so they’d set up a defensive position inside the marketplace while they waited for new orders. Cleasby found that the inside of Sul looked a lot like the inside of Caspia—which made sense, as they’d once been the same city—though the huge maze of walls here were painted white, and the newer buildings weren’t quite as chaotically designed. Sul struck him as a bit more orderly.

Thornbury had gone right to work scrounging whatever supplies he could from the stalls. Cleasby wasn’t sure if that was technically considered looting, but he noted it along with the other infractions just in case.

MacKay and his Stormclad warjack were back. The old mechanik was trying to accomplish a quick field repair, hammering out dents and replacing a few leaking hoses. His armor looked a bit different than the rest of the unit’s; Madigan had said he needed to fit into a suit, but he’d never specified MacKay couldn’t modify the armor in order to contain his extra girth. The mechanik also wore a leather apron full of tools and a backpack full of miscellaneous parts, so he appeared to be the bulkiest man present.

The Stormclad’s fresh coat of paint and new banner had lasted all of one day into the invasion, and already the warjack looked beat to hell again. Despite rolling around in a burning house, it had utterly demolished the enemy warjack. Cleasby had found out later that the Protectorate machine had been a Templar, a design with a reputation as an infantry-shredding monstrosity. They’d been lucky to have their Stormclad to counter it.

The clash had spawned an odd rumor about their warjack. A few of the men insisted that when the Stormclad had come out of the burning building it had been carrying the Templar’s severed head, which it had then presented to MacKay. It sounded far-fetched, but the Templar’s scorched metal head was sitting there on MacKay’s improvised work bench . . .

“Hey! You, big man!” MacKay shouted at Corporal Pangborn. “Come over here and help me for a minute. I need some muscle.”

Pangborn approached. It was striking how somebody so physically powerful made a habit of moving so cautiously. “What do you need?”

“I need some help with this ’jack. I’ve seen you fixing up the Barn, so I know you’re not afraid of hard work.”

“Well, I’m not really good at much. I tend to break things when I don’t mean to.”

“Son, this is a warjack, not a flower-arranging ’jack. I need some brute force. Take this here hammer, take that there armor plate, and beat those sodding dents out. Go!”

“Are you sure?” Pangborn eyed the Stormclad. Still active, its boilers barely running, it turned its head slightly to study the big man threatening it with a hammer. “It won’t get mad?”

“Ah, its fine.” MacKay shook a finger sternly at the Stormclad and pointed to Pangborn. “No smash! Be good!”

Pangborn took up the hammer and gently tapped at the dent. The Stormclad looked at him quizzically but didn’t react.

“Ach, boy! No! Hit it like you mean it. If I needed some effeminate, thin-wristed debutante, I’d have called for Thorny.”

“I’m right over here!” Thornbury exclaimed from the other side of a tent. “I can hear you.”

“Whatever . . . Shut up and find me some more coal,” MacKay said impatiently. “Sometimes you need an aristocrat, but most times you need a farmer to get stuff done. A proper mechanik ain’t comfortable unless he’s got dirt under his nails. Didn’t you say you had an old laborjack on your farmstead you kept running?”

Pangborn nodded. “Sure, but it wasn’t like this. That thing was old and dumb. This fella is . . . well, kinda scary.”

“Same general principles. Only this one’s built for killing instead of plowing. Tell you what. You seem mechanikally inclined. I’ll teach you the fundamentals of how to command a warjack, then if he gets uppity, you’ll know how to control him. Now, hit it like he owes you money!”

Pangborn did. The Stormclad didn’t seem to mind. So then Pangborn went to work and the market filled with the sound of hammering metal. MacKay nodded approvingly.

Enoch Rains entered their temporary encampment. “Cleasby, you’re needed.”

“Is the perimeter secure? Are the Protectorate forces coming back already?”

“I don’t know. Madigan wants to show us something on the other side of the square. Come on.” He led them away from the others and deeper into the market. Rains was still limping from being run over by the horse. Cleasby knew the feeling. He didn’t dare take his armor off to see, but the way his arms and legs felt, he was covered in bruises, and his head ached from when the Templar’s shield had crashed into him. When he had removed his helmet he’d been surprised to see it had a huge dent in it and all the paint on one side had been scraped off by skidding across the cobblestones on his face.

Things were still awkward between the two of them, as it was for most of the men with Rains, though Cleasby had seen no indication the former Menite was anything other than a loyal citizen of Cygnar. “It’s been quite the day already,” Cleasby said, trying to make conversation as they crossed the square.

“For you?” Rains looked around. “My mother used to shop in this market. I remember walking down that very street with her. I played here. All of us children would take up our imaginary swords and fight each other, declaring ourselves mighty warriors for Menoth. The unlucky ones had to play the villains—Cygnar, of course.” He laughed bitterly. “Oh, how we would beat on them.”

“I’m sure you never dreamed you would invade your own city.”

“It is . . . odd. But we’re not invaders, we’re liberators. By the way, thank you for helping with that Exemplar.”

“It was my duty. Though I think Acosta’s brutal demonstration was simply to prove some odd point.” He probably should have dropped it there, but scholars are by nature curious people. “Why did you go after a squad of Exemplar on horseback by yourself, anyway?”

“I wasn’t going after them. I—” Rains grimaced. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. It was stupid.”

“You said in your own briefings on the Protectorate forces that the Exemplars are deadly and not to be underestimated.” Cleasby stopped walking. “Wait . . . It was the woman in the mask. You called her a vassal, a vassal of Menoth. You were after her, weren’t you? Why?”

“Vassals are vital to the war effort, so we should target them whenever possible.” Rains kept walking in an obvious attempt to avoid the conversation. “They are arcanists.”

“What matter of magic do they have? What makes them so important?”

“You wouldn’t understand.” Now the man was just being evasive.

“I’m not some Enkheiridion thumper who thinks that just because you were raised here you’re a Protectorate spy. I’m a scholar, Rains. Try me.”

The other knight finally stopped. He seemed to be debating what to say but then gave up and leaned against a market stall to take the weight from his swollen ankle for a moment. “In Cygnar, when a child is found gifted with the ability to weave magic, they’re valued—given opportunities, fine schooling, no shortage of employment.”

That was true. Cygnar, as the freest and most advanced nation in the history of the world, also had the most enlightened appreciation of the arcanely gifted. “Sure. They can join the Fraternal Order of Wizardry or, in the military, the Arcane Tempest.”

“Exactly. They can choose.” Rains had a faraway look on his face. “Not in the Protectorate. Here there is no choice, and being able to touch magic and twist it to your will is not a gift but a curse. It is seen as a deviation from Menoth’s divine design for mankind. So here, the gifted are chained and enslaved.”

“That’s barbaric!” Cleasby ignored the irony of his reaction; it wasn’t as if his own nation hadn’t flirted with such dark ideas in the past, though now their witch hunters were limited to targeting those practicing evil forms of magic, such as necromancy or infernalism. “How can the people stand for such practices?”

“‘The people’? You don’t understand the Protectorate. It’s not up to the people. There is no discussion or debate. Any deviation from accepted doctrine is apostasy. And the punishment for apostasy is wracking.”

Cleasby felt an involuntary shiver. He’d heard of the wracks—every one of the soldiers had. Being captured by the enemy was a chilling thought on its own, but the Protectorate frequently tortured their prisoners to death on the horrific devices. “Are the gifted murdered, then?”

“The Protectorate isn’t stupid enough to throw away resources. They need people skilled in the arcane in order to build their warjack cortexes, and though they preach about how magic is blasphemous, they still use it on the battlefield. No, Cleasby, when the Protectorate finds a gifted child, the child is taken from its family and enslaved. They do it to anyone they conquer, too. The arcanists are locked away for years of ‘training,’ until they have no mind of their own, all in the name of Menoth. They exist only to do the will of their Creator.” Rains spit on the ground.

“That’s appalling!”

“The way I see it, every one of them we kill, we’re doing a favor.” Rains pushed himself off of the stall and began limping along. “Now hurry up. You know how impatient the lieutenant gets.”

Cleasby followed the apostate. Some of the others didn’t fully trust him, but Cleasby had heard the hate in his words and he knew Enoch Rains truly despised the Protectorate with all of his heart.

So why had he hesitated to ask why Rains had felt the need to see the vassal’s face?

Madigan now had some idea what, or rather who, had been so important as to merit an evacuation by a reinforced platoon of Temple Flameguard, a squad of elite Exemplars, and a Templar warjack. The site was an alchemist’s laboratory, or at least it had been before the Protectorate had burned it to conceal the evidence of whatever had gone on inside.

He had sent for his squad leaders—Wilkins, Rains, and Cleasby—and hadn’t been surprised when Acosta had just shown up as well. The Ordsman had a habit of materializing seemingly out of thin air. “So, Savio, was this battle to your liking?”

Acosta had his helmet tucked under one arm. “It was rather interesting. As I’ve said, my friend, you have a gift for finding the best fights.” His smile was cold. “Between observing the tactics of the Protectorate and mastering this new storm technology, attending this war serves my interests, for the time being.”

The old knight chuckled. “All these years I’ve known you, and I still couldn’t say exactly what your interests are . . . Other than finding exciting new ways to stab or shoot people, that is.”

“I follow a path of enlightened self-interest, and for now, my interests coincide with yours. Do not worry. I will let you know when I feel I have learned enough. I will not, as you Cygnarans are fond of saying, leave you high and dry.”

As always, Acosta’s motivations were a mystery, but he knew of nobody more capable in a fight. “Thank you for guarding Cleasby. Since I don’t have a conscience, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to draft one. The lad is an idealist, but he has potential as a leader. How many times did you have to save his life today?”

“Three. I believe he only witnessed one.”

“You’re slipping.”

“I blame this clumsy armor. It slows me.” Acosta said before falling silent. The squad leaders had arrived.

They were all battered, bloodied, and a bit worse for wear, but considering the overwhelming odds they had faced today, the Sixth and its leadership had made a good showing of themselves. The sergeants saluted, and Madigan returned the gesture with pride.

“Good work today, lads. I, for one, would love to see the looks on the faces up the command chain when they read the after-action reports. Not too shabby for a bunch of discards. Make sure the men know you’re pleased with them.” He pointed at the smoldering wreckage of the alchemist’s shop. “Rains, do you know what was here?”

He shook his head. “I can’t recall, sir.”

“Can’t recall, or won’t?” Wilkins asked. “For all we know, this was where they performed some secret rite. Seems like the sort of thing a Menite wouldn’t be too proud of sharing.”

“Why yes, Wilkins. This is where we conducted our human sacrifices to the Lawgiver.” Rains sighed, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I must be tired from killing so many Menites today, but are you trying to insinuate I’m a traitor again? Because if you are, we can finish this right—”

“Enough,” Madigan said sharply. Wilkins and Rains glowered at each other but shut their mouths. He noticed Cleasby was kneeling at the edge of the wreckage, inspecting the rubble. Despite his obvious physical and mental exhaustion, the young scholar seemed intrigued and completely immersed in his surroundings. He had pulled off one of his gauntlets and was poking through the ash with his fingers. At one point he even licked a finger, then grimaced at the taste. “What would you say this place was, Cleasby?”

“Clearly, Lieutenant, this was where that wagon came from. It was an alchemist’s laboratory or something of that nature, something involving volatile mixtures and explosive chemicals,” he answered without hesitation. “Also, they worked in mechanika.”

Wilkins looked at him. “What?”

“Mechanika. A machine imbued with a magical effect through the utilization of rune plates.” Cleasby rattled off the definition.

“I know what mechanika is. I mean, how do you know it was being used here?”

Cleasby held up a partially melted piece of mangled brass. The runes on it were too damaged to read, but its purpose as a detonator was obvious.

“Interesting.” Madigan had recognized the alchemical nature of the place from the smell. His old friend Hutchuck used homemade grenades that had a similar acrid scent. “And how did you arrive at your conclusions?”

“From the size and pattern of the blast. This building didn’t just catch on fire; it burned long enough to spread to the surrounding buildings, then something on the second floor exploded outward. Note that the fire spread as it should have, given proper time to burn, but then it was blown out, more than likely by a concussive blast of pressure outward.”

“That is odd,” Rains said. “Every window in a hundred yards has been shattered as well.”

“Whatever this was burned at a far faster rate than blasting powder,” Acosta said.

“How do you know a stray round from Major Brisbane’s artillery barrage didn’t land on it?” Wilkins asked.

“No.” Cleasby shook his head absently. “There’s no cratering. This explosion was above the surface and blew the walls outward. A shell is hardened enough to keep the two components of blasting powder separate, or else it would detonate in the barrel, so it doesn’t explode until there’s an impact strong enough to mix the two components of the powder. I doubt the thin clay roof shingles the Menites use would have been enough to make that happen.”

Madigan was impressed. “I thought you studied historical literature?”

“A proper education requires a well-rounded outlook, so we were required to take classes in the fundamentals of natural sciences, alchemy, and engineering before picking our specialty . . .” Cleasby muttered, still distracted. “Besides, it doesn’t smell of blasting powder. This was something else. I don’t know what this smell is—it’s sort of oily, but different. Could it be Menoth’s Fury?”

They were all well aware of the Protectorate’s use of the oily and highly flammable substance in a variety of incendiary weapons. The flame spears of the Temple Flameguard held small reservoirs of the substance, primarily to sustain a flame of intense heat at the point, which caused searing wounds. Rains had explained during his briefings on the Protectorate that the heavy liquid slowly seeped up through the sand in the Bloodstone Marches but could also be pumped from below like water from a deep well.

Rains said, “It’s certainly similar. I had an uncle who worked in an armory, and whenever he came to visit, my mother would complain of the smell on his clothes.”

“Does Menoth’s Fury explode like this?” Wilkins asked as he gestured at the blasted remains. “This is impressive.”

“I don’t think so. The oil is sticky and extremely flammable. I’ve heard of tremendous fires caused by accidents transporting it, but not explosions.”

“Perhaps it is some new derivative, designed to act more like blasting powder,” Cleasby said. “And there was significant machinery here related to it, because you can see gears and springs and bits and pieces of the machines spread outward from the blast site.” Cleasby found a badly damaged gear that had been partially buried into a nearby beam. He tried to pry it out with his fingers but gave up. “My guess would be that the wagon was being loaded with whatever device was inside this shop when we arrived in the neighborhood, so they set fire to it and then raced to try to escape before we could control the exit. We might have even heard the explosion; we wouldn’t have been able to differentiate it from the noise of so many others coming from across the city.”

Madigan nodded. This neighborhood was under Cygnaran control for now, but the rest of Sul was still getting hammered. The sound of gunfire and thunder was so constant he’d begun to tune it out.

“And how do you know this was where the Exemplars came from?” Wilkins asked, still suspicious.

“Up until the chaos of the evacuation, it appears the Sulese kept a very tidy city.” Cleasby pointed at the ground nearby. “Yet there’s horse dung here.”

It was obvious several animals had spent some time tied here recently. “Thornbury noticed the same thing when he was out scavenging,” Madigan said. “That’s why he alerted me.”

Wilkins slapped himself in the forehead. “It’s a sad day when a nobleman and a college boy notice dung and I don’t!”

“Don’t feel bad,” Rains said. “You’re very good at spotting things that aren’t there.”

Cleasby ignored them and continued with his hypothesis. “So somebody was working on an undetermined explosive alchemical mixture and mechanika of an unknown nature, and they were important enough that the Protectorate sent some of their elite to get them to safety ahead of our invasion. They used a wagon, which means the machine or the mixture itself was of value, and not just the person, or why else use the wagon instead of just putting the alchemist on a horse? They likely brought the Templar ’jack here on the wagon to save coal, then fired it up for protection. The fact that they ran into us suggests that the machine or mixture took longer to load than expected, indicating either volatility or complexity. And whatever it is, they didn’t want us to see it or to leave enough evidence for us to reconstruct it. They’d rather run to protect it, even if they have to sacrifice a ’jack in the process.”

“Very good,” Madigan said. Wilkins did an exaggerated slow clap.

Cleasby turned to Madigan. “You thought you recognized one of them, didn’t you, sir?”

“I did, but I thought I had to be mistaken, as the man I thought I saw is dead.” He hadn’t believed his eyes earlier. He’d blamed it on the smoke and the chaos. But this was too fitting. The possibility was simply too dangerous to ignore. “His name was Groller Culpin. We’ll send a message to Captain Schaffer right away. Both the War Council and the Reconnaissance Service need to be alerted that he may still be alive.” Madigan began walking quickly back toward their post. Cleasby had blinked at the name and now seemed lost in thought.

“What makes this Culpin so special?” Wilkins asked.

“He’s a brilliant arcane mechanik and inventor. Culpin was a Cygnaran loyalist, like me, but he was supposedly killed during the coup. Yet I could have sworn it was him in that wagon.”

Cleasby looked troubled. “I learned about some of his work at the university. But even if he’s still alive, what’s he doing in the Protectorate? Do you think he fled here?”

“Pray I am mistaken, because that man will bring a nightmare down on us like you won’t believe.”

The refugees broke his heart. Especially the children.

Kelvan Cleasby watched as hundreds of Sulese citizens trudged past, broken, tired, wounded, in a line that never seemed to end. Some of them limped along on crutches made of scavenged wood, their wounds bandaged with rags. They carried what they had salvaged of their worldly possessions, and it was odd to see what some people thought of as precious. An old man carried a rocking chair. A young woman held a violin case in one hand and her crying baby in the other. Everyone was filthy. They appeared hungry, though most were too proud to beg food from their invaders.

Not all, though. A boy, not more than six, ran up to Cleasby and tugged at his gauntlet. “Do you have any food, sir? We haven’t eaten anything in days. Please?”

Cleasby reached into the leather pouch at his belt, searching for a ration tin. He found one: potted meat, rations surely produced by the lowest bidder from some unspecified type of animal. In normal circumstances he would have found it a greasy, disgusting, congealed mass of nearly inedible byproducts. “This is all I’ve got.”

The child took it reverently, tears cutting a path through the soot stains on his cheeks. “Praise Menoth. Thank you. Thank you.”

But then a woman appeared, surely the boy’s mother. “Get away from him!” She swatted the tin from the boy’s hands. “We’ll take no handouts from these heretics!” She spit in Cleasby’s face. “The Creator will provide.”

He stood there stunned as the mother dragged her child away.

Wilkins approached. “Menoth doesn’t care if you go hungry!” he shouted after her. “He expects you to serve him, not the other way around!”

She gave them a rather offensive hand gesture that probably meant the same thing in Sul as it did back in Caspia.

Wilkins stopped next to Cleasby, picked up the potted meat, and handed it back to him as he wiped his face. “Don’t waste your rations. The priests of Morrow have set up camps for the refugees where they could be warm and eat their fill. They’ll be hungry enough eventually to swallow their pride, or they’ll starve.”

“I thought someone so pious would have more mercy in his heart for refugees.”

“Two straight weeks of watching these fanatics carelessly blowing up their own people in order to strike at us and I’m fresh out of mercy. Morrow forgive me, but I just want to tear this city down and salt the ground.”

There was a chuckle from behind them. “Are you daft, Cleasby?” It was Thornbury. The aristocrat came up and snatched the tin away. “You don’t actually eat issued rations. This garbage is for trading off to units not fortunate enough to have me in their ranks. If you’ve been reduced to eating pork anus and jellied horse hoof, then that says I’ve failed.” Thornbury gave a sharp whistle. The crying child looked back, but thankfully his mother didn’t. The aristocrat tossed the tin. The boy caught it and quickly hid it in his tattered cloak before his mother could notice.

A shout rose from the front of the column. “Incoming deliverers!”

It was a good thing they had been spotted quickly. The deliverers were little more than a ragtag militia. They carried flimsy tubes to fire rockets that seemed as likely to misfire and kill the user as they did their target, but when those rockets worked, they worked extremely well.

The lieutenant was toward the front of the column. “Get out of the open, into those buildings.” Madigan pointed to the south. “Move! Move!”

The squad leaders repeated the order. All the Sixth ran for cover just as the first of the Skyhammer rockets whistled overhead. The refugees began to cry out in fear. “Run, fools!” Wilkins shouted at them. “Your army doesn’t care who they kill!”

Cleasby flipped down his visor—he’d seen what shrapnel could do to eyes—and was thankful he’d done so as one of the rockets landed only fifteen feet away. The detonation swept him from his feet and pelted him with debris.

Wilkins was immediately on one side, large shield raised to protect them. Thornbury was on the other, pulling him up. “Move to cover!” A second rocket struck, but the fragments clanged off the Precursor shield. “Damn them!” Wilkins roared as dirt showered down on top of them. Cleasby found his footing and the three ran after the rest of the platoon.

They reached the building and took cover near the front door. Already Madigan had spotted where the deliverers had launched from and had directed their throwers to engage and electrocute the enemy. Several thunderous booms later, the rockets stopped falling.

They called out names for a head count, and nobody in the Sixth had been seriously injured. When the dust cleared, though, they could see that the refugees hadn’t been as lucky. One of the indiscriminate rockets had deviated right into the mass of fleeing bodies. When the shock wore off, the screaming began.

“Such carnage . . .” Wilkins seemed stunned. He rushed back into the street to help the wounded, heedless of danger. Several other members of the platoon did the same.

Half an hour later, Thornbury approached Cleasby and without a word, handed him back the tin of potted meat. The young nobleman just shook his head sadly and walked away.

Cleasby was glad he’d lowered the visor of his helm, because it wouldn’t do to let the other Storm Knights see his tears.

The Sixth had holed up in a church for the night. Wilkins seemed to take special delight in the idea of Cygnaran Storm Knights sleeping in one of Menoth’s sacred places, but in truth it made tactical sense, as there were many such buildings in Sul, and they were more solidly constructed and defensible than most of the other choices. The Stormblades had shoved aside most of the pews and smashed a few others to make cooking fires.

Their Stormclad wouldn’t fit through the front doors, so MacKay had ordered it to smash a hole in the wall, and now the giant machine squatted in the vestibule. Warjack heads seemed far too small for such large bodies, and the way they were set low in the chests made the machines seem extra hulking to Cleasby. With its boiler barely running, only a little bit of smoke was coming from its stacks. If it had been alive, it would have appeared to be resting, though Cleasby had noticed its head was always slowly moving from side to side, yellow eye slits constantly scanning. He was no expert on ’jacks, but this one seemed extra jumpy.

It didn’t help that Pangborn had started decorating it with the severed heads of its mechanized foes. It now had two enemy ’jack heads hanging from a chain over its shoulder plate. One was the burned head of the Templar from their first battle, and the other was the smaller head of a light Repenter warjack the Menites had set against them during their fourth week of campaigning.

Despite the late hour, MacKay and Pangborn were still up as well, working on a project for the lieutenant. Pangborn caught Cleasby nervously eyeing the Stormclad. “He’s a bit of a collector is all.”

Cleasby had been trying to write, keeping a careful record of the platoon’s activities as he’d been ordered by Captain Schafer, but under the circumstances he found it hard to stay focused. He put the clipboard away. “I thought you said its cortex had been wiped.”

“Supposedly it was, or maybe this one just has a glitch straight from the Fraternal Order of Wizardry.” MacKay came over, stroking his mustache. “When he beats a ’jack, he cuts its head off and shows it to me like when a cat gives its owner a bird it caught. Pangborn welded them to the chain just ’cause the big fellow was carrying them in his hand everywhere.”

“This doesn’t strike you as odd?”

“Odd thing was the other day when those Sulese nutters set that old laborjack against us. Poor rusty old thing had been loading crates for thirty years. Our Stormclad beat it to pieces in the blink of an eye, but he didn’t bother to take its head. Oh, no. It was like an old laborjack wasn’t worth taking a trophy.”

“Well, sure,” Pangborn said. “When you bag a big deer or an ulk, you put the antlers on the wall to show off to the other hunters. But that laborjack wasn’t a fight—it was more like putting an old plow horse out of its misery.”

“So our homicidal warjack collects the heads of his defeated foes. Lovely.” That probably should go on the list, but he wasn’t even sure what to call the offense. Encouraging negative warjack behavior? He knew the regulations better than most, but he certainly hadn’t seen that one. On the bright side, the head of the Templar that had almost crushed him wasn’t nearly as intimidating burnt and hanging from a chain. Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Madigan, who didn’t seem to sleep much, joined them in the vestibule. “How goes it, MacKay?”

“Campaigning’s a hell of a thing. You hate every minute of it while you’re about it, but when you’re home you sure do begin to miss it at times—the excitement and the purpose, you know? Nothing I did there matters near as much as what I do out here. I’d say all is well, sir.”

The idea was an odd one to Cleasby. He couldn’t imagine ever coming to like this sort of thing, but MacKay’s entire life had been spent as a soldier. It changed a man’s perspective.

“I’ve missed it myself, old friend. How goes your investigation?”

Their two mechanikally inclined Storm Knights had set out a tarp, and arrayed across it were all the bits and pieces of destroyed machinery they’d found at the site of the mysterious alchemical explosion on their first day in Sul. “Fair, I think. I surely can’t rebuild it, but we’re pretty sure we reasoned out what it was used for.”

Cleasby, ever curious, got up so he could see. There hadn’t been much left to work with, and most of the remains had been partially melted and spread across half a marketplace. “I’m impressed, MacKay. That was quite the puzzle.”

“Wasn’t me, lad.” MacKay reached up and thumped Pangborn on the shoulder. “’Twas Nestor here. Personally, I was stumped.”

“Imagine that.” Madigan didn’t seem surprised. “I thought you said all you were good for is fighting?”

The giant shrugged. “Wasn’t nothing.” He seemed rather bashful.

“He’s as good at fixing things as he is breaking them,” MacKay said proudly. “That’s rare. A man’s skills usually tend one way or the other.”

“Headhunter likes me all right, too,” Pangborn said. “At least he hasn’t tried to electrocute me yet, so I think that means he likes me.”

Cleasby was almost afraid to ask. “Headhunter?”

“That’s what I call him.” Pangborn grinned.

“I’d better not see a Storm Knight helmet on that necklace of his anytime soon,” Madigan said. “So what have you found? What was the device for?”

“It’s not too different than something I saw once. This crazy inventor made a machine that would suck the milk right out a cow.”

“How does the cow feel about that?”

“Don’t rightly know, sir. It was madness, using an expensive machine for something just as easy done by hand.” Pangborn squatted down next to the tarp. He picked up a badly burned tube. “But ’cause of that I know this was from a mechanized bellows pump.”

“So the Protectorate is pulling ahead of us in milk cow–related technology,” Cleasby said. “I can’t imagine why Engines East hasn’t gotten right on this.”

“They aren’t moving milk, lad.” MacKay corrected him. “They’re moving Menoth’s Fury.”

“So it’s a weapon? But the Protectorate already has weapons that spray and ignite Menoth’s Fury. Those things will roast you right inside your armor. What’s different about this?”

“There’s more to it,” Pangborn said as he held up a complicated-looking part far beyond Cleasby’s meager knowledge of engineering. “This clockwork bit is an agitator of some kind. I think it was to whip up Menoth’s Fury and some other ingredients, to get air into the mixture.”

“I don’t get it,” Madigan said, “but I just need to know why Groller Culpin would be interested.”

“You ever hear of a farm silo blowing up?”

“Sure, the things go off like a bomb. Makes the broadsheets whenever it happens and some farmer blows himself to Urcaen.”

“You know why silos blow up, though?” Pangborn asked. “It’s just grain dust inside of them.”

“The rapid burn rate of aerated particulate,” Cleasby answered immediately.

Madigan gave him a wry look. “And that means what, exactly?”

Pangborn picked up a pouch. “I’ll show you. This is flour Thorny stole—” Pangborn looked suspiciously at Cleasby and quickly corrected himself. “I mean found. Unattended. Abandoned, even.” He poured some on the floor. He then took a candle and began poking at the pile. “It’ll burn, but it’s hard to get it going. But spread it out enough . . .” Pangborn set the candle on the floor, then held the pouch up at waist height and shook out a cloud of flour out. When the white haze hit the open flame, there was a sudden whoosh and an orange flash as all the flour ignited in the air at once. The big man actually giggled.

“And that’s with wheat,” MacKay said. “Imagine what you could do with some kind of altered Menoth’s Fury instead. A bomb like that . . . well, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near it.”

Madigan seemed deep in thought. “Good work, men. Carry on.”

Hartcliff Manor burned to the ground in a matter of minutes. It burned so hot that metal turned molten and dripped down the facing. It burned so hot that the stones cracked and popped. It should have been impossible to hear the screaming of those trapped inside over the rushing hot wind, but somehow he did. He heard everything.

There were faces in the windows. They were consumed. Innocents leapt to their deaths to avoid the flames. Lives were snuffed out.

He had ordered the fire started, but he hadn’t expected this alchemical butchery.

Groller Culpin watched the conflagration, giddy with excitement. Madigan grabbed him by the neck and slammed him into the wall. “What have you done?”

“I’ve done as you asked me to do.” Culpin couldn’t tear his eyes away from his masterpiece. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Sir Madigan? So beautiful. Witness the future of warfare.”

And the screaming continued.

Hugh Madigan woke up with a start, covered in sweat, gasping for breath. His bedroll was spread on the cold stone floor of church. He had wadded up his cloak to use as a pillow. The giant Menofix upon the nearby altar loomed as if to remind him that he was the trespasser here.

He rubbed his face in his hands. It would not be dawn for a few more hours, but there was no point in denying wakefulness now.

Somebody approached in the dark. “Are you all right, sir?” It was Cleasby’s turn on watch. “I heard you wake.”

“Status?”

“Quiet. The perimeter is secure.” He kept his voice down so as to not wake any of the men. Their sleep was a precious commodity.

“Good. Carry on.”

Cleasby was concerned. “Can I fetch you anything?”

“Superiors that understand how dangerous the situation is, or perhaps an intelligence command smart enough to listen to a washed-up old knight.”

“I’ll get right on that, sir . . . You’re concerned about this device?”

“I’m concerned about what somebody like Groller Culpin could do with such a thing. The man was a genius. A deranged genius, but a genius all the same.”

“I remember that he wrote several important treatises on various topics, but we didn’t study those much in my field. I do know King Vinter appointed him to be one of the chief architects of Caspia’s remodeling and modernization. The Great Public Works was his design.”

“Yes, he was a regular hero of the kingdom. There was even talk of naming the central building after him, but they settled on calling it just the Great Dome. Maybe in a hundred years idealistic young students will still be reading about what a civic-minded, kind-hearted man he was, but that doesn’t make it true. Just like how your prized books about chivalrous knights leave out the fear and death.”

“That’s not necessary, Lieutenant.” It was dark, so it was difficult to tell, but it appeared that Cleasby hung his head. “The last month has already demonstrated to me some of the flaws in my previous view of the world.”

Madigan was surprised to find Cleasby’s admission made him a little sad—there should be some idealism in the world—but it was for the best. “Culpin was brilliant, and he accomplished a lot for the good of Cygnar, no doubt, but at the same time he was as ruthless and heartless as any man our nation has ever produced. Elemental magic fascinated him, but fire was his true love. Some of his machines were invented for Vinter’s torturers during the Inquisition. I should know . . . Sometimes I guarded the doors while they did their work.”

“They didn’t teach that part.”

“I took up smoking a pipe so I wouldn’t have to smell the burning skin and blood. The odor really lingers with you. Did they ever tell you how Culpin died?”

“Only that he was a loyalist who died during the coup.”

“After the coup, actually. Leto had won and Vinter had fled. Most of the loyalists surrendered for the good of the kingdom. I was among them. There had been enough Cygnaran blood spilled already, and if we’d continued to fight, we would have just weakened Cygnar in the eyes of the other kingdoms. Some fools stayed loyal to Vinter, just as they stay loyal to him to this day, but Culpin bent his knee to the old king’s brother like the rest of us and swore fealty. Most of us meant it, but not Culpin. He thought himself too clever.”

“The bitterness in your tone suggests it didn’t end well.”

“He smuggled a fire bomb into the castle to assassinate King Leto, but he was caught. The bomb went off, burning him and several others to ash. Our new king, being a good man, kept the event quiet to avoid more anger being directed at the former loyalists.”

“So he’s tried to kill the king before. No wonder you’re concerned with him having a much more effective weapon.”

He shook his head. “It’s not just that, Cleasby. If Culpin really is alive, he’s had twelve years to dwell on what happened then, to think about his actions and his failures, how he could have done things differently.” Madigan realized he could have just as easily been taking about himself.

One thing Captain Schafer was good at was giving briefings. Sadly, Madigan didn’t think he was good for much else.

“The invasion goes slowly but surely. For months we have made steady progress into Sul despite resistance that has been much greater than expected. The CRS believes the Protectorate was preparing for their own invasion of Caspia, which explains our foe’s numbers and readiness. So our timing was fortuitous. Lord Commander Stryker is confident we will be within striking distance of their Great Temple within a matter of days. I know it has been hard going, but we’re almost there. Once we capture the symbolic center of their nation, we are confident Sul will surrender.”

Madigan wasn’t so sure, as the Menites certainly didn’t strike him as quitters, but whatever made the warmaster general happy. It was half an hour until dawn, nearly time to move out, so Madigan just sipped his morning tea and waited for the posturing to be over so he could get back to work.

Captain Schafer moved to a map of Sul that had been pinned to the wall. “For today’s offensive Major Laddermore’s cavalry, supported by Arcane Tempest gun mages as well as trenchers and heavy infantry, will make a push up this main avenue. The 47th is to advance on their flank and hold the neighborhoods on the south side. First, Third, and Fifth platoons will be here. Second and Fourth here.” He stabbed at the map.

While the five other lieutenants studied the map, Madigan studied their faces. They were good men—solid, fine examples of the Cygnaran military tradition. Six weeks of brutal street-level combat had honed them, but they were obviously exhausted.

The lieutenant over the Third had been brought in only a few weeks ago, after his predecessor had caught a crossbow bolt through the visor. The new lieutenant over the Fifth had been a squad leader up until a few days ago when his lieutenant had been crushed beneath a falling building and he’d received a field promotion. These Storm Knights had been in the thick of it since the beginning. The briefing had begun with an account of their roster and the prior day’s casualties. The numbers had made Madigan cringe. The slow grind of attrition was wearing them down.

“What of the Sixth?” Madigan asked.

“Your will continue to hold this intersection, here.” Schafer thumped the back of the map. It was the rear of the column, where they had been holding for several days already. “You will be sent for should the need arise.”

Oh, the need will arise, because you’re too much of a blooming idiot to rotate through your roster, all in your search for glory. Schafer had done everything in his power to avoid fielding his “reject” platoon for fear of embarrassment.

“Sir, the Sixth is rested. We’ve been without a significant fight for two weeks. My men are ready. Move us forward and let one of these other platoons rest.”

“I’ve made up my mind,” Schafer stated.

“If I may, sir,” Lieutenant Griggs of First Platoon interjected. “Yesterday’s slog through that canal has us bushed. Our Stormclad’s repaired but needs a shake out. We could use a day or two to recover.”

“Are you implying your men aren’t up to the task, Griggs?” Schafer snapped.

Griggs swallowed hard. “They’re just worn out, is all.”

“Is it them, or are you losing the stomach for battle, Lieutenant?”

“Of course not, sir.” Griggs lowered his head. “Never mind.”

Captain Schafer had aged visibly during the campaign. The weight of command was a terrible thing, but his pride wouldn’t allow him to change tactics. He’d kept the Malcontents in reserve the whole time. Sure, they’d seen combat—almost every day in fact, as there really was no such thing as a front line in the battle for a city—but Schafer had kept them from the brunt of it, figuring that any victory of theirs would rob him and any loss would be a personal insult.

“Don’t worry, men. I know the 47th has taken a beating, but there will be plenty of commendations and praise to go around once all is said and done,” the captain said.

After all, war was merely a chance for glory . . . .

Idiot.

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 . . .

For the briefest moment he felt the instinct to say a prayer, but he no longer had anyone to pray to. Pushing aside his dread, he knelt next to the corpse, took a deep breath. Then in one quick motion he reached out and pulled the mask free. As he stared at the face, the iron mask slipped from his fingers and landed on the stone floor with a clatter.

It wasn’t Ezra. His brother was still out there.

He found himself on his knees before an altar, with a Menofix—the old, familiar symbol of the Creator—looming over him. The morning sunlight streaming through one of the few unbroken stained glass windows colored the altar in purple and red hues, and for that one moment he was a child again. The emotional turmoil of the war, the stress of not knowing about his brother, the strain of living as an outsider all these years all weighed too heavily on him. He’d reached the end of his reserves. It all came rushing up, and he felt his own mask shatter. Enoch Rains broke down sobbing.

The Menites had a chant for the dead. It was a mournful, plaintive dirge, to be sung after being anointed with ashes. Even more important than the ancient words was the tone, grief captured and released as raw noise. He had been taught that the chant would guide the spirits through the wilds of Urcaen to the safety of Menoth’s eternal city. Enoch found himself chanting it now, his voice choked with emotion as he intoned words that had not passed his lips in many years. He heard in them the reminder to the living that they were never on their own, that the brothers and sisters in the True Faith would always be present with them.

But Rains was alone.

He finished the traditional chant, pulled himself to his feet, and walked slowly from the chapel, boots echoing on the stone floor. Wilkins was waiting on the steps. He had heard the mournful chant, and Rains saw pity in his eyes.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Not yet.”

“Then I will help you search until you find it.” Wilkins held out one hand. “Brother.” Rains didn’t know what to say. Steel clanked against steel as they grasped each other by the forearm. Wilkins gave him a nod that said this incident would never be spoken of again. “Enough lollygagging. The squads need us to keep them in line. We had best get back before the Malcontents lose control and begin looting the city.” The other soldier let go of his arm and walked down the stairs, heading back to his men.

Maybe Rains wasn’t so alone after all.

It was too quiet.

Madigan stood atop a mound of broken stones, looking eastward through a spyglass.

“What’s wrong, sir?” Cleasby asked from below.

“The Protectorate forces fell back too quickly. If we take this neighborhood the whole army will be within striking distance of the Great Temple. There should have been far more resistance.” He collapsed the spyglass and slid down the rubble, careful not to trip on any loose debris. He hadn’t brought the Sixth this far to break a leg and miss out on the rest of the campaign. “The day’s objectives were seized hours ahead of schedule. They’re up to something. I can feel it.”

“Maybe they’re preparing a counterattack?”

“Maybe, but nobody ever tells us anything.” Madigan spotted a group of soldiers coming back from the front of the surge. “I want to know how it’s been going up there.”

He wasn’t the only one. Several of his men had already clustered around the approaching troops, clamoring for news of the offensive. The group appeared to be mostly wounded trenchers being evacuated to the rear. The highest-ranking officer among them was a journeyman warcaster who was taking a badly burned Ironclad back for repairs. Even damaged, the warjack followed her far more smoothly than what MacKay could accomplish with their Stormclad, a benefit of directing the warjack with thoughts and magic rather than verbal orders and gestures.

Madigan hailed the warcaster as she drew near and saluted. “I’m Lieutenant Madigan, Sixth of the 47th. Do you have any orders from Schafer for us?”

The young officer returned the salute tiredly. “Lieutenant Cumberland, Eighteenth Heavy Infantry,” she answered, sounding as weary as she looked through the grime. She gestured for her Ironclad to continue on, guarding the stretcher bearing soldiers. “He said you were to hold here and await further orders.”

Of course. “How goes it up there?”

“Not too bad. Nothing like the grind of the last few days, that’s for sure. Some of us were unlucky and got caught out in a rocket strike. No fatalities, but it sure burned the heck out of my ’jack.”

“Any enemy movement?”

“Some activity. A few Exemplars were spotted hanging back near that big water tower to the south, but we’re not pushing that direction today so we were ordered to leave them alone for now.”

Thornbury appeared with a big, stupid grin on his face and saluted smartly. The warcaster returned his salute with obvious surprise. “Thorny?”

“That’s Corporal Thornbury now, serving king and country.” He made an exaggerated show of taking her armored hand, bowing like a gentleman, and kissing the back of her gauntlet. “What a pleasure to see you, Juliana!”

She withdrew her hand firmly and shook her head. “Guilford Thornbury of the Mercir Thornburys, in the army? That’s desperation.” She turned to Madigan with the hint of a smile. “Sorry to say it, Lieutenant, but if this man’s wearing the blue and gold, the kingdom must be doomed.”

“You two have met?”

“Of course, sir,” Thornbury answered, unabashed. “Our families have been competitors in certain business endeavors in the past. The last time we spoke was at a royal ball, though.” He turned back to the young officer and mocked a hurt expression. “I do believe I asked for the honor of a dance and you declined.” In a very exaggerated whisper she could easily hear, he said to Madigan. “If ladies love a man in uniform like you said, what about the gifted few who can steer warjacks with their minds?”

“Dream on, Thorny,” Cumberland laughed at him. “There aren’t enough gold crowns in Mercir for your father to arrange that wedding.”

Aristocrats. Madigan shook his head. “Anything else to relay, Lieutenant?”

“Nothing much . . . though we did spot the oddest Protectorate laborjack I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t identify it, but then it moved out of sight and I was ordered not to pursue and investigate. I’d have loved to chase it down and smash it to bits just to find out what it was made for.”

“I’m glad to see that not all of today’s noble youth are completely useless,” Madigan said, giving Thorny a stern look. “Thank you for the update.” Something nagged at him. It was unlike the Menites to give such strategic ground so easily. “Wait, Cumberland, one last thing. That laborjack you saw. How did you know it was a laborjack, and what was so odd about it?” Most of the Protectorate’s warjacks had been disguised as laborjacks until recently. Now that they were at war, most of the great machines were outfitted for battle, with only those too structurally compromised reserved for labor.

“No weapons I could see. Didn’t look very useful, honestly. It was round. Rotund, I mean, through the body. Like a fat man with disproportionately tiny legs.”

“Like my dear Uncle Purvis,” Thorny said in mock embarrassment.

Cumberland shook her head. “More like a big water tank on heavy ’jack legs. It was too far away for me to make out details, but it didn’t appear to be armed, so they decided it wasn’t enough of a threat to risk following it. I’d never seen anything like it.”

“Where was it when you saw it?”

She pointed down a narrow street to the south. “It was heading toward that big water tower where the Exemplars were spotted. Maybe it’s used to haul water.” Then she realized her Ironclad was getting out of range. “I’ve got to go. Good luck,” Cumberland said as she began running quickly after her limping warjack. After a few steps, she called back over her shoulder, “Tell you what, Thorny. If we live through this invasion, I’ll save a waltz for you.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” He waited until she was farther away before speaking again. “Well, sir, it would seem you were correct about the uniform.” The aristocrat rubbed his knuckles on his battered breastplate as if to polish them.

But Madigan was distracted and scratching at his scar. He turned to the east and studied the tall, bulbous tower that normally supplied drinking water to this section of Sul. It was a rather large structure, dating back to long before the civil war, and it dominated the skyline.

“What’s wrong, sir?” Cleasby asked. He studied the tower as well. “Have you seen a sniper? We should be out of their range.”

“I’ve no doubt they have a watchman up there, but that’s not what I’m worried about . . . Pangborn! MacKay!” Madigan shouted. A few seconds later he was joined by the two of them. He gestured at the water tower. “How would that structure compare to a grain silo?”

“Shaped funny.” Pangborn shrugged. “But it would be a really, really big one. Why?”

MacKay understood. “Because you told the lieutenant why silos blow up.”

“If that tower were to be emptied of water, and used to hold this new mixture of Menoth’s Fury and air instead, how large would the blast be?”

MacKay immediately grasped what Madigan was thinking. “We can only guess. We haven’t actually seen the mix ignite. From the machine debris we found, I’m thinking the concoction that blew up that alchemist’s lab would have fed from a container about the size of an ale pitcher. We found bits of it. The big explosion came after the gas had filled the room it was in.”

“What do you think you could do with a large tank of that vile stuff, say about the size of a heavy laborjack, pumped into that?”

“Morrow preserve us!” MacKay gasped. “That’s not far from the main front. The rest of the 47th is close enough they’d all be engulfed for sure. The explosion might even reach Laddermore’s main force.”

“It could kill them all!” Pangborn exclaimed.

“It would explain the lack of resistance. The army moves into the gap they leave and they spring the trap,” Cleasby said. The lad was a sharp one. “I know what you’re thinking, sir, but our orders are to stay put. We should send a runner to Captain Schafer.”

The water tower was five blocks away, through territory that had yet to be cleared. What was more, if Culpin were involved—assuming he was even alive to begin with—he would be well guarded, and the lieutenant who’d known Thorny had said there were at least some Exemplars present. Those were elite troops.

“Time could be of the essence. MacKay, do you have any idea how long the alchemical process would take to make the explosive mixture?”

“Not a one.”

“Then by the time Schafer pulls his head out it could be too late. Send a runner,” the lieutenant ordered. Cleasby immediately began to signal for one, but Madigan stopped him. “Have the message go to Laddermore first.”

“That’s outside our chain of command!” Cleasby said.

“Not if our runner can’t find Schafer. War’s very confusing, you know.”

The sergeant gulped and nodded. “I’ll be sure to send someone with bad eyes, sir.”

It was only a hunch based on some burned ruins and the brief sighting of a familiar-looking old man in the heat of battle . . . If he was wrong, that would be all the excuse Schafer would need to beat him out of the army. Abandoning a post was a hanging offense. Or worse, he could be leading his platoon right into an Exemplar ambush.

But if he was right, a ghost from Cygnar’s past could be preparing to murder an entire battalion in one fiery move.

When a hard decision presented itself, an officer had to make a call.

“Sixth Platoon! We’re moving out!”

They were moving fast, double-timing it down an alley between four-story tenements. The only noises were their boots against the cobbles, the constant rattling of armor, and the whistling of the wind. A stray dog ran past them, trying to escape the strangers in blue. Most of the residents had fled, but not all. There was movement on the rooftops above and in some of the windows. Cleasby could feel eyes on them as uncomfortable prickling on his neck.

Madigan raised one fist. The column came to a halt. The Storm Knights quickly spread out into defensive positions. The lieutenant signaled for his squad leaders to come forward. They were nervous but excited—all but Acosta, of course, who seemed as calm as ever. He wasn’t a squad leader, but nobody ever corrected him.

“We’ve been seen. If this is an ambush they will know we’re coming.” Wilkins said.

“They’ve known for a while. It’s hard to hide a Stormclad.” Headhunter was thumping along at the rear of the column, running hot and leaving a cloud of coal smoke behind it. “But if there are Exemplars up there, I wasn’t about to leave it behind.”

“If they really are about to blow up that tower, wouldn’t they have evacuated all their civilians first?” Cleasby asked.

“And risk tipping off their targets?” Wilkins snorted. “Not very likely. They’ll sacrifice them all to get at us.”

Cleasby looked to Rains, who nodded. “I wouldn’t put it past them.”

Madigan gave a low chuckle. “Give me a moment . . . I’m not used to seeing you two agreeing.”

“I’ll try not to make a habit of it sir, but Wilkins could be right. If there is a scrutator in command of this operation, he might not care. The loss of civilians might be deemed a reasonable sacrifice for a greater cause. Ultimately the presence of civilians proves nothing.”

“That’s what I figured.” Madigan turned and pointed toward the water tower. “One block left between us and our objective. If we’re going to get hit, we’re getting hit here. The street’s too open. There’s an old warehouse and a factory over there . . . You remember what that place was for, Rains?”

“It was closed long before I was around. Textiles of some kind I think, sir. Why?”

“I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t going to explode the first time we trigger a storm thrower inside of it. If the doors are big enough for a laborjack they’re big enough for Headhunter. We hit that building, push through, and that’ll put us at the base of the tower . Questions?” He glanced between them. “Good. Move out. Wilkins, your boys are on point. Halberds hold back by the ’jack; I don’t know how much room we’ll have to maneuver in there. The rest stay close together. Move.” The others left. Madigan grabbed Cleasby by the visor before he could get away. “Hang on. You look more nervous than usual, and that’s saying something.”

“We’re all nervous, sir. There were Exemplars spotted nearby.”

“The others are worried about getting killed. You’re more worried about getting court-martialed.”

Cleasby sighed; it wasn’t like you could hide anything from Madigan. “That’s because the others don’t realize the NCOs of the Sixth just followed you in disobeying a direct order to hold our position.”

“Our useless position.”

“We could be hung for this! Your superiors already think Groller Culpin is a figment of your imagination.”

“And if we’re right, they’ll pin all sorts of medals on you, Cleasby.”

“I’ll take comfort from that thought during my walk to the gallows, sir.”

Madigan smiled. “Don’t worry. The note I sent to Laddermore said this was all my doing and I’d coerced the rest of you into it against your vehement protests.”

Cleasby took a deep breath. Madigan’s tack may have been dishonest, which certainly wasn’t a knightly virtue, but it did make him feel better. “Thank you.”

“Now see to your men. They can’t hang us if those Exemplars kill us all first.”

Thornbury, Watersford, Dunfield, and Allsop were waiting for him. Acosta had attached himself to their squad again, though he tended to wander to wherever the fighting was thickest once things got started, and Cleasby certainly wasn’t going to attempt to give that human threshing machine any orders. Cleasby quickly outlined the plan as Wilkins’ men sprinted across the street. The others held their breath, but there was no enemy fire. There was a crash as Wilkins’ squad breached the ’jack door. Then Rains’ men were across.

“Make sure those blades are charged,” Cleasby said to the remaining knights. He turned the hilt of his galvanic blade until it clicked and felt the storm chamber hum. “Let’s go!”

He ran across the street as fast as he could go, insulated boots hammering on the cobblestones. Cleasby hit the wall next to the open ’jack door. His squad stacked up behind him.

CRACK-BOOM!

The flinch was instinctive, and one small part of his brain wondered if a water tower full of Menoth’s Fury Special Blend had just detonated, but the noise had come from inside the factory. “Storm thrower engaging!” But he couldn’t tell what it was firing at. “Move! Move!” he told his squad before throwing himself through the door.

It was much darker inside the factory, making it even harder to see through the perforations of his visor. The light leaked sluggishly through banks of dusty, leaded windows. The prevalent mold and cobwebs indicated that the factory had been closed for years. The interior was so big he couldn’t make out the far side in the dim light. Machines sat long unused, many of them covered in dusty, old fabric. Bundles of material spilled from pallets where they had been stacked haphazardly.

He could barely make out the blue and gold shapes of the other Stormblades ahead of them. Steel rang against steel. There was a terrible blue flash from a galvanic blade. One of the great windows shattered, raining dingy glass down on them as sunlight poured inside. The place was a veritable maze, and amid this mess Stormblades were clashing against—

“Exemplar!” Private Allsop warned, pointing upward.

A metal catwalk was overhead. There was a flash of white armor and a sanguine cloak as a crossbow was lifted. Cleasby moved, lifting his buckler as the Exemplar fired. It was pure instinct. The crossbow bolt slammed into the rounded shield and ricocheted away, inches from Allsop’s face. Cleasby extended his storm glaive and triggered the release. The electrical discharge roared, leaping and crackling down the metal catwalk. The Exemplar stumbled back, sparks flying around him. Two other Stormblades fired as well, and the Exemplar crashed into a railing. The rail broke, and he fell, his heavily armored form tumbling toward the wooden floor. He hit hard, smashing into and then through the rotting wood to disappear into the basement below.

“Drat!” Cleasby said, already thinking ahead. He could feel the termite-infested wood squishing beneath his feet. Glancing through the hole, all he could see was darkness. It was a good drop. He grabbed Allsop by the shoulder plate. “Tell MacKay that Headhunter needs to find another way around. Go!” He shoved the burly soldier back out the door.

Acosta had his visor down, but he was easy to identify from the leering skull he’d painted on his helmet. That was certainly against uniform regulations. “Wise call, young sir,” the Ordsman said approvingly.

“Acosta, you go do whatever it is you do,” Cleasby ordered. “The rest of you, on me!” He ran after Rains’ and Wilkins’ squads. More lightning discharged, leaping across rusty metal fittings mounted in the walls. Old moth-eaten bundles of cloth burst into flames. The fighting was close and disorganized. There was no room for formations. Seemingly everywhere between the old machines, Exemplars were clashing against Stormblades. He picked out an Exemplar Errant, armed with shield and sword, moving to engage his compatriots. “For Cygnar!”

The Exemplar roared his own battle cry in response and turned to meet him.

Cleasby’s storm glaive fell, and lightning danced off the intricately engraved shield. The Menite’s sword moved with unbelievable speed in response. The buckler barely turned it aside in time. Pain shot up his arm. Egads, but these Exemplars are strong! Cleasby struck again, aiming for the legs, trying to take the heavily armored man down.

A clean hit and the charged storm glaive could blast through armor, but the Exemplar would not do him a favor and hold still. Despite the weight of steel resting on him, the Exemplar danced back. The expressionless mask betrayed nothing. He swung, and Cleasby barely avoided the heavy blade. They struck at each other over and over, two heavily armored foes, but the Exemplar was faster and stronger, practically built like a warjack, and he fought with a holy fervor. They ran into each other, blade locked against blade, slipping on the moldering wood. Their helmets crashed into each other.

“You’re no match for the righteous!” the Exemplar shouted as he threw Cleasby back.

He crashed into an old machine, a twisted mechanism of gears and pulleys. The Menite attacked with a vicious overhead blow, but Cleasby rolled aside and the sword cleaved through old ropes instead. Cleasby ducked his shoulder and launched his body into the Exemplar’s legs, driving him back, off balance. Now the Exemplar fell against another machine, but he immediately drove the edge of his shield into Cleasby’s helmet and knocked him back.

Cleasby’s boot broke through a soft spot in the floor and he tripped, falling on his back with a grunt. The Exemplar grabbed hold of the machine, pushing himself up. Flat on his back, he’d have no chance.

The storm chamber of the glaive hummed, warning him it was charged for another release. Thinking quickly, he spied a chain suspended between the machines, shoved his storm glaive against it and pulled the trigger stud. Electricity arced and snapped, through the chain, into the machine, and right into the Exemplar’s steel-covered hand. There was a pop and a flash as the Menite was slammed aside.

Ripping his boot free, Cleasby struggled back up and drove himself at his fallen opponent. Already the elite Exemplar was coming to, somehow ignoring the mass of his cumbersome great armor and rising, but Cleasby flung his body on top of the Exemplar’s shield. He went over it, savagely smashing the hilt of his storm glaive into the Exemplar’s helmet, pushing the Menite back down. Cleasby dropped a knee on top of the Exemplar’s shield. The man was struggling, trying to angle his sword to pierce Cleasby’s guts, but he jammed the tip of his storm glaive beneath the Menite’s helmet and shoved as hard as he could.

Steel was pierced. Cleasby wrenched the blade back and forth as the Exemplar thrashed. He sought flesh. One gauntlet landed on the glaive and he shoved with all his might, throwing his weight on top of the hand guard, and was rewarded as blood sprayed. The Menite’s sword was freed, but it was already too late, and the next attack was weak and ineffectual, scraping down Cleasby’s armor as the Exemplar’s life poured out.

Gasping for breath, Cleasby shoved himself to his feet. His armor seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. He had to find his men. That was his duty. That was all that mattered. He picked them out of the chaos. They were engaged, every last one of them fighting for their lives amid the piles of old junk and broken iron. He roared incoherently as he picked an Exemplar that had just shield-slammed Dunfield into the floor. He hacked at the back of the man’s knee, striking through the narrow gap to cripple the man. The smoke smelled like burning flesh. The Exemplar collapsed, and within a heartbeat Thornbury was on him, hammering away with his glaive.

Madigan had entered the warehouse and was shouting orders. “Push through! Push through!”

The tower! It was easy to lose track of the big picture when one was fighting for one’s life.

“You heard the lieutenant! Onward! On—” Cleasby gasped as something hit him in the chest, and then he was flailing back, off balance. He hit a wooden wall, but the rotting mess barely slowed him, and he crashed through and fell in a cloud of choking dust.

A huge shape appeared through the cloud. It loomed so massive that at first Cleasby thought it was a light warjack, but it was only a man, albeit the biggest man he’d ever seen. The figure wore the heaviest, most intricate, most intimidating armor imaginable and wielded a two-handed polearm that supported a wickedly curved blade on one end.

“Bastion!” He tried to shout the warning, but the blow had knocked the air from his lungs and all that came out was a hiss. The polearm had left a mighty dent in his breastplate.

The Exemplar Bastions were the elite of the elite. Their resilience was legendary, their ranks filled only with the strongest and most faithful warriors in the whole of the Protectorate.

The polearm spun effortlessly between his hands, so quickly it made a whistling noise through the air. The blade flashed toward the rising Dunfield, and the Storm Knight bellowed as it accurately avoided steel and struck through the joint of his elbow instead. Dunfield fell away streaming blood, leaving half his arm behind. The bastion barely slowed, and the haft of the mighty weapon came around and clubbed Thorny off the fallen Exemplar. The aristocrat was sent flying.

Air be damned, Cleasby wasn’t done yet. Those were his men. He didn’t need to breathe when he was this angry. He grabbed a board and pulled himself up as the bastion turned to finish him. The polearm flashed, but it met his storm glaive. Cleasby turned it aside like he was parrying a rapier in a gentlemen’s dueling class in Corvis.

The bastion’s helmeted head seemed too small for the armored shell of his torso. The helmet turned a bit, as if surprised Cleasby had managed to stop that attack.

But then it was on.

The polearm spun. His buckler absorbed another hit, but the haft came right back around and slammed into his side. Cleasby grimaced, but he countered, lunging forward. The glaive struck the bastion in the stomach, scoring deeply into the steel. It was like hitting a boulder. Even with lightning crackling across his body, it barely moved the man.

Using the blade and the haft as a seamless whole, the bastion demonstrated he was a master of his weapon. Cleasby was more worried about the lethal-looking end, but the bastion quickly demonstrated that both ends were deadly when he swept it along the floor and drove the haft into Cleasby’s shin. The plate bent, but it saved the bone. He grimaced but stayed standing. The storm chamber hummed, and Cleasby triggered the galvanic release without thought, scorching the bastion with a flash of electricity. The mighty warrior shrugged it off and kept coming.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

The polearm rose and fell. Cleasby barely got out of the way as it smashed a hole through the floor. Cleasby used the opportunity to hit the bastion again, cleaving deeply into the man’s armor with his glowing glaive. That had to have hit flesh. He could smell burning hair, but the Protectorate knight showed no weakness. The bastion wrenched his blade free, ripping up several of the decaying boards. Cleasby flailed, grasping for anything, as the floor broke open beneath him. He was falling into the basement! He lost hold of his glaive as he snagged one of the chains.

Panicked, he kicked his feet; there was nothing below him except darkness.

The bastion raised his polearm to finish him off, but then he lurched to the side. Lightning crackled through his body. Thorny had just fired his glaive. Then the bastion stumbled the other way as Wilkins slammed into him with his Precursor shield. More lightning flickered. Wilkins struck true, swinging his blade deep into the bastion’s side.

Undeterred by the blood gushing through the rent in his armor, the bastion swept his polearm along the ground and knocked Wilkins off his feet.

Won’t you die already?

Pointing the polearm at the dangling, helpless Cleasby, the bastion took one step forward, prepared to finish him once and for all. Cleasby pulled himself up desperately, but it was all he could do to hold on. He’d be stabbed and then he’d fall, and he wasn’t sure which one would kill him first.

But the expected pain didn’t come.

The bastion’s lunge was awkward and off balance. The polearm missed. The bastion’s helmet twisted again, this time looking down, to where the point of a storm glaive was sticking through the armor of his chest, snapping and popping with energy. Blood burned away as smoke as the blade disappeared, along with most of his heart, and he fell forward, limp. There was a thump as the huge warrior crashed into him, sending Cleasby spinning about wildly on the chain. The bastion tumbled past him totally silent, falling into the hole and disappearing into the basement. There was a terrible crash a moment later.

“Thanks,” Cleasby gasped.

Savio Acosta was standing where the bastion had been. He stepped carefully toward the edge of the hole, testing his weight on the walk so as to not follow the bastion to the basement. Acosta reached out, grabbed the chain, and dragged Cleasby back toward safety.

Cleasby pulled himself up the chain, hand over hand, until he could get back onto the rotting wooden walk. If someone had asked the young scholar a year ago if he’d ever be strong enough to climb a chain while wearing a suit of armor, he would have laughed at them. Once he was relatively safe, he steadied himself against a beam and tried to catch his breath. The bastion had knocked the snot out of him.

Wilkins reached them, limping. “That was a mighty shot, Acosta! Praise Morrow!”

“Morrow had nothing to do with it,” Acosta muttered, low enough that Wilkins wouldn’t hear. “In the thousands of hours I’ve trained with a blade I never once saw your god there.”

“What?” Wilkins asked.

“Nothing,” Acosta answered clearly.

Cleasby glanced around. The Storm Knights were winning. They’d outnumbered the Exemplars, but even so several of their number had fallen and many others had been wounded. Private Dunfield had lost an arm and was frantically searching for it. “Watersford! Calm him down and get a tourniquet on that.” There were still a few Exemplars left, every one of them a deadly fanatic who would never flee, but each one was now being attacked by multiple Storm Knights.

He smelled smoke, then realized the factory had caught fire. Wilkins was ordering several of his men to gather the wounded to move them back to the ’jack entrance. He caught sight of Madigan heading toward the opposite side of the factory. They’d fought and bled for that damned tower, so they weren’t turning back now.

“It’s stuck,” the Storm Knight told him.

Culpin knew they were here. He’d be rushing his alchemical nightmare now. Assuming, of course, that Groller Culpin was even alive.

“Break it down,” Madigan ordered. The men put their shoulders into it. The huge door creaked and dust rained from the ceiling. Headhunter could’ve easily broken through, but they’d been forced to send the Stormclad around the exterior.

The open space was filling with thick, black smoke, which was pouring out the broken windows. Flames were licking up the walls. It was either break through, retreat, or die. His men looked to him, unsure, but he knew in his heart that he’d earned their faith and forged the Malcontents into a true fighting unit and that they would never question his orders again.

“Damn it. Find a ram.”

Several of the men found a big, stout beam, and they drove that into the door. It heaved outward, revealing just a sliver of daylight, and for the briefest moment a glimpse of some lightly armored deliverers pushing against it on the other side.

There were more of them. They’d be rushing right into another fight. Madigan didn’t know how many casualties they’d taken already, but there would be more. If they pushed on, what else would they face? Was this an elaborate plot or had they simply blundered into the enemy for no good reason? Was this all for nothing?

He thought about what Lord Durham had asked him in the brig. What happens when there is a bigger problem presented to you?

“Again!” Madigan shouted. The four men holding up the beam got a running start and crashed it into the door, which bulged and cracked. He gained another glimpse to the outside—longer this time, as one of the Menites was temporarily knocked down. He spied a Protectorate warjack waiting behind them before the door was forced closed again.

Will you be so quick to sacrifice your men to solve it?

“Again!”

The door burst open.

Madigan was the first one through the breach.

As soon as he managed to dispatch the final Exemplar in the burning factory, Enoch Rains intended to set out after the rest of his platoon. He’d already sent his squad after Lieutenant Madigan. He simply hadn’t expected a crippled, severely injured Exemplar to put up such a fight, but that was the power of faith.

The Exemplar was weaving, dizzy from a dozen weeping wounds, but one wrong move and the swordsman could still take his life. Behind him flames popped and crackled as they consumed the walls. The heat was so intense that the interior of his armor felt like an oven. He needed to leave now or he’d be cooked like a lamb in a pot.

His opponent lunged, but most of the strength had gone out of him. Rains parried. The Exemplar was slow to lift his sword, so Rains struck him violently in the side of the helm with the pommel. Dazed, the man went to his knees. Rains lifted one leg, put his boot on the Exemplar’s chest, and kicked him back into the fire. The screaming didn’t last very long at all.

CRASH!

Rains didn’t see the ceiling collapse, but he certainly felt it.

A flaming beam struck him in the helmet. A crushing weight put him down, and then the floor was breaking all around him, nails tearing through termite-eaten wood, and Rains was sliding downward in a shower of red sparks. The basement rushed up to meet him.

Everything went black.

Madigan tore through the Protectorate troops like a man possessed. A Menite spun away in a shower of blood. Another was disemboweled by the perfect stroke of his storm glaive. Madigan moved forward, slashing at his foes. The chest of one was opened to the ribs, the head of another removed. When the rest piled on, he triggered the biting burst of electrical energy and sent the deliverers reeling back, burning.

His men charged through the door, spilling into the sunlight, slaughtering Menites. Smoke billowed out around them. They were in a clear area between buildings, and on the other side of the lot was the base of the water tower.

The Protectorate warjack came thumping toward them. It was a light ’jack, armed with a wickedly spiked mace bolted to one hand and with a cannon for its left arm. The cannon was already aimed at them, but the machine’s marshal must have not given the order for it to fire into them. He’d probably hesitated, not wanting to kill his compatriots holding the door. That had been a mistake, because now they were all going to die.

“Throwers, fire on the ’jack!” Madigan bellowed. A pair of storm throwers ignited, striking the warjack with two continuous streams of power. “Everyone fire!” Every Stormblade who had followed him through the factory fired simultaneously. A terrible roar exploded around them as the energy of all their storm chambers followed the paths cut through the air by the throwers. The arcs appeared as blinding, instantaneous flashes, and then they were gone.

A single voltaic discharge wouldn’t do much to a warjack, but if you fired a dozen at once, you were bound to get lucky. The ’jack was blackened, shuddering as the voltage coursed through its damaged systems, but it takes a lot of hurt to put down a warjack, even a small one. “Charge!” Madigan yelled.

They fell on the ’jack, hacking at it with their glowing blades. The Protectorate machine swung its mace and a Storm Knight went flying through the air, broken.

As much as his blood roared to jump into the fray, Madigan had a platoon to run and a mission to complete. He surveyed the area. The base of the water tower was in view, but he couldn’t see any Menite forces near it, particularly no strange mystery ’jack. It had to be around the corner. His Stormclad and his Stormguard halberdiers were coming up the exterior of the factory, but there was no time to wait. More coughing Storm Knights came out of the burning factory, Rains’ men by the looks of it, though there was no sign of the apostate himself. Cleasby came out last, covered in blood and missing his helmet. Madigan signaled for them to follow.

They rushed to the tower’s corner, rounded the edge, prepared for a battle, and . . .

And nothing.

He could see where the thick pipes ran up the metal scaffolding. He could see valves and a giant mechanika pump but no sign of any Menites—and certainly no Groller Culpin.

“Culpin must have already filled it,” Madigan snapped. “We have to figure out how to dump the mixture before it detonates.”

Cleasby ran to the valves. It took the bright young man only a moment to reason out the complex controls. “This one.” He grabbed a large iron valve control and struggled to turn it. “Help me.” Madigan took hold of the other side and threw his weight into it. The valve creaked and groaned, and then it was free. They spun it quickly. There was a rushing noise as gravity fed something through the pipe.

“Did we stop it?” Madigan asked.

“No idea. If it’s lighter than air, the tower could already be filled and ready to detonate.” Cleasby cocked his head to the side and listened. “Wait . . .” He followed the big pipe, then found a smaller secondary valve attached to it. He turned it, and a clear liquid spilled out onto the ground. Cleasby knelt and touched the stream, then frowned. He touched one finger to his tongue. “It’s water. There’s nothing but water in there. The tower’s still full.”

It was like a physical blow. Madigan looked at his bloody, battered Stormblades. “Culpin was never here.”

We did all of that for nothing.

The masked visage of the Creator of Man appeared before him, displeased with this wayward servant.

Apostates are to be burned.

Yet all Rains could wonder was what was beneath that mask . . .

Consciousness came back gradually.

He struggled to breath. He could hear only a terrible crackling, popping noise and the rushing of wind. The air was very hot and tasted like smoke.

Rains realized he was buried beneath something. He tried to move but remained pinned by the crushing weight on his chest. It was too dark to see through the holes in his visor.

“Rains!” He heard a scraping noise, and then orange light filtered through his visor. “You alive?”

“Wilkins?” he gasped. “Help.”

“Hang on.” There was another noise as some other debris was pulled off and thrown aside. “We’ve got to get out of here before the whole place falls on our heads.” Wilkins grunted as he strained against something heavy. It scraped against his armor, but then Rains could move his hands again. A moment later he was free of the debris. He flipped his visor up so he could see. Immediately he wished he hadn’t.

This appeared to be the basement of the factory. A sea of flame roared above them. As Wilkins pulled him up, rats scurried past their boots, fleeing the flames. “Never easy,” Rains croaked.

“No, it isn’t,” Wilkins agreed as he took up his sword and Precursor shield. Rains had no idea where his own sword had landed. “That’s the life of a soldier. Come on. This way.”

His body ached, but he didn’t think he’d broken anything. He was so filthy every joint of his armor was grinding as if it were filled with sand. A horrible crash thundered through the building as more of the roof fell, and then they were awash in hot ash and poison vapors. Another minute and the whole place was going to come down. Wilkins pushed on, crowding through layers of cobwebs and hanging fabric.

“Where are we going?” Rains shouted to be heard over the roar of the fire.

“Morrow will show me the way!”

“So we’re going to die.”

“Morrow wants you to live for some reason, Rains.” Wilkins had a maniacal grin. “He guided me to you here. No idea why. I don’t question his divine will. So shut your blasphemous face and run!”

Rains realized they were following the same path as the rats. That was probably a good sign. They reached a crumbling stone wall. The vermin were scrambling through a large hole in the bottom. “Morrow couldn’t show you to a door?”

“Morrow must want me to make my own,” Wilkins snarled as he kicked the wall hard. The mortar was old and cracked and some of the stones fell away. He kicked it again and again, and more stones broke free. The burly soldier took a few steps back, raised his shield, and slammed his entire mass into the wall. He burst through and fell with a splash.

They’d broken into the sewer. Rains went through the hole and helped Wilkins up. They stood knee-deep in muck, but the pipe sloped upward, away from the burning factory, so it could have been packed with Cryxians and it would have been an improvement. The two of them sloshed their way through the muck and headed for the surface.

The air was thick and moist, stinking of corruption and chemicals, but at least he could breathe again. Smoke was trailing up with them. He kept his visor up, as no soldier wants to vomit inside his helmet.

“Sunlight! Praise, Morrow, I think that’s sunlight,” Wilkins gasped.

Sure enough, they were almost free. They came up to a rusting metal grate with a drainage ditch on the other side. It took several solid kicks for Rains to tear one of the bolts free, then the two Storm Knights squeezed through and rolled into a muddy ditch.

They lay there for a moment, staring up at the sky, coughing so hard it was like ripping their lungs out and then desperately catching their breath. A giant pillar of smoke reached toward the heavens. With one final giant a rumble, the factory collapsed.

“Morrow really sent you to rescue me?”

“I don’t know what he was thinking,” Wilkins laughed. “Sending me to risk my life to help a Menite spy of all things.”

“You rotten son of a—”

“I jest!” Wilkins said, turning solemn. “Listen, Rains, I swear I heard his voice, clear as day. Go down that hole and save Rains. Just like we’re talking to each other now. I suppose that promise I made to help you in your search was recorded in his book in Urcaen . . . His ways are mysterious, but I have faith that he’s got a purpose for you, brother. Thank you, for being vital enough to his work that a humble servant like me had the opportunity to hear his holy words.”

Rains didn’t know what to say to that.

Wilkins grunted in pain as he struggled to his feet. “Too bad you lost your storm glaive. Madigan will never let you hear the end of that. I don’t know if Thorny will be able to get you a replacement by seducing any more quartermaster’s assistants.”

“I don’t think he’d mind trying, though.” Rains got up. He could see the tenements they’d traveled through to get here, and the water tower was nearby. They needed to get back to their platoon. “Where are—”

Wilkins suddenly held up one hand, indicating the need for silence. They both crouched low, keeping their helms below the top of the ditch. He turned to Rains and mouthed, “’Jacks.” Rains heard the thump, thump of giant metal feet a moment later. The rhythm was wrong to be their Stormclad, and they both knew it.

Deep in enemy territory, and I don’t even have a sword.

“This way,” Wilkins whispered. He sloshed through the mud and climbed up the side of the ditch, where the weeds gave him some purchase. He stopped at the top, watching something at the end of the street. Rains came up alongside. The ’jack was easy to spot, about a hundred yards away.

It was styled like a Protectorate ’jack, but it was too bulbous. “Looks like it’s a modified Reckoner,” Rains said. He had heard the Protectorate had broadened their warjack arsenal in the recent battles. The Reckoner had a wide upper body and was heavily armored; he’d also heard about a variant called a Castigator that was outfitted with a flame hurler and small tanks filled with Menoth’s Fury. Even that description didn’t quite match, as this ’jack had huge tanks covering most of its body, and he saw nothing that looked like a flame hurler. It seemed quite ungainly, but it could probably carry a huge amount of fuel. No one would waste a cortex for carrying water.

Wilkins kept his voice low. “That’s the one Madigan was looking for. Look at its marshal.”

Several Protectorate troops marched with the ’jack. One soldier in particular walked right next to the odd ’jack, directing it by hand gestures as the machine made its way around a crater left from the bombardment. This ’jack marshal wasn’t wearing the armor of a Flameguard or Exemplar or the mask of a priest. He was a white-haired, square-jawed man, old but fit.

“Think that’s Culpin?” Rains asked.

“How about we take his head and give it as a present to Madigan. See what he says.”

“Those are Exemplars with him. You got a spare storm glaive I can use? Oh, and another squad of troops?” Rains asked sarcastically.

“No, but I know where some are.” Wilkins jerked his head in the opposite direction.

Rains crawled out farther to see around some debris. It was their Stormclad! Two hundred yards away, Headhunter was marching down a parallel street, being guided by MacKay. Pangborn and their squad of Stormguard were with them. They were moving double-time, halberds over their shoulders, looking for a path through the winding streets to reunite with the others at the water tower, but they were going in the wrong direction to intercept the oddly equipped enemy ’jack.

The Exemplars had moved out of sight behind one of the tenements. “We’ve got to signal MacKay,” Rains said as he climbed over the edge of the ditch. It was tempting to just start shouting or discharge the storm glaive to get the Cygnarans’ attention, but the pair were closer to the Protectorate than to their own platoon. “If we hurry we can catch up.” He pulled Wilkins up.

“Good idea.”

They set out at a run down the alley. Wilkins had injured his leg at some point and was having a hard time keeping up, so Rains paused to wait for him. He looked up at the sound of a scraping noise above, and a bit of brick dust rained onto his face.

He saw a young woman perched precariously on a second-floor windowsill. She was dressed in light armor with a dark red hood. It appeared she’d been spying on Headhunter and the others, and she’d spotted Rains long before he’d spotted her. She put her fingers to her mouth and gave a sharp whistle.

There was movement on both sides of the alley. A pair of women appeared, blocking their path. Three more came around the corner from the way they’d entered. They were all dressed in the same white and red as the first, and each carried a pair of short swords. “Oh no.” Rains knew who these women were, and he knew just how deadly they could be.

“Some lost invaders . . .” The woman in the window seemed mildly amused. “Trying desperately to get back to their friends, and one of the swans doesn’t even have his sword. Sad.”

Wilkins skidded to a halt. “Daughters,” he hissed.

Despite coming from this land, Rains didn’t much about the insular order. He’d been told they were mostly widows of brave Protectorate soldiers, eager to reunite with their lost loves in Urcaen. Others said they were Feora’s pet assassins. Whatever their real motivations were, they were very effective.

“We are Daughters of the Flame, invader,” said one of the assassins blocking their way.

“You heretics will die with that knowledge,” finished the other.

Wilkins didn’t hesitate. He raised his storm glaive. The Daughters blocking their way leapt aside before the lightning arced. “Get to MacKay!” Rains ran down the alley, past the two Daughters. The one in the window leapt down after them and landed smoothly, a sword in each hand.

As Wilkins limped past, one of the assassins lashed out at him. He blocked with his shield, but the second Daughter struck from behind. He grimaced as her blade slipped past his plate. Blood splattered the brick as he stumbled.

Rains turned back.

“Go!” Wilkins’ storm glaive was humming dangerously. “I’ll hold them.”

“You get MacKay!” Rains shot back. “I’ll hold them.”

“I can hardly run, and I’m the one with a sword. Do your duty. Stop Culpin.” Wilkins gave him a sad little smile. Far too much blood was leaking down his armor. The Storm Knight wobbled but steadied himself. “It’s already written in Morrow’s book, brother. Go.”

Rains had no choice but to flee.

Several Daughters were stalking up to Wilkins, swords raised. They were cold and professional, except for one, who seemed to be enjoying herself far too much. “Come on, then,” Wilkins said as he lifted his Precursor shield.

The Daughters froze when they saw the symbol of Morrow on the ancient shield.

“You . . . !” one of the Daughters whispered.

The others hesitated, looking to her. “Nicia?” one of them asked hesitantly. “Is this—”

“He must be the one . . . Wilkins.”

Like he’d said, Wilkins had killed a whole lot of husbands.

“That’s Sergeant Aiden Wilkins, Sixth Platoon, Madigan’s Malcontents, humble servant of holy Morrow, blessed be his name. Now come get some, you fanatics!” Wilkins charged with a roar.

Rains ran for it, hating himself every step of the way. He should have been there at his companion’s side, fighting until the end, even with his bare hands, but Wilkins was right. Culpin had to be stopped, and Rains had the better chance of making it to their platoon. Wilkins was willing to die to give him that chance. Lightning flashed, but he couldn’t risk the time to turn back to look. Damn them!

He made it to the next alley and turned right. This was one part of the city Rains had never been in, and it was a rat’s warren of narrow paths. He pointed himself in the direction of the Stormclad and pushed on with all his might. His lungs still had smoke in them, and it burned like an unholy fire pumping through his veins. The Daughters would be far swifter on foot than a man in plate armor, and he couldn’t afford to waste Wilkins’ sacrifice.

He caught a flash of blue metal on the other side of a wooden fence. “MacKay! Pangborn!” Rains shouted. He crashed through the gate and into the wider street. He waved his arms over his head. “Over here!”

They’d heard Wilkins’ galvanic discharge and were all on edge, ready to fight. One of the storm gunners appeared ready to shoot Rains—he’d not realized he was so dirty his colors couldn’t even be seen—but Pangborn cuffed the man on the helmet and made him lower the thrower. “That’s one of ours, idiot!”

“Rains!” MacKay called as he stumbled up to them. Headhunter shifted, but MacKay calmed the big ’jack. “We’ve been trying to find a path through this—”

“No time!” Rains gasped. He pointed back the way he’d come. “Squad of Daughters fighting Wilkins. That way. The rest of you, this way! Come on! I found Culpin.” He turned to run once more.

Nobody followed.

Some of the soldiers exchanged nervous glances, and he caught a few whispers.

“Menite . . . spy . . . apostate . . . trap . . .”

The suspicious refugee from the Protectorate was by himself. These men were cut off from their unit and their leadership. In a sad way, it was understandable.

Let them believe me. Please let them trust me. He didn’t even know who he was praying to, but pray he did.

The Stormguard looked to MacKay, and to his credit the old mechanik didn’t hesitate. “You heard the sergeant. Ten halberds and a thrower, go fetch Wilkins. The rest of you get behind Headhunter!” He clapped his hands and the mighty Stormclad perked up, severed ’jack heads jangling from chains. MacKay made a few simple hand gestures, then pointed. “Full speed, boy! Charge up.”

Thank you, MacKay. Thank you.

“Where’s this fire bombing bastard at, lad?”

“This way!”

There weren’t very many of them now. The platoon had been divided and divided again. Only a handful of them remained, and they were going after several Exemplars, an arcane mechanik, and a ’jack of unknown capabilities. Still, they had the heavy-hitting Stormclad, and hopefully that would be enough.

By the time they caught up, Rains was exhausted. Fighting and running in plate was exhausting, especially when your lungs were filled with poison, but he wasn’t going to fail. He owed it to Wilkins for saving his life, and he owed it to Madigan for giving him a chance. He caught sight of black smoke rising over one of the tenements, a sure sign of the enemy ’jack. MacKay saw it as well and gestured for Headhunter to move up.

They were close now. The enemy ’jack was right on the other side of this building. Once they reached the end of the street the two forces would be right on top of each other. Rains saw a lead pipe lying in the gutter and picked it up. It was no storm glaive, but it was a better weapon than his fists.

MacKay took one look at the size of his force and made a decision. “I’ll take Headhunter ’round first. He’ll take the heat, then the rest of you rush up while they’re distracted.”

“That puts you in a lot of danger,” Rains said.

“You might outrank me, lad, but I was doing this sort of thing before you were born.” MacKay turned to Pangborn. “If I go down, Headhunter will listen to you. Got that, boy?”

“Better not go down then, old man,” Pangborn answered.

“Ha! You sound like Madigan. Let’s go, Headhunter.”

Headhunter seemed as excited as MacKay. It lumbered up the street, galvanic blade glowing with stored energy. MacKay was behind it, staying close so it could hear his commands. Rains gave the Stormclad a bit of a head start and then waved for the rest of the squad to move out.

The strange enemy ’jack was waiting for them right in the middle of the intersection. It held its stubby arms at its side, seemingly at rest. Its handler and the Exemplar knights were nowhere to be seen.

Headhunter charged without being told.

“It’s a trap!” Rains shouted. “Get down!” The Stormguard threw themselves to the ground.

“Stop! Stop!” MacKay shouted at their Stormclad, gesturing madly. But it was too late.

Headhunter covered the distance in seconds. The enemy ’jack didn’t even try to get out of the way; it just stood there, its fate sealed, as Headhunter swung its mighty galvanic blade. The huge sword cleaved easily through one of the fuel tanks. Vapor spilled free. Lightning struck.

And the world was consumed in fire.

Madigan had been looking for the rest of Sixth Platoon, eager to get back to their lines and cursing himself as a fool, when the red fireball rolled into the sky.

The sick feeling in his gut told him things had just gotten worse.

It took them fifteen minutes of navigating narrow roads to reach the scene. Sergeant Rains was barely recognizable in his charred armor, but he gave an exhausted salute when he saw Madigan, then tried to give his report. The sergeant was shell-shocked and having trouble focusing, but one thing was clear: the news was bad.

There was a black circle where the Protectorate ’jack had detonated. Its torso had been blown to bits that lay spread across the intersection. Headhunter’s whole body had been burned an ashen black, but remarkably, it was still standing. It even appeared to be running, though something had snapped in its galvanic weapon and a continuous blue shower of sparks fell from it whenever the ’jack twitched.

Headhunter was standing protectively over a kneeling blue form. From the sheer size of the man, Madigan knew it was Pangborn. The giant was cradling someone in his arms.

“No . . .”

“He knew we were coming,” Rains said. “He knew it, and he left this ’jack as a suicide bomb. It was fire, sir. So much fire. Most of us got out of the way.”

Madigan went over and placed one hand on Pangborn’s shoulder. The big man looked up, tears cutting paths through his soot-blackened face. “He got burned bad, sir.”

MacKay was still alive, but barely. Madigan sank to the ground next to him. The old mechanik had been blinded, and his skin was blackened and blistered. “I’m sorry, old friend,” Madigan said.

MacKay slowly stretched out one damaged hand and placed it on Madigan’s arm, and then he was dead.

He’d been killed on Madigan’s fool errand. One of his oldest friends, who should’ve been retired and doting on his grandchildren, was dead, all because Madigan had brought him into this cursed unit . . . But there would be time for doubt and second-guessing later.

“We’ve got to save him, sir,” Pangborn said.

“He’s gone, Nestor,” Madigan told him softly. The big man began to sob. Headhunter leaned forward, confused. Blue sparks fell on MacKay’s body. “Listen to me, son. We’ll grieve later. Right now we need to evacuate back to our lines before we lose anybody else.”

“We’re not leaving him here!” Pangborn shouted.

“Of course not. We’re taking MacKay back to Caspia if I have to carry him myself. But right now, you’re the only one who can get Headhunter moving. That’s what Neel would’ve expected of you. Do you understand me?”

Pangborn’s eyes were squeezed shut tight, but he jerked his head in the affirmative.

“Good man.” Madigan thumped him on the shoulder. “Now get going.”

Pangborn gently lowered MacKay’s body, then rose and began gesturing at Headhunter. The ’jack responded with jerky, sluggish movements. Its shield arm was dangling useless and broken, but it could still walk, and that was the important thing.

They needed to get moving. They had wounded, they were deep in Protectorate territory, and the enemy knew their exact location. “Gather your squads,” Madigan called, looking around. He had Rains and Cleasby, but he was missing a squad leader. “Where’s Wilkins?”

A Stormguard approached, carrying something. It was a blood-stained Precursor shield. “Sorry, sir. When we got there, this was all there was. They carried off his body.”

Rains snatched the shield away from the soldier, too stunned to speak. He stared at the symbol of Morrow for what seemed an eternity.

“Sergeant Rains, gather your men and see to Wilkins’ squad. Now!”

He snapped to. “Yes, sir!”

“Damn it! Where’s Cleasby?” Madigan spotted the scholar standing in the center of the smoking black circle, studying it. He strode over. There was no time for useless pondering now. “Cleasby, get your men and move out!”

Cleasby seemed distracted. “This isn’t right.”

“Of course it isn’t. I made a bad call, and we lost,” Madigan snapped.

“Not that. This explosion was too small. Everyone with Rains should’ve been killed. Headhunter should’ve been destroyed. This was just leftover vapors. The ’jack’s tanks were already empty.”

“You mean . . . ?”

“The water tower was never the target. Culpin dumped the mixture somewhere else. He was on his way back when Rains saw him. Culpin must have spotted them or been warned and left this thing to stop pursuit. He didn’t fight to save it because its job was already done.” Cleasby turned slowly, looking at the surrounding buildings. “The alchemical process is most certainly at work as we speak. He’s probably watching now, waiting to observe his handiwork.”

“Then where did—”

It was like the distant crash of thunder. Every head turned simultaneously in the direction of the noise. A wall of flame seemed to rise above the buildings far to the northeast, stretching for at least a block, before the entire scene disappeared behind the spreading curtain of smoke.

“That was close to the front!” Madigan snarled. “Move out!”

After the explosion the Protectorate had launched their counterattack. That had led to three days of brutal combat, but ultimately they had failed to dislodge Cygnar’s hold on the western half of Sul. The leadership had been too busy to see to his punishment during that time, but there had been a lull in the fighting, so now it was time to see to the inevitable.

Madigan entered the canvas tent where he had been summoned to meet with Captain Schafer and their superior officer, Commander Bradher, less than half a mile from the Great Temple of the Creator in Sul. The soldiers who had been sent to escort him entered as well and took positions on either side of the entrance. Madigan approached the officers and offered a crisp salute. Schafer sneered as he returned the salute. Bradher’s responding salute was quick and to the point; the man was all business. What that would mean for Madigan, he had no idea.

“At ease, Lieutenant,” the commander said. “Take a seat.”

Madigan took one of the simple chairs set before the table where Bradher was working. The table was covered with files, reports, and communications both to and from the war office in Caspia. Schafer leaned against another similarly burdened table nearby, his arms crossed and a smug expression on his face. This was almost certainly his doing.

Bradher’s assistant handed him a sheaf of papers, which he took with a grim expression and set before him. “Lieutenant Madigan, I’ve been reading about you. I was hoping you could explain your actions as commanding officer of the Sixth Platoon of the 47th Storm Knights in the invasion of Sul. Captain Schafer here asserts that you disobeyed his orders in moving your platoon into the city.”

When Madigan gave no reply, Bradher continued, “Information provided by Major Laddermore indicates you made that decision on your own, knowing full well it was not within your assignment. In fact, Lieutenant, it would appear you abandoned your assigned post and took your platoon behind enemy lines on a wild goose chase. Is this correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Madigan answered. Laddermore’s report had been neutral and completely truthful; in fact, this was exactly why he had sent her a communication taking all responsibility for his actions. Schafer’s report, however, had savaged him. He could only imagine the captain would be pushing for a court-martial as soon as it could be arranged. “I do not dispute those facts.”

“I would expect such overenthusiastic foolishness from a green officer, not a seasoned veteran.” Bradher was a stern leader with no patience for the frivolous. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. There wasn’t a man in the Storm Division who wasn’t mentally exhausted at this point of the campaign. “During this unauthorized excursion you lost twenty percent of your men, including one of your NCOs.”

“Sergeant Wilkins is missing in action.”

The commander shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I’m afraid Sergeant Wilkins was spotted during the last offensive, upon a Protectorate wrack. He’s gone.”

“Wracked?” Madigan’s composure broke for the first time as he thought of the loyal soldier strung up on one of the horrific Protectorate torture devices. It was a terrible way to die. He looked down.

“I am sorry.” Bradher leafed through his notes. “When there was a detonation of an unknown incendiary device beneath First Platoon’s position, killing Lieutenant Griggs and forty of her soldiers, your platoon was nowhere to be found.”

“No, sir. I mean, the device isn’t unknown . . . You have my report.”

Schafer made a contemptuous snort but said nothing. Biding his time, thought Madigan. He’s in his element now.

“Yes, I do. And I have the official report that says Groller Culpin has been dead for twelve years. Forgive me if the word of the CRS carries a little more weight than that of an exhausted soldier in a long offensive. They are studying the scene now to ascertain the nature of this device so we can be prepared for it in the future. Don’t worry, Lieutenant, we won’t be caught unawares again.”

Madigan nodded. He’d heard the rumors. Word of his assertion had spread, and right behind it was the speculation that he’d never even thought he saw Culpin, that the whole scenario was a fabrication, an attempted justification for his own lack of judgment.

Bradher leaned back in his chair. “Lord Commander Stryker is preparing for one last offensive. This campaign has been far more difficult than expected. We’ve flooded this city with tens of thousands of troops and drained our coffers, and yet these Menites dig in like ticks, and after months, when we’re finally within striking distance of their great temple, you pull this? What were you thinking?”

“You have my report,” Madigan stated flatly.

“I must admit, I am astounded. I’d heard of your exploits, Lieutenant Madigan; you’re an infamous man. When I found out Major Laddermore had given you this assignment, I for one expected your platoon to be a joke. We have over nine thousand Storm Knights in this division now, and you got the worst of the worst among them. Yet somehow you inspired a group of borderline convicts and drunkards to fight like the king’s personal guard.” The commander sighed. “Don’t you have anything to say in your defense?”

“You have my report,” he said again.

“You realize the potential penalty for disobeying a direct order during wartime includes hanging?”

“I do.”

Bradher chuckled. “I’d heard you were a hard one, but I had no idea. I don’t want to court-martial someone knighted by a king, Lieutenant. Give me something to work with.”

Madigan pressed his lips in a line, then said, “Here is my defense: Groller Culpin is alive. I saw him with my own eyes. Do not underestimate this man, Commander. He’d see the kingdom burn, and he’s smart enough to pull it off. Some may say I’ve brought back a villain from Cygnar’s past in an attempt to excuse my own actions.” He glared at Schafer. “They would be incorrect. I accept my mistakes, sir. Culpin may have been present, but I am the one who gave the order to burn the Hartcliff manor during the coup. Not Culpin. Me.”

“That’s not why we’re here, Lieutenant.”

“I believe it is. Because I watched that madman dance with joy while his flames consumed innocent children. I know him. I understand him. The army needs to understand him as well, or the entire nation will pay the price. Sir.”

Schafer stood up. “Enough of your delusions!” he snapped. “It was my First Platoon that was killed by that Menite bomb, yet you still seek to blame it on a ghost.”

“Culpin doesn’t give a damn about the Protectorate cause, and he’d rather spit in Menoth’s eye than bend his knee. He cares about revenge. In Culpin’s mind, King Leto ruined his life, and I promise you he’s kept that thought in mind for twelve long years.”

“Culpin? Or you, Madigan?” Schafer said, growing red-faced. “Someone like you should never have been given the honor of a Stormblade command. You are a disgrace to the very concept of knighthood! You think Vinter’s folly in knighting you makes you special? You think it makes you one of us? You are a fraud and a villain, and you make others pay with their lives just to serve your vanity.”

Of course, he would never be seen as one of “Leto’s Boys.” He noted that Bradher watched the exchange with steepled fingers, clearly weighing every word. He had one last chance to make him pay attention to this very real threat.

“Then allow me to demonstrate my conviction,” Madigan said coldly. “Commander Bradher, I hereby give up my title and lands and forsake the commission bestowed upon me by King Vinter Raelthorne.”

“What?!” Schafer hadn’t expected that, he saw. Good.

Bradher sat up sharply. frowning. “Are you sure you want to do that, Lieutenant? Your status as a knight does offer some protections, even in circumstances like this.”

“If it gets the army to realize how much danger we are in, so be it. Now either send me to the gallows or let me get back to work, because I’m tired of this charade.”

Clearly the commander hadn’t been expecting this turn of events. He pondered it for a minute, deep in thought, while Schafer gaped from the side. Finally he said, “I am moved by your display, Lieutenant. You have my word that this Culpin matter will not be dropped. I will speak with Lord Commander Stryker about the situation myself.”

Madigan leaned forward in a small bow. “Thank you, sir.”

“Since we are still embroiled in this conflict I will not yet convene a formal hearing on the inciting actions. However, in a time of war, insubordination is unforgivable and demands severe punishment. Lieutenant, you are relieved of your command and your rank. You will be returned to Caspia and placed in custody pending a hearing, including Lord Commander Stryker’s personal review of this incident. Since he is rather preoccupied with ending this war, that may take some time. I can promise that at a minimum you personally will be discharged.”

His entire life had been devoted to the Cygnaran Army. This was the worst shame imaginable, but he remained stoic. “What of my men?”

“Since you have accepted full responsibility, I assume the repercussions will fall on your head alone. Sixth Platoon has been rendered combat ineffective due to losses and injuries, so they will be reassigned to garrison duty in Caspia. Our best estimates suggest the current punitive expedition against the Menites will be over within the next week or two, so it shouldn’t matter anyway.” The commander gave him one last stern look. “Dismissed.”

The enemy came again and again upon the Sword Knights lead by Sir Faraday, but he would not yield. For five days and five nights the knights stood, shoulder to shoulder, as the dark creatures continually sallied forth against them from the festering pit. The knights did not tire, nor did they ever waver, and their spirits remained high, certain in the rightness of their cause, for a knight is never troubled by the doubts and fears harbored by lesser men.

—Records of Chivalry by Lord Percival Rainworth 486 AR

PART III: THE DEFENDERS

The Malcontents had been sent back to Caspia, but the war had followed them home.

Hierarch Voyle was an unstoppable force. The Cygnarans who had seen him in action and survived spoke in hushed, fearful tones, as if shaken by his holy wrath. They said that the Protectorate hierarch possessed the strength of Menoth himself and that he was effortlessly cutting down everyone who got in his way. It was as if they had pushed too far, and Menoth himself had come to punish Cygnar for their sins. The might of what the Menites called the True Faith had finally been released, and the army of Cygnar had been pushed out of Sul, chased back across the broken wall. Now they were fighting across the streets of Caspia against a horde of Menites that never seemed to end. The punitive expedition had turned into a fight for Cygnar’s very survival.

Their greatest leader had been struck down. Lord Commander Stryker had been badly wounded while fighting against the Protectorate warcaster Feora, crushed beneath a falling temple. Barely alive, his body had been rescued by a warjack, and he was currently in the Archcourt Cathedral, under the care of the best healers in the Church of Morrow. The official word was that their Lord Commander would live, but the citizens had their doubts. These were dark times for the kingdom.

Kelvan Cleasby huddled in front of the pitiful fire to soak up whatever warmth he could. It was a bitterly cold morning and promised to be another miserable day. The leadership of the Sixth was assembled in the Barn, going over their current orders. It would be more of the same: herding refugees and guarding supplies.

Thornbury had scrounged up some tea and a pot for boiling water. He passed a tin over. “Breakfast is served.” He’d been thin when they’d first met but looked positively gaunt at this point. The war had been hard on him.

Cleasby looked at his tin. The entirety of their morning rations consisted of some hard tack and a bit of old salt pork, but at least they had food, which was more than they could say for their poor countrymen trapped in the eastern neighborhoods of Caspia. “I’m not hungry.” He pushed the tin away. “Give mine to the men.”

“You’d better eat, Lieutenant,” Rains said.

Lieutenant. He was still getting used to that. They’d lost their real leader, to military discipline rather than combat, but Cleasby had been a battlefield commission nonetheless. He was the commanding officer of the Sixth now, though there wasn’t much left to command.

There weren’t many of the Malcontents remaining. They’d been sent to the Sixth as dregs, but they had proven themselves real soldiers in Sul and had regained their honor. Though their commander had made a regrettable choice, the word was that the knights of the Sixth had fought well, so one by one they had been reassigned as replacements to other Storm Knight units in desperate need of soldiers. With only a handful of the Sixth remaining, they were a shadow of the fighting force Madigan had once whipped them into.

“Come on, Rains. A unit that only exists on paper gets a paper lieutenant.”

Rains had seemed distant ever since the fight at the water tower, but the one thing he was focused on was keeping the remains of their unit running. “We’ve still got a job to do, and you’ll need your strength.”

Cleasby picked up the tin and began eating. Rains was right. They were on light duty at the rear of the action, but watching over refugees and supplies was still work. “Any word, Thorny?”

“Most of my sources have fled the capital, I’m afraid. If the internal walls keep falling and we keep giving up neighborhoods at this rate, we’ll have to evacuate the whole city within a month.”

That was nothing new. “I meant in a more political arena . . .”

The aristocrat concentrated on his tea. “Nothing new on Madigan, if that’s what you’re wondering. I figure they’ve forgotten about him, with everybody too busy scrambling.”

“It’s a waste,” Rains muttered. “This city needs every capable defender it can get. At least give the man a sword and point him at the enemy.”

“Just his scowl would buy the city a day or two.” Thorny laughed. “I never thought I’d find myself saying I miss that cold-hearted bastard.”

The constant hammering outside the Barn paused a moment and then restarted with a slightly different pitch. Pangborn had been working on Headhunter every spare moment since their return. The mechaniks had taken one look at the badly burned Stormclad and pronounced it an unsalvageable wreck, but the big man hadn’t given up on it yet, and it seemed like he’d rather work on that ’jack than sleep. At one point a supply officer had sent some gobbers with a wagon to take the ruined machine away to be dismantled for parts, but Pangborn had threatened them with a storm thrower and chased them off.

There’s another one for the list.

Cleasby smiled to himself. He still thought occasionally about the extensive list of infractions and rules violations he’d kept. It had gotten rather long. It was amazing the lengths Madigan had gone to ensure his men were as ready as possible.

He’d burned the list for warmth months ago.

There was a knock on the door. It was Acosta. “May I speak with you, Lieutenant?” the Ordsman asked. He looked at Rains and Thornbury for a moment. “In private?”

Cleasby nodded, and the other two Storm Knights got up. Rains took up the battered Precursor shield he’d been carrying since they’d lost Wilkins, and they left the room. “What do you need?”

Acosta waited for the others to leave, then closed the door. The Ordsman was probably the only man in the unit who seemed physically unchanged by the war. It was like he was hewn from stone. “I will be leaving now.” It wasn’t a request.

“What about your deal with Madigan?”

“Madigan is rotting in a prison while the Protectorate destroys your city.”

“And you’d abandon us?”

He shrugged. “It is not my city.”

“So you’re just a mercenary.” There was no doubt Acosta could easily kill him, but Cleasby wasn’t really afraid of dying anymore. “You don’t give a damn about these people. You’re a coward.”

“We both know that isn’t true.” Acosta came over and spread his hands to warm them over the fire. “Do not fling careless insults, Cleasby. It doesn’t suit you. Leave the angry outbursts to Rains or Pangborn. You are a thinker. Act like it.”

“I can think you are a coward, then,” he snapped.

“Such words . . .” Acosta raised an eyebrow. “Does command weigh so heavily upon you, then, that you would commit suicide by challenging me to a duel?”

Cleasby exhaled, attempting to control his anger. “I never asked to be in command.”

“The best leaders seldom do. As for what you do now, it is a simple choice. You can attempt to treat me like any other soldier, call the guards, and accuse me of desertion, but I do not think either of us would like how that would turn out. Or we can simply part as friends. I told Madigan I would fight for him as long as it suited my purposes. That time has passed, and so I will move on.”

Cleasby studied him, thoughtful. “I don’t think Madigan was paying you anything more than that deserter’s salary, so you’re not motivated by coin. You’re not motivated by country or even by loyalty to the men you’ve fought alongside all this time. So what motivates a man like you, Acosta? What is this purpose of yours?”

Acosta gave him that familiar, eerie smile. “Now that is the curious scholar I’ve come to know . . . It is a fair question. I came here to learn of new tactics and new technology and to fight against a foe I was unfamiliar with. I am collecting knowledge in order to become the most proficient warrior on all of Caen. I will either succeed and my legend will be known forever, or I will fail and soon be forgotten. I will be the best, or I will die trying.” His words held no boasting, only simple, matter-of-fact truth. “I will do whatever I must to achieve this goal.”

“Achieving perfection through killing? Doing whatever you must? It sounds like a dark path to ascension. Are you a would-be scion? Are you really a Thamarite like they say, then?”

“Draw your own conclusions, scholar. I am merely a seeker of challenges.”

“If you want a real challenge, they say Hierarch Voyle has the actual power of Menoth upon him.”

“I’m not ready to face a god . . . yet.” Acosta chuckled. “A good try, though. Farewell, Cleasby.” He began walking away.

“One last question, if I may,” Cleasby said. Acosta paused at the door and waited respectfully. “You could’ve just ridden off in the middle of the night. Why’d you tell me all this?”

“I once had this same conversation with Madigan back when he was a young officer. You remind me of him. I have found that some men are just good at picking the best fights. I think you will prove to be such a man, Lieutenant Cleasby. When you come across another interesting war, let me know. Maybe our paths will merge again for a time.”

“And if our paths put us on opposite sides?”

“Then that would be a terrible shame and I would weep at your funeral. Farewell, Cleasby.”

“Good luck, Acosta.”

“I make my own luck.” And then the Ordsman was gone.

“Where do you want me?” Rains asked Pangborn.

The big man jerked his head at the warjack’s open side. “See the thick silver bar? I need you to pull back on that hard as you can while I get this spanner in there.” Headhunter turned to study him curiously. It shuddered a bit, which caused the severed ’jack heads he bore to rattle on their chain. Pangborn soothed him, saying, “You shush now. Your secondary capacitor is busted and just drawing power for nothing. Pulling it will make you faster. It’s for your own good.”

That seemed to placate the warjack.

“This thing is off in the cortex. You know that, right?” Rains carefully placed the Precursor shield off to the side where it wouldn’t be accidently scraped or hit with sparks. “Ready.”

“That’s why me and him get along so well,” Pangborn said. He jerked his head toward the old shield. “You paying respect to Morrow now?”

Rains snorted. “Of course not.”

“Then how come you carry around his symbol?”

He didn’t have a good answer for that. “It’s Wilkins’ shield. I thought he’d be proud to see it still getting use.”

Pangborn raised an eyebrow. “It’s a good shield, and sturdy . . . Now pull.” Rains strained against the bar with all his might. It flexed, and Pangborn plunged his thick arms into the gap and began working on the stuck nut. “Oh, I should’ve warned you: hold onto it tight. You slip and it’ll break my hands.”

Rains gritted his teeth. This was taking all of his strength. “Make it quick.”

Pangborn chatted nonchalantly while he worked. “I ever tell you I’m from up in the north country? Lots of Morridanes up in them parts. Me personally, I’m from Midlunder stock, but my mum’s mum was a Morridane. You know any Morridanes?”

Sweat was forming on his face and veins were standing out in his arms. “Now’s not the time for your life story, Pangborn!”

But the mechanik didn’t appear concerned that one slip could severely injure him. “Gram used to tell scary stories about the Morrdh. See, the Morridanes are descended from the Morrdh, and they were a dark, evil folk. Back in the olden days, the Morrdh used black magic and set all kinds of evil loose in the land. They had turned away from Menoth and would later reject both Twins. Some say they turned to infernals or other dark allies. After Morrdh got beat, the survivors turned to Morrow’s light. Now? Sure, there are still dark things buried out in the hollers and swamps, but for the most part, the Morridanes are good, honest, hardworking folk, same as most folks in Cygnar.”

The bar was slipping. Rains tried to focus, but his grip was getting weaker and the muscles in his arms were burning. “I’m going to lose it!”

“Way I figure it, you being an apostate ain’t so bad. Can’t judge a boy for what he’s born into, but what he chooses to be when he’s a man . . . And there we go.” He pulled the wrench out. Rains let go of the bar, and it sprang back into place with a bang. Pangborn reached into the warjack’s body and pulled out an oddly shaped chunk of brass, which he held in front of Headhunter’s vision slits. “See? This won’t be troubling you no more.” He tossed it over his shoulder onto the scrap pile.

Headhunter shuddered, and a jet of steam shot from his boiler.

“You sure know your way around a ’jack,” Rains said as he tried to rub the feeling back into his hands.

“I learned from the best.”

“But you don’t know a damn thing about me.”

Pangborn gave Rains a hard look. “I come from simple folk. We don’t waste time with fancy words when there’s something that needs saying, even when it might give offense. I know why you’re carrying around that shield, only it won’t do you no good.”

Rains was sick of these pious Morrowans and their guesses about his motivations. “Enlighten me with your homespun farm wisdom, then.”

“You’re carrying that shield for the same reason I’m not giving up on this here ’jack. It meant something important to somebody who’s gone now, and neither of them can finish what they started, so we aim to see it through for them.”

“That’s . . . well . . .” Rains thought about it. “Maybe.”

“The thing is, you’ve got your own fight. Wilkins is fine. The sergeant died doing exactly what he knew he was supposed to do. There’s a freedom in that. Wilkins believed in sacrifice more than anything, so that’s exactly what he did, and then he went to serve his god. You, now—you don’t have a god. It ain’t you helping Wilkins finish this, it’s Wilkins helping you. You left some part of yourself back in Sul, and you won’t be a whole man until you find it.”

Rains frowned. Every night his dreams had been haunted by faces hidden behind masks. “You’re smarter than you look.”

“Most problems can be solved if you hit them hard enough, but not all of them.” Pangborn tapped the side of his head, leaving a grease stain there. “Rest of the time, you gotta use the old noggin.”

It was time to return to guard duty. Rains picked up his shield. Their pugilist-farmer-philosopher-mechanik had given him much to think about.

The rats lurked in the corners, watching him, waiting to see if the fever would kill him—or at least weaken him too much to stop them when they came in to nibble on his flesh. The rat catchers they had bragged about during his previous stay had probably evacuated. And that thought made Madigan laugh out loud. The noise startled the rodents, which disappeared through a crack in the wall.

The fever was making him delirious. It had swept through the brig and had already taken the lives of several other prisoners. The guards had done their best to control the outbreak, but they were sorely understaffed. Most of their old roster had been sent to help in the city’s defenses. He’d heard the skeleton crew of guards rumormongering. The tables had turned. Caspia had been breached. Voyle was on the march. The army was in disarray. Stryker was either badly wounded or dead. King Leto was personally involved with the defenses.

“Let me out of here!” Madigan shouted. He found himself pounding on the door, yelling through the narrow, barred window. “Let me fight these Menite sods. I’ll gut them like fish!” There was no answer. “You hear me? Give me a sword. Caspia is my home!” The hall was empty. The fever had made him imagine there were guards talking in the hall. The prisoners in other cells who weren’t yet incapacitated by the fever shouted at him to quiet down.

Days passed in a haze of broken dreams, tossing and turning, his skin so hot he felt like the bedding would catch fire and then he’d burn to a crisp, like Neel MacKay, his face all black and broken apart in red lines. Then he would be freezing cold, shivering, but still hot to the touch. In the mornings there would be water, and he’d gulp it down as fast as he could. There were no physician’s visits. They were busy tending to the casualties of war; there was no time for mere prisoners.

He had been there for months of terrible boredom before the fever had taken over the brig. To sleep, he’d counted the sounds of distant explosions like a child would count sheep. He could tell if each one indicated artillery, a warjack’s cannon, or a Protectorate Skyhammer. Every night the explosions drew a little bit closer. He made a map of the city in his mind, and he could tell just by the noise that the war was going badly for Cygnar.

The supply lines were suffering. The last rations he could remember before the fever had rendered him incoherent had been a single raw potato.

After an unknown number of days, the fever lessened enough for him to think a bit again. The guards had looked in, seen that he was still breathing, and slid his rations beneath the door. The water was cool, and there was a bone with some meat on it. He couldn’t tell what animal that had come from, but the rats hadn’t gotten to it much, so he gnawed it as fast as he could. The explosions were much closer now; the army would need to move them, abandon them to the Menites, or let them go free. Madigan had already promised himself that if they let him go, he’d find a weapon and get to killing those bastards until his last breath. If the army were truly ruthless, though, they’d just leave the prisoners here in the hopes that the Menite conquerors would contract this awful fever.

It was daytime. Not that he could see light. The guards didn’t even have oil sufficient to keep the lanterns in the hall lit. Rather, he could tell it was day by the shaking of the floor. It was easier to move warjacks about safely during the daytime, and the military district was extremely busy. But the mighty tremors were moving west. The military district was being evacuated.

Hearing footsteps in the hall, Madigan stumbled to the door. “Let me out. Give me a sword and let me do my duty.” His voice sounded weak and thin and cracked as he tried to speak. “I will defend this city, I swear before Morrow and all the ascendants. I will defend this city to my last.”

“You’re hardly in any shape for that now.”

“I am a knight of Cygnar. Let me fulfill my oath.”

“But you gave up your knighthood. You threw it away to make a point. And in these dark hours, when a man fights with the power of the Creator, you are forgotten.”

Madigan could barely make out the thin form standing there. “Lord Durham? What’re you doing here?”

The old knight came closer to the bars. “I came to see that one of the finest soldiers I’ve ever known has come to a pathetic, wretched end. Here you rot, imprisoned by your pride while your city is burned to the ground around you. Your fellow citizens are dying by the score. Families are fleeing for their lives while shopkeepers and merchants throw their bodies against Protectorate spears.”

“I was trying to defend the army against an attack.”

“You were wrong. Culpin was too smart for you. You saw the obvious. Do you really think Culpin is so stupid? While you were spending your men’s lives in vain, he struck somewhere else.”

“And First Platoon died because of it. That guilt is mine to bear.”

“How much guilt can one man carry before it destroys him? How many lives must he take in order to make up for such guilt? Can you slaughter your way to redemption?”

“Let me free and find out,” Madigan snarled.

He must have passed out from the fever, because he found himself lying on the cot, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the chittering of the rats in the walls. The Skyhammerss fell at a steady pace, obliterating the city that had once been his home.

“Did you really expect to outwit one of the greatest minds the kingdom has ever produced?” Lord Durham asked.

Madigan turned his aching head. A candle had been lit. The old knight, all in black worn thin but still bearing his most sacred medal, sat on a stool next to the cot. The guards must have let him into the cell. Madigan tried to answer, but his throat was too sore.

“Come now, Hugh. You were a starving orphan while he had the finest education imaginable. Groller Culpin was redesigning whole districts of the city while you were picking sailors’ pockets. When you joined the army, he was building Cygnar’s greatest public works. He tagged along when Vinter sent you to murder Hartcliff because your known barbarity was a curiosity to his scientific mind. He went with you because he knew you would provide him with the opportunity to test his latest weapons. What are you to someone like him?”

“I am a knight of the kingdom . . .” he croaked.

“Were. You were one of Vinter’s favorite killers. You were a prize-fighting dog the king hung a title on. A true knight understands the value of what he fights for. You fight merely because it is in you to fight. You win because you know no other way. A true knight does what he must to defend his lord, but he never forsakes his honor. He would forsake his life before he would forsake his honor!”

“What—” Madigan reached clumsily for Lord Durham, but he couldn’t quite reach, and he was too consumed by fever to sit up. He lowered his shaking hand back to his chest. “What are you—”

“All those years in exile, you were happy to be an outsider, because you’ve always been an outsider. The kingdom could have used you. The army could have used you. It could have used your skills and your mind, but you were too selfish and proud. You were like a son to me. Our current king is a forgiving man. There was only one thing you had to do to come back!” Durham banged his cane on the floor. “One simple thing!”

“What would you have me do?”

“You know what it is, but maybe it is too late now. Too late to wonder what might have been, if you’d become the knight you truly should have become. It is too late to wonder how many hundreds of young officers you could have taught and how much stronger our nation’s defenses could have been if you’d fulfilled your responsibilities.”

“How could I have chosen differently?”

Lord Durham stared at the candle for a long time, deep in thought.

“You’ve always been a determined killer, Madigan. I tried to help shape you into a leader. I tried to teach you, but I failed. Maybe I was the one who was wrong the whole time. I was an idealistic warrior, somebody who thought there could be goodness even in the midst of carnage. Maybe Vinter was right: we need terrible men willing to fight to survive, willing to sacrifice anything to achieve victory.”

“What would you have me do?” he asked again.

“Prepare yourself, Madigan.” There was an explosion, far too close. The brig shook and dust rained from the ceiling. “Maybe it is not too late after all. Good-bye, old friend.”

Madigan closed his eyes and let the fever take him.

From this vantage point, Cleasby could tell exactly how far the Protectorate had advanced into Caspia by the smoke rising across the city. The Cygnarans at least had done their best to avoid starting fires, which would quickly spread out of control. The Menites didn’t appear to share that same reservation, and it seemed as if they were burning whole blocks with impunity.

The chapel’s bell tower was the tallest structure for blocks, and Cleasby had climbed the ladder to get a good look at the city. He had a sinking feeling it would be one of his last, as they had just received some very grim news. Details were sparse, but King Leto himself had challenged Hierarch Voyle and been struck down that very morning. It was unclear whether their good king would live or die.

There was a lot of noise as somebody else scaled the ladder. It was hard to be quiet in a suit of storm armor. Cleasby extended his hand and helped the other soldier through the trapdoor. It was Thornbury. “Is something wrong?” he asked the aristocrat.

“Besides the upcoming collapse of our nation?” Thornbury asked sarcastically. “Why, no, sir. It’s a fine day, positively coming up roses.”

Cleasby sighed. “I meant with the refugees, Thorny. The overall health of the nation is a bit beyond my ability to influence right now.”

“Their numbers are swelling as word of the king has spread. The docks and the train yards are overwhelmed, so more people are just abandoning their belongings and fleeing on foot.” The aristocrat leaned against the railing and took in the view. “Well, that’s damn near worth the climb after all. Caspia truly is a beauty, at least until these blasted Menites burn it to the ground.”

“We’ll stop them, Thorny. Don’t worry. Someone will find a way.”

“At this point, it’s going to take a miracle. We underestimated the Protectorate, Kelvan, and now we’re paying for it. If Leto dies . . . Well, the Protectorate will be the least of our problems. We’ve got enemies all around, just waiting for us to show weakness.”

“The kingdom will be fine. Worse things have happened in the past and Cygnar has always risen to the challenge and overcome.”

“You’re still an idealist at heart.” Thornbury shook his head. “You don’t know the aristocracy like I do. If Leto dies they’ll be like buzzards swooping in to get their piece. There are the factions, and then there are factions within factions, all willing to cut a deal. Leto came to power through a coup; feelings are still tender and succession is unclear. This could be ugly. They whisper that Vinter is still alive, exiled out there somewhere, and some of the old families will surely use the loss of our capital as an excuse to put that evil bastard back on the throne.”

It was a troubling thought. “Why, Thorny, I didn’t know you paid attention to such dealings. I thought your family name simply enabled you to drink for free and pick up women.”

“Heh . . . I wish. Maybe this war has turned me cynical.”

The two of them stayed there for a while, smelling the smoke, listening to the hum of thousands fleeing, and watching the city burn. Cleasby broke the silence. “You know, the very first time I ever saw Caspia was when I came in on the train from Corvis with Madigan. I can’t believe that was only last year. I’d read so much about this place that I thought I knew it, but reading about something in a book is nothing like seeing it with your own eyes.”

“Caspia truly is beautiful.”

“There’s so much history here,” Cleasby said wistfully. “Over there is the courthouse where they ratified the founding of the Steam and Iron Workers Union in 211. That’s the holy marker commemorating where Morrow performed the miracle of oxen.” He pointed out the landmarks as he recalled his history lessons. “The top floors of that building hold the workshop where Janus Leopold invented the magnifying rifle scope.”

“You’re quite the tour guide.”

“This is one of the most important cities ever built, a wonder of the ancient world, arguably the greatest achievement of the early Menites. Golivant’s grandson had the great walls built a hundred and fifty years before the ascension of Morrow and Thamar! But now it seems the Menites don’t care about preserving anything that wasn’t handed to them by the Creator. So much learning, and history, and culture . . . It’s such a shame. That’s the street where King Woldred gave his famous speech about the rights of man. That building with the crooked spire is where Elias Decklan stood to witness the first steps of the first colossal built during the Rebellion. That big dome is where . . .” Cleasby paused, pointing at one of the landmarks nearest the river, far to the east. “That’s where . . .”

Thorny squinted at the distant building. It was a large structure near where the Black River entered the Gulf of Cygnar. “That’s where what?”

Cleasby scowled. “That’s the center of the modernization of Caspia’s infrastructure, the Great Public Works. It had been started under Vinter II but was never completed. Vinter IV picked it up after the Scharde Invasions, and it was one of the few positive legacies of his reign. Its goal was to improve the capital’s sanitation and prevent the spread of diseases. The ancient sewer system below the city was dug up and new pipe laid through the city’s major residential areas, starting with Castle Raelthorne and the better parts of town immediately adjacent. King Leto vastly expanded the project and incorporated alchemical treatment to the sewage as a safeguard against disease. Then that facility was broadened to include alchemical processing of river water for the city’s water supply. Now those pipes reach every neighborhood in the city, so that even the poorest among us could have the same advantages. Better sewers, better drinking water. It was one of the most ambitious construction projects ever undertaken. A real credit to the Raelthornes, past and present.”

“That’s fascinating and all, but what—”

“The chief architect of the Great Public Works under Vinter IV was Groller Culpin.”

“Gorax balls. The same Culpin Madigan figured blew up First Platoon?”

“I never got to see the blast site and they’ve been far too busy to respond to any of my requests, but I can only assume there was some sort of tunnel or sewer beneath Griggs’ position that day. The ’jack we found had already delivered its payload. Madigan’s hypothesis was correct, only we got the location wrong. We looked up, when we should have been looking down . . . The bomb that took out First Platoon was just an experiment.”

“I’m not following. That public works building fell to the Protectorate days ago. We already know the water’s been shut off—Morrow knows we’ve heard the refugees complaining about that nonstop. That dome is blocks behind their front lines. If Culpin blew it up now, he’d be doing us a favor.”

Cleasby’s eyes flicked back and forth, scanning the city, seeing it not as streets and buildings, but lines radiating outward on a grid. The whole city was connected. The idea made too much sense to not be true, and that filled his guts with fear.

“It’s not the dome, Thorny. It’s what’s beneath it.”

The headquarters of the Storm Division seemed to be in complete disarray. The battle for Caspia had grown so desperate that many of the officers who would normally be here, calling the shots from a position of safety and clarity, were out fighting in the streets. Cleasby was having a hard time even finding anyone in his chain of command to talk to.

“I’m looking for Captain Schafer or Major Laddermore,” he told the clerk. “Have you seen them?”

“Laddermore’s with the king . . .” the clerk answered, his eyes focused on something very far away. “She rode away with his body over her saddle. Did you hear? The king has been struck down. Even Morrow can’t help us now. Menoth is coming! Menoth is coming to burn us all!”

“You have been absolutely no help at all,” Cleasby snapped at the babbling clerk. He spotted a runner. “You! I’m looking for the commanding officer of the 47th!”

The runner didn’t slow. “I’ve no time!”

Cleasby grabbed him by the arm. “I need to talk to him!”

“The 47th is lost. They were cut off when Pier Street fell.” He smacked Cleasby’s hand away. “As was the 30th and 14th. It’s a complete rout. I’ve got to tell Commander Bradher.”

Cleasby’s mouth fell open. “Lost?” He had an important message to convey, and nobody to convey it to. “Wait. Give this to Bradher. It’s urgent.” He handed over the note he’d written. “Please.”

“Very well.” The runner saw the insignia on Cleasby’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.” Then he hurried on.

Stunned, Cleasby stood there for a moment as the headquarters continued to fall apart. The realization slowly came that this was what defeat looked like. Administrative officers were throwing their most important papers in boxes and putting the least important in barrels that would be burned as they evacuated the headquarters. Cleasby marveled that with so many lives being lost, there was still time for paperwork. The rear echelon flinched at every explosion, even the ones so small that Cleasby no longer registered them as interesting.

How things change!

Commander Bradher would read the message, and he would either act or not, but by then it would probably be too late. The Storm Division was doing everything it could just to stay in the fight. He couldn’t reach his chain of command, but the 8th Division of the Second Army was also based in Caspia, so he wrote another note and sent it along with one of the clerks fleeing in that direction. They would be lucky if the army proved able to mount any sort of counteroffensive to seize the Great Dome at all, let alone in time to make a difference, since they were concentrating on defending important parts of Caspia, like the palace, the Sancteum, the Strategic Academy, or the Cygnaran Army.

Madigan had talked about Culpin’s nature. The Protectorate wouldn’t be keen on destroying a city they considered inherently holy, but Culpin wouldn’t give a damn about their priesthood and their goals. He saw himself as the architect, and his greatest creation, below the city of Caspia itself, had been stolen from him. Now that it had been sullied, Culpin would rather see it destroyed.

Cleasby hurried down the steps. Thornbury, Rains, and Pangborn were waiting for him outside. He gave them a quick report as panicked soldiers loaded nearby wagons and stray papers fluttered away on the wind.

“The king’s gonna die, Stryker’s gonna die, and the city’s gonna fall,” Pangborn spat. “I can’t believe the Protectorate is gonna win.”

“None of that talk,” Cleasby ordered. “This isn’t over yet. We might not be able to do anything about Voyle, but we’re the only ones who have a clue about Culpin. We’re it.”

The three of them shared a nervous glance. “What do you want us to do, Lieutenant?” Rains asked.

“Our orders haven’t changed, but I can’t sit at the gate and do nothing while Caspia falls around us. I’m going to the Great Dome to try to stop Culpin. I don’t expect any of you to come with me. It’s far behind Protectorate lines by now. Whoever goes probably won’t be coming back.”

“I’m in,” Pangborn said. “I’ve never turned down a fight, no matter how stupid.”

“For a second I thought you’d gone all mushy on us, big fella,” Thorny said. “I’m sick of herding refugees. I’m with you.”

Rains smiled. “What do you want us to do, Lieutenant?” he asked again.

Cleasby felt a huge sense of relief. “Thank you . . . Get back to the Barn. Rains, give the remaining men the choice to come or not, but be sure to let them know there’s no shame in saying no to this mission. Thornbury, beg, borrow, or steal any piece of equipment we’re short of. I don’t care if you have to rob the quartermaster’s office at gunpoint.”

Thornbury saluted. “I like you more all the time, Cleasby.”

“What about me?” Pangborn asked.

“The mechaniks said he was only good for scrap, but I’ve noticed you’ve never given up on Headhunter.”

“I figured that’s what this unit was all about, sir.”

“Damned right it is. Is he ready?”

“I’m not half the mechanik—or man—that Neel MacKay was, but I swear Headhunter will make him proud. You’ve got my word.”

“Fire him up then. I’ll meet you at the Barn as soon as I can.” Cleasby began running the other direction.

“What are you going to do?” Rains called after him.

“I’m getting this platoon’s leader back.”

A door banged open. “You can’t go in there!” one of the guards shouted.

Madigan sat up on his cot. His head was clear for the first time in days. The fever had broken. He was starving, dehydrated, and dizzy, but he was coherent. He rubbed his face in his hands and found a week’s worth of beard.

“Sir! Please, you can’t—”

“I’ve got orders from Major Laddermore. Madigan is to be remanded into my custody immediately.”

Cleasby?

“Sorry, Lieutenant Cleasby. All of the prisoners are to be transferred to a stockade outside of the city as soon as our wagons get here. We’ve not been informed about moving one in particular. Do you have the proper forms?”

“Forms? Forms? Are you daft, man? Look outside. The city is about to fall and Voyle is marching through the city shattering everything in his way, and you think our commanders have time to fill out paperwork?”

“I’m sorry. If you’ll just wait a minute we’ll send a runner and—”

“We don’t have minutes. This is war. You hear how close those Skyhammers are? If one falls on this building and kills Major Laddermore’s prisoner, it will be on your head . . .” There was a pause as a nameplate on a desk was read. “Corporal Ludwig. You will be personally responsible for hurting the defenses of the city in our direst hour. Wrap your head around that, Corporal. You won’t be guarding a cell, you’ll be in one, and that’s if you’re lucky and she doesn’t just leave you to the Protectorate. Do you understand?” Another pause. “Excellent. Now where is my prisoner?”

He heard the rattle of a ring of keys being taken from its peg on the wall. Light flooded the corridor as another door was thrown wide. A very nervous guard walked quickly to Madigan’s cell and unlocked it. “Sir?” the guard asked. “Are you awake?”

He managed to stand and was spared the indignity of falling over. “I heard the exchange.”

“Your fever has passed. Thank Solovin. I was afraid I’d come down here and find you dead,” the guard whispered. “And then that lieutenant would have me flogged!”

“Best keep your head down. I hear Cleasby’s a hard one,” Madigan agreed as the guard led him out.

The guard was ashamed. “We called for physicians and priests, but they were all too busy—”

“No need to apologize. You did your best with what you had.” The sunlight in the main room was blinding. Madigan lifted one shaking hand to shield his eyes.

“You are to come with me, prisoner. Major Laddermore needs to speak with you, immediately.” Cleasby went to take him roughly by the arm but then saw the filthy state of his clothing and gestured at the door instead. They went down the steps as fast as Madigan could manage. “I must say, you’re in a rather disheveled state, sir.”

“They actually made you lieutenant? Spend a few months in prison and everything falls apart.”

“My promotion should tell you how poorly the war effort is going. This way. We’ve got to get to the Barn.”

“So all that about Laddermore wanting to speak to me . . .”

“I made it up. I’m breaking you out of prison. Now walk quickly before the guards decide to confirm my story.”

Madigan chuckled. “And to think, I asked for you to be assigned to me because I thought it might be helpful to have a conscience.”

The military district was in a state of pandemonium. The two of them passed through the main gate without incident, but then Cleasby chose a smaller side street. For once, Madigan was the one who had to struggle to keep up.

“As you’re well aware, normally I’d be rather flustered at the idea of breaking so many regulations, but I’m fully not expecting to live through the day. I believe I’ve figured out Groller Culpin’s objective.”

“He means to do something terrible to Caspia. I knew that’s why I’d be freed.”

“How’d you know that?”

“Lord Durham told me as much during one of his visits.”

Cleasby stopped in the middle of the street with a quizzical look on his face. “Lord Durham, the retired general? He visited you in the brig?”

“Yes. We used to serve together. He kept me company while I suffered from the fever sickness.”

“Recently.”

“In the last few days. Why?”

“We’ve got to get some food and drink in you.” Cleasby tilted his head to the side. “You’re not well.”

“I’ll be fine. And you’d be a terrible card player, with a face that betrays emotions so easily. What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this. Lord Durham is gone. He took up his sword again when the Protectorate broke into Caspia. He was killed defending his estate in East Gate.”

“That can’t be . . .”

“Lord Durham has been dead for weeks.”

Madigan took a deep breath and steadied himself. Durham had been real. They’d spoken one to another, just as he and Cleasby were speaking now. Durham couldn’t be dead. Still, he’d had stranger things happen in his life. “Forgive me. It must have been the fever dreams, then. I’m fine now. Where’s Culpin?”

“On the wrong side of an army of Protectorate soldiers. You don’t seem surprised.”

“If it were easy, you wouldn’t have needed me, lad.”

There were only nine men waiting at the Barn when they arrived.

“Suicide mission or not, I was hoping more of them would have stepped up,” Madigan whispered.

“The army has picked us clean for replacements. This is all that’s left of the Sixth . . . and it appears they’ve volunteered to the last man.”

“Impressive,” Madigan said loudly enough for them all to hear. The men looked up to see their former commander standing at the gate, filthy, unkempt, and dressed in rags. “Hello, lads.”

“The lieutenant’s back!” A cheer went up that would have been loud enough to scare the livestock, if they hadn’t already been slaughtered to feed the army.

“How’s that supposed to make me feel?” Cleasby asked in mock indignation.

Madigan gave them a sharp salute. The men returned it as one. He lowered his arm. “Status?”

“The men are ready. Equipment and weapons are in top shape,” Rains reported.

“It took a bit of trading is all,” Thornbury said. “No outright robbery.”

“We’ve got rations for a single day.”

“You’re not expecting to have to march back out?” Madigan asked.

“No, sir,” Rains answered. “That’ll just slow us down.”

“If we live, we’ll improvise.” He glanced over at MacKay’s old work area. Their Stormclad was in pitiable shape. Its armor was cracked and blackened, and its shield arm was obviously useless. “How’s Headhunter?”

“Better than he looks, sir. I learned from you that if I made him too pretty the army would want to take him back.”

“It’s only got one arm.”

“I couldn’t salvage the other one, but that’s his swinging arm.”

“Neel would be pleased.” Madigan reached up and patted the big man on the shoulder. “Now, let’s go get some more heads for that necklace of his.”

They had what amounted to a lone squad of Storm Knights, but they were eager for the fight. These men had been kept out of the battle for too long. He could see the eagerness in their eyes. They were hungry.

“Fetch me some soap and water. I’ll not go to my death smelling like a junker who died in a scrap heap. Where’s my kit?” The men hurried to fetch his armor. “And get me some food I can eat while we march. I’ve forgotten the last time I had food.”

“Do you need some time to rest up first?” Cleasby asked. “You look like death.”

“And keep Culpin waiting? Everyone gather inside. Cleasby will brief you on the nature of the threat. I’ll address the platoon before we move out.”

Madigan still felt like a shadow of himself. His body was weak, but he tried not to let it show. He couldn’t let these men see weakness in their leader, especially not right now. He washed himself in the freezing water of the old cow trough. The water seemed to give clarity to his thoughts. Lord Durham had been real; Madigan knew that as well as he knew anything. And if his old mentor had been real, he’d been sent back with a message.

His reflection stared back at him, a shadow of what could have been, and Madigan remembered another moment like this, washing the blood from his face in a fountain on the grounds of the palace during a brief lull in the fighting during the Lion’s Coup. The reflection that had stared back at him all those years ago had been so much younger, idealistic even, but ultimately a fool.

King Vinter was possibly the mightiest swordsman who had ever lived, and none of Leto’s men had been able to touch him. He’d approached, still regal despite being drenched in blood, and placed one gauntlet on Madigan’s shoulder. My brother is a fool if he thinks he can defeat me. And Sir Madigan had believed his king with all his heart.

What would you have me do?

Because that was what a knight was supposed to say when his lord came to him. And with that he’d been sent on a mission to eliminate Leto’s greatest supporter in the House of Lords. It had been nothing but a final act of spite from a vengeful king, and Madigan had been his weapon.

“What would you have me do?” Madigan whispered to his battered, scarred reflection.

This time there was no answer.

Dressed in the insulated underlayers of his armor, which would protect his skin from the lethal electricity of their galvanic weapons, he joined the men inside the Barn a few minutes later, hopefully looking at least a bit like a proper officer of Cygnar.

Cleasby was using a map of Caspia. “So that’s what it comes down to. The Great Public Works can pump Culpin’s explosive into any neighborhood in Caspia. We saw what happened to First Platoon. Now imagine if the entire western half of the city were to ignite at the same time in such a manner. Those tunnels run beneath the palace, the Sancteum, the great library, the hospitals, the armory—everything.” Cleasby thumped each location on the map as he named it. “Thousands, maybe tens of thousands would die instantaneously. There would be no way to stop that many alchemical fires from spreading. Our remaining defenses would crumble, but by that point it wouldn’t matter, because Caspia, the oldest surviving human city in the world, will have been destroyed. The City of Walls survived the Orgoth, but walls can’t hold back this threat. The only thing left would be the walls because everything inside them would be ash. Any questions?”

The Barn was dead silent.

“That’ll do.” Madigan was glad to see someone had kept up the shrine he’d allowed Wilkins to build. “Come over here, all of you,” he said as he went to the shrine to Ascendant Markus.

There were several surprised glances exchanged as Madigan knelt before the little shrine. He picked up one of the golden coins bearing the symbol of Morrow and pressed it to his brow. The men quickly followed suit, and there was a great clamor as armored knees hit the floor. Even Rains knelt.

Madigan stared at the altar and tried to find the words. It’s been a very long time . . .

“We ask you, ascendant of soldiers, who stood at Midfast against invaders beyond number, to witness our plight. Please intervene and carry this message to the Prophet on our behalf. Morrow hear our prayers.”

“Morrow hear our prayers,” said the men with one voice.

“We go now into battle on behalf of king and country. We fight for our families and our land. We fight for our freedom. We willingly place our lives in your hands. Morrow, guide us so that we may strike true. Give strength to our limbs and clarity to our minds.”

Madigan paused. That was as much as he could remember from the prayers of his youth, so he decided to speak from his heart. “We know the deck is not stacked in our favor, but the way I see it, you wouldn’t have it any other way. You put us here, a bunch of soldiers with bad names and worse luck, and the army expected us to fail, but we showed them, didn’t we? You’ve favored us and allowed these men to regain their honor and their good names. Now Cygnar needs us. So we’re calling on you one last time to help us kill the wretched fools who would menace your sacred city. Morrow hear our prayers.”

“Morrow hear our prayers!”

“With your blessing, a dozen men and a one-armed warjack will end Culpin’s threat once and for all. We ask for victory.” Madigan touched the coin to his lips then placed it back on the altar. “Amen.”

Rains thumped his storm glaive into the old Precursor shield. “I think Wilkins would approve.”

“Then it’ll do.” Madigan stood up. “My armor.” Several men rushed to help him into his suit.

“You got one thing wrong,” Cleasby said as he held up the breastplate and Pangborn cinched it tightly to the back plate. It shifted uncomfortably. Madigan had lost some weight. “There are only eleven of us.”

Madigan inclined his head toward the doorway. Savio Acosta was standing there, watching indifferently, already dressed in his storm armor. “I count twelve.”

“What’re you doing here?” Cleasby asked, surprised to see the Ordsman.

“The situation has changed.” Acosta’s shoulders lifted and fell in a heavily armored shrug. “I was leaving the city when a certain lady told me Madigan had found himself another worthy fight.”

“I expected you’d not want to miss this one,” Madigan said as he checked his bracers. “All right, lads. Let’s end these Protectorate scum for Cygnar!”

“For Cygnar!”

They’d marched quickly through the streets of Caspia, pushing through crowds of refugees walking beside overladen wagons and their straining beasts of burden. Madigan had steered them toward the dock district, knowing there would be less foot traffic here. Those who fled in this area had less to begin with, and those who had nowhere else to go would simply hunker down and hope for the best.

They reached the river at sundown. As a child he’d often watched the colors of the sunset on the Black River, blue to orange to shimmering gold and then to black. Now it was all stained with burning oil, flooded into the harbor by the Menites in an attempt to keep out Cygnaran resupply vessels.

Caspia was crisscrossed with lesser walls, but even those lesser walls would have been considered mighty fortifications in most other cities. Luckily the platoon was allowed through the dock gate, even without written orders. It wasn’t under siege yet, but by this point the watch was happy to see any soldiers heading toward the fighting.

They’d run through the narrow streets along the river, their path lit by Skyhammers exploding overhead. Acosta ranged ahead of the rest, keeping an eye out for Protectorate patrols. Headhunter was burning hot, but Rains had made each man carry a sack of coal, and they kept their warjack’s boiler stoked.

Soldiers watched them pass, curious but too exhausted to bother to question the small band of Storm Knights. Trenchers had dug holes in the road and set up their guns in the wreckage of bombed buildings. They received many hopeful glances, wondering if they were relief or reinforcements, but then they pushed past, leaving the brave soldiers to their fate.

Acosta came back at a dead run. Madigan held up his hand and signaled for the Malcontents to halt. The Ordsman slid to a stop. “We’re close. The Protectorate advance has reached the next block. They’re coming this way quickly.”

“How many?”

“Hundreds of them. Zealots and Flameguard with ’jack support. They’ll be here in a few minutes.”

“Charge blades,” Cleasby ordered.

“Belay that,” Madigan said. He checked the skyline. They were still half a mile from the Great Dome. “We’re too few to fight our way through that line.” He pointed at a large structure. “Into the shipwright’s. We hide and wait for them to pass, then sneak through.”

“We’re all wearing plate armor, and we have a heavy warjack,” Cleasby pointed out.

“Then we’ll need to try to be extra quiet then, won’t we? Go.”

The shipwright’s building had been looted of everything of value ahead of the approaching army. Little remained except a small fishing vessel supported on wooden blocks in a small dry dock. “Everyone into the pit who’ll fit. Hurry.” The men began clambering down the sides. There was splashing as they discovered there was a few feet of fetid water in the bottom.

“What about Headhunter?” Pangborn was worried for his ’jack. “He won’t fit, and if he does I don’t know if we can lift him out of there.”

“Improvise.” Madigan pointed at a nearby scaffold that had been used for painting. Pangborn made a clicking noise with his tongue, and Headhunter crouched, trying to fit beneath the planks. “Shut it down.”

“His boiler’s shot. I might not be able to start him back up.“

Acosta was looking out the window. “They’re almost on us.”

“Shut it down or the smoke will give us away. Hurry!” Madigan ordered. Pangborn gave a command, then opened the boiler plate and began turning a valve. Madigan dragged a tarp over and threw it across the scaffolding. The warjack’s galvanic blade stuck out, but Rains draped rope over it. Thornbury ran up and tossed some chain over the ’jack as well. It made a terrible racket as it hit the steel.

“Quiet, fool!” Acosta snapped.

Most of the men were hidden in the shadows beneath the boat, where they’d be helpless in a fight. A few of them were still above ground, and they quickly tried to find hiding places around the shipwright’s materials. Madigan crouched next to Acosta, deep in the shadows behind some suspended fishing nets. The smell reminded him of his youth. He could see a bit through the dusty, leaded windows. Dozens of torches appeared around the bend in the road, bouncing quickly.

“They’re moving fast,” Madigan whispered. “Good. They’ll pass right by.”

“Zealots,” Acosta responded. Then more torches appeared, and more, and more after that, until the whole block seemed to be aglow.

There weren’t hundreds of Protectorate soldiers. There were thousands.

The army was marching past the shipwright’s with so many stamping boots that the building shook. “They’re heading for those trenchers we saw dug in.” Acosta didn’t look away from the glass, as any movement might be spotted. “They’re outnumbered ten to one. The trenchers will be slaughtered.”

“I know . . .” Madigan answered. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

“Good. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t going to try some futile noble gesture and get us all killed . . . Shhh.”

Scouts.

The doors opened with a creak. Shadows flickered through the hanging nets as torches were waved about.

“Empty,” Acosta said.

They didn’t have time to stop and gawk. Excellent. The Malcontents would hold here until the force passed, and then they’d make one final push—

“Wait. What’s that?” asked a voice with a rough Idrian accent. “Is that a warjack?”

Damn. Madigan shifted slightly to better reach his sword. Acosta slowly shook his head. He dragged one finger across his throat. Madigan nodded. The Ordsman would try to do it quietly.

There was the whisp of soft-soled leather boots across the floor as the Idrian approached the deactivated Headhunter. He passed within feet of the suspended fishing boat. Madigan could only imagine the helplessness the soldiers hiding beneath it had to be feeling.

Clank. Chains hit the floor. There was a loud click as a rifle was readied. The tarp was pulled aside. “It’s a ’jack all right . . .” He said something in their language.

The Stormclad’s hull would still be hot to the touch . . .

Acosta moved slowly, his grimace visible through his open visor. It was impossible to move quietly in storm armor. Even if he managed to silence the Idrians quickly, the whole Protectorate would swarm like a kicked hive when the scouts didn’t return.

“Son of dogs, it’s beaten to pieces.” There was a loud noise as the scout threw something at Headhunter. “I don’t know much about ’jacks, but what a pile of dung.”

He laughed, then said something else in Idrian that sounded profane. “Such charcoal wouldn’t be fit to pull a wagon in Voyle’s army. Let’s go.”

The two scouts rushed back outside. Madigan listened carefully, trying to ascertain if it was a trick. There were still hundreds of soldiers marching by, so he really hoped it wasn’t. The doors swung closed. Troops kept on marching by, followed by the rumble of several warjacks, then more support troops, and then wagons and pack animals.

The rapid gunfire of a trencher’s chain gun filled the night air, followed by the crack of rifles. The battle seemed to go on forever, taunting him. He knew it had to be just as hard for the men to listen as their fellows were overrun. The gunfire tapered off and was finally silenced. The zealots began a mighty chant of supplication and thanks to Menoth. Madigan was sick to his stomach. And still, the enemy marched by.

An hour later, he could move again. The streets seemed quiet. The battle had moved on.

“Everybody out. Time to go.”

The Storm Knights came out from their hiding places, covered in dust. Some could barely move because their limbs had fallen asleep from being trapped in awkward positions. The men who’d been beneath the boat were shivering, their lower bodies having been submersed in water the entire time.

“That was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, lying still while some Menite worms insulted my warjack!” Pangborn went to the partially exposed Stormclad and yanked the tarp the rest of the way off. “The bad men didn’t hurt your feelings, did they, Headhunter?” He opened the boiler door and cranked the valve. “I wanted to snap their twig necks. Rains, you speak Idrian. What’d they say?”

“You really don’t want to know.”

“I’m gonna murder a bunch of god-blinded fanatics for that,” Pangborn muttered as he lit Headhunter’s boiler. “Damn it! Flange clamp broke again. Sorry, sir. It’s is going to take some time to get steam.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know,” Pangborn said. “I’ve had to work with bodged-together parts here.”

Madigan looked to the east, toward Culpin’s Great Dome. They’d wasted too much time as it was. He didn’t like abandoning their heavy hitter, but the huge Stormclad could get them spotted anyway. “Leave it.”

“If they’ve got a heavy of their own we’ll need Headhunter to buy us time.” The big man rushed to a nearby workbench and began sorting through the tools. He found a pry bar. “You go without me. I’ll catch up. I’ll get him working, I swear.”

It was a damn hard call. “Time’s of the essence. The minute Headhunter’s ready, come after us. Don’t worry about being quiet, because by then they’ll all be trying to kill us.”

Pangborn went to work. “I need another pair of hands.”

Rains stepped forward. “I’ve helped before.”

That leaves ten to assault the Great Dome. Madigan swore under his breath. “Stick with him, Sergeant. The rest of you, let’s move.”

Thornbury thumped Rains on the shoulder. “Don’t leave us hanging.”

Moving quickly, the Storm Knights ran through the narrow streets. The Ordsman went back on point without being told, running far ahead, until he could barely be seen in the shadows. Several times Acosta had to raise a fist, and the platoon came to a metal-rattling halt. Each time, he waited for the danger to pass, and then Acosta would wave for them to move up as he took off running again. They cut through tenements, homes, and places of business, avoiding Protectorate, until the Great Public Works was before them.

The structure was a marvel of engineering. It looked almost like a dome lifted from a great cathedral, but far larger. The interior could fit a parade ground, only Cleasby had told him it was filled with thousands of great alchemical vats and tanks, plus miles and miles of pipe. It was a skeleton of curved iron beams covered in a skin of brass, tin, and glass, and sadly, it was swarming with Protectorate soldiers.

Dozens of soldiers milled around the entrance of the Great Dome. Teams of draft horses were pulling wagons filled with wooden barrels. As each wagon came to a halt, the soldiers rushed up to unload the barrels and carry them inside. It appeared that some Cygnaran citizens had been captured and pressed into use as laborers as well. Madigan noted that the Flameguard who were serving as overseers were careful to keep their torches and their lanterns far away from the wooden barrels.

Menoth’s Fury . . . Well done, Cleasby.

Acosta crouched down next to Madigan in a garbage-strewn alley. The men were hidden behind them. “Most of the enemy appear to be militia irregulars, lightly armed.”

Cygnar’s invasion of Sul had seemingly caused every able-bodied Menite in the Iron Kingdoms to rush to the fight. “Culpin’s inside. That’s where the capable bodyguards will be,” Madigan said.

“And so that’s where I will find a properly challenging battle. I didn’t come back just to slaughter Menite farm boys armed with pointy sticks.”

“By the way, thank you for coming back,” Madigan whispered in Ordic. “Blame it on your dark lady’s whispers if you must, Savio, but I think when it comes to your few friends, you’re actually a very loyal man.”

His smile was barely visible in the dark. “Please, Madigan . . . You’ll ruin my reputation.”

Thornbury had moved up alongside them as quietly as possible. “There’s another door to the north. It’s not as guarded, and it appears to be already broken open.”

“Lead the way, Corporal.” Sure enough, this entrance was far more vulnerable, being guarded by a squad of listless militia. Even then, there was no way to approach without being seen. “Charge blades,” Madigan hissed.

The order was repeated down the line.

“What’s that?”

It was difficult to hear at first, a barely audible hum, but the sound slowly grew in intensity.

The militiamen turned their heads nervously, side to side, scanning the darkness. They all saw it at the same time: a pale blue glow emanating from a nearby alley, and like the hum, the light slowly gained intensity.

By the time the alarm was raised, the pale glow had turned into a crackling blue nimbus.

Broad, hulking figures were walking toward them. Monsters cloaked in energy; faceless heretics, holding lightning bolts in their hands.

“Menoth save us!”

He didn’t.

“About got it!” Pangborn said.

There was a blue flash and a boom to the east. “Not a moment too soon,” Rains exclaimed.

He pulled his hands out of Headhunter’s side and wiped them on a rag, then closed and latched the plate and started getting his gauntlets back on. “It’ll take a minute to get the steam pressure up before he can get moving.”

He glimpsed movement outside the shipwright’s building. “Hold still,” Rains ordered. More enemies. The boiler was producing a bit of light already, but hopefully they were distracted by the storm glaives being discharged at the Great Dome.

A lone figure walked along the main road heading east, away from the front. It was hard to see in the dark, but his sanguine robes were tattered, and he stumbled a bit, his footing unsure. He stopped at a basin meant for pack animals and the poor, knelt beside it, and dipped his hands into the water.

His wrists were chained.

He was wearing a mask.

Rains glanced back and forth through the windows, but the street was otherwise empty. The odds are against it. But he had to try. “Stay here.”

“What’re you doing?”

“Something I have to do. Stay here, no matter what happens.” He looked at the big fighter. Giving him an order would have been pointless. “Please.”

Pangborn nodded.

Rains took up his storm glaive and walked slowly to the front door. He opened it a crack.

The vassal of Menoth was washing his hands, scrubbing furiously, making his chains rattle. It was as if he couldn’t get himself clean.

His armor creaked as Rains stepped outside.

The vassal froze. He turned slowly and saw Rains’ shape standing in the shadows of the shipwright’s door. “Hail Exemplar.” In the darkness he must have mistaken him for one of the heavily armored Protectorate knights. When Rains didn’t respond, the vassal grew concerned. “I was sent to support a warjack, but it was destroyed, and I was separated from my escort, Allegiant Benedict.”

That voice . . . Could it be? It had been so very long.

“I am trying to find my way back. I was not trying to flee.” The vassal said, bowing his head. “I am a loyal servant of Menoth.”

“No.” Rains stepped out of the shadows. “You are a slave of Menoth.”

The vassal looked up, surprised, then lifted his hands defensively when he saw the Storm Knight.

“Wait!” Rains commanded. “I’m not here to kill you.” But he didn’t lower his sword, knowing every vassal was capable of using deadly arcane energies. The Menite said nothing for a long time. His eyes could be seen, wide and unblinking white, through the holes. “Remove your mask,” Rains said.

“That is forbidden.” There was so much familiar about the voice, but at the same time, it was older, distant, and broken. “I am not allowed—”

“Do it!” Rains bellowed, heedless of the danger. He stepped forward and jabbed the point of his storm glaive against the vassal’s chest. “Take off that damned mask!”

He reached up with one shaking hand and lifted the iron plate away from his face.

Ezra.

Rains slowly knelt and placed his sword and shield on the ground. The vassal shrank back, confused. Rains said, “I’m not here to kill you. I’m here to free you.” He placed his gauntlets on each side of his helmet and lifted it off.

They stared at each other, only inches apart, like a darkened mirror.

“Enoch? But you’re dead. The priests told me you were dead.”

“No, little brother. Not dead, just gone. I had gone hunting, remember? I tried to get back to you as soon as I heard them approaching. I swear I tried, Ezra. But they were too swift, and I made it back only to see them take you. I had to flee. They knew I had hidden you from them; I couldn’t go back home. And I couldn’t stay in a nation that treated its people like criminals just for what they are.”

“I . . . I can’t . . .” Ezra’s eyes shone with tears. “They said you had left me. That they had killed you as you ran. I thought . . . I thought . . . ”

“It’s all right. Everything’s all right now.” His voice cracked from the emotion. “I vowed I’d get you back.”

There was a noise back at the shipwright’s. “Rains! Headhunter’s almost ready.”

“I can’t believe you’re alive,” the vassal whispered. “They said we’d committed blasphemy and you’d given up your chance of redemption by running.”

“Look at me.” Rains took his brother by the shoulders. “I’m going to get you out of here, away from them. They’re not going to torture you anymore. I’m going to free you from those chains.”

“No!” Ezra shoved his hands away. “You don’t understand. I accept my burden.”

“What—?!”

“You can’t take me away. I shouldn’t have hidden! We were wrong, Enoch. We were stupid children, trying to avoid our responsibilities. I’m doing Menoth’s work. My chains are emblems of my submission to his will.”

“What have they done to you?”

“They showed me the glorious truth, Enoch.”

More lightning crashed near the Great Dome. The light shifted as torches approached. Rains grabbed hold of the shackles and pulled. “There’s no time for this, Ezra. We have t—”

Snap!

A bolt of arcane energy leapt through his gauntlets, up his arms, and ripped into his chest. Rains crashed hard into the ground, his muscles contorting with unbelievable pain.

Ezra stood. “It’s true, then. My own brother is a heretic.” He shook his head sadly. “My heart is broken. You came to free me, but it is I who will free you.” Ezra extended one clenched fist and a shimmering ring of runes formed in the air around it, glowing with arcane power. Tears streamed down his face. “May your soul find the Creator in Urcaen, freed from the doubts of flesh.”

Rains reached out desperately, and one smoking gauntlet fell on the Precursor shield. Immediately the crippling pain ceased and his body was his own again. “Stop!” He dragged the shield over his chest just as Ezra opened his hand and released the terrible magic.

The bolt struck the symbol of Morrow in a blinding flash.

His ears were ringing. “Ezra!” Rains lurched to his feet and tottered toward his brother, trying to blink the purple spots from his vision. “Ezra!”

He was too late.

The killing bolt meant for Rains had been somehow reflected back by the Radiance of Morrow. Ezra was sitting on the edge of the trough, staring down at the smoking ruin of his chest. Rains went to him, his boot knocking the iron mask across the dirt. Ezra looked up. “Enoch?” he whispered. “Am I done, then?” Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he was gone.

Torchlight filled the street and he heard angry shouts. The shouts turned to cries of terror as the wall of the shipwright’s exploded and a furious Stormclad blasted lightning through the approaching Protectorate troops.

Rains lowered his brother’s body gently to the ground.

A giant hand fell on his shoulder. “We’ve got to move, Rains!”

Ezra’s dead. “Go on, Nestor. I’ll hold them.”

But Pangborn simply lifted him right off the ground and spun him around so they were eye to eye. “Remember when I said you wouldn’t be a whole man until you did what needed doing? Well, now you are, and Cygnar needs that man, right now.”

Ezra was dead, but at least his torment was over. He took one last look at his brother. “You’re right.”

“Usually am.” Pangborn whistled, and Headhunter looked up from smashing militia into paste. “Run!”

The Malcontents entered the Great Dome in a cloud of lightning and slaughter.

Militia rushed to meet them, but the barely trained rabble was no match for Storm Knight steel.

Madigan cut off a man’s arm and then kicked him over a railing to tumble to his death. That was the last for now, but more would be coming. He scanned across his men. All were still standing. Then he took in the room they’d entered. It was so vast it was hard to think of it as a room, and the huge space was a confusing mass of catwalks, stairs, pipes, platforms, giant vats, and complex machines. The tangle of metal stretched several stories up, and the area beneath their feet stretched just as far. Jets of steam obscured their vision. The roar of steam engines made it difficult to hear.

Thornbury flipped up his visor and looked around, trying to understand the complex environment. “Wow . . .”

“Orders?” Cleasby asked.

“Find Culpin and stop his attack,” Madigan said.

The men exchanged glances. Cleasby spoke first. “How do we do that?”

“Break everything. Kill everyone.” There were shouts above them as a group of Protectorate guards rushed down a flight of stairs. “Start with those idiots.” Several storm glaives discharged, and men screamed as they were blasted apart or sent flailing over an edge. “Spread out!”

Soldiers were converging on them from multiple directions. A crossbow bolt cut uselessly across his armor. Madigan spotted the attacker at the other end of a long catwalk. That Exemplar was reloading, and another was rushing up to take a shot as well. I’ll deal with you in a moment. “Cleasby!”

“Yes, sir!”

“Use that gigantic brain of yours to reason out how this place works and shut it down. If it helps, Culpin will be targeting King Leto’s palace first.”

“How do you—”

The next crossbow bolt came streaking in and Madigan struck it aside with his buckler. “I guarantee it.” He turned back to the Exemplars and triggered a blast of lightning in their direction, but it crashed uselessly through some pipes. Madigan shoved Cleasby. “I’ve got men who can fight, but only one who can figure this out. Go!”

Madigan ran down the catwalk. The first Exemplar got his crossbow reloaded, but luckily the bolt zipped by harmlessly. The other dropped his crossbow and lifted his sword, preparing to meet the Storm Knight’s charge.

They clashed, blades flashing back and forth. Madigan was not nearly the swordsman Vinter had been, but the king had enjoyed using him as a regular sparring partner. The Exemplar was no match for the man of whom King Vinter Raelthorne himself had once said, “He forces even me to work for each victory.”

Madigan feinted and the Exemplar turned to meet it, only to be surprised when the glaive wasn’t where it was supposed to be. Madigan pierced plate and shoved the sword deep into the Exemplar’s guts. He drove himself into the Exemplar, pushing both of them back, toward the crossbowman. All three of them collided violently. Madigan wrenched the glaive out in a spray of blood, and before the first man could fall, he struck again, this time clipping the crossbowman on the edge of his helmet. Disoriented and severely injured, the crossbowman turned, and for the briefest instant Madigan had a clean shot. He lunged, triggering the power of the storm as he struck, and cleaved cleanly through the Exemplar’s chest.

“Victory!” Madigan shouted. The men who could hear him all repeated the battle cry. “Victory!” From the noise, the Malcontents were following his instructions rather well.

If killing people and breaking things was something Storm Knights excelled at, right now they were in their element, totally surrounded by fanatics. Cleasby blocked a flame spear, ran his glaive up the metal shaft, and sliced off several of the Menite’s fingers. The spear dropped, and Cleasby slashed through his opponent’s shoulder with a powerful overhand blow, blasting chunks of smoking flesh in every direction.

Private Allsop crashed into a nearby pipe, blood spilling down his breastplate, a crossbow bolt protruding from the top of his armor. “Pull him behind cover and tend to him,” Cleasby shouted at Private Langston. Then Cleasby ducked a wild swing from a mace and shattered the militiaman’s knees. He hit the ground and Cleasby stomped on his head.

“Don’t you have something more important to be doing?” Acosta shouted.

“Yes.” He’d spotted a sign giving directions to something called the central pump control. That seemed like a reasonable place to start, but then there’d been all these Menites in the way . . . “I need to go that way and down a floor.”

The Ordsman reached down and picked up Private Allsop’s dropped storm glaive, so he had one in each hand. The swords were too long for such use, but Acosta spun them both through the air so fast they made a whistling noise. Testing complete, he shrugged. “This’ll do.” He got ahead of Cleasby. “Stay behind me. You, aristocrat.” He bumped into Thornbury. “Come, my friend!”

Thornbury was firing his glaive at the crossbowman who had shot Allsop. “What?”

“Try to keep up. Kill anyone who gets past me. Protect Cleasby at all costs. He is more important than you are.”

“What?!”

Acosta took off at a run, crashing through several militiamen, swords swinging back and forth, searing and cutting, throwing blood and sparks. “Follow me.”

“Well, you heard the Thamarite madman,” Thorny said.

A Flameguard blocked the catwalk. Acosta’s movements were almost too fast to follow, and then the headless Menite corpse was flipping over the railing. Acosta kicked the severed head into the feet of the next soldier, tripping him. Glowing blue from the light of two storm chambers, Acosta leapt over the falling man, launching himself at the next in line while Thorny stabbed the fallen Flameguard to death. By the time Thorny was finished, Acosta had sliced the last Flameguard’s hand off and was fighting an Exemplar, swords flying back and forth in a blur of steel. Cleasby fired, knowing Acosta’s body was insulated. The shock disrupted the other swordsman long enough for Acosta to hamstring him, come up under his torso, lift, and hurl the Exemplar over the railing.

It was a very long way down.

“Take those stairs!” Cleasby shouted.

But Acosta didn’t take the time to use the stairs. Instead when he saw the Menites directly below, he vaulted over the railing, and fell right into their midst. He hit the ground with blades whirling about in a blur. Protectorate died left and right as the Ordsman twisted back and forth, constantly slashing and stabbing, in a continuous dance of limb-severing death.

Thornbury and Cleasby ran down the stairs and crashed into the tangled, bloody mass melee. A mace struck Thornbury in the shoulder, but he turned, slammed his visor into the Menite’s face, knocking him back, then impaled the man on his glaive. Cleasby hacked into a zealot’s ribs while reading the directional signs. “Right. Turn right!” He tried to yank the sword out, but the dying Menite was holding on, so he pulled the trigger and blasted the body clean off the sword with a burst of blue energy. For the briefest instant, Cleasby thought bones might have been visible through the man’s skin.

“Right.” Acosta rounded the corner and disappeared. Lightning flashed. Men screamed. A Flameguard helmet rolled by, and from what he glimpsed, Cleasby thought there might still be a head inside it.

“When this is over, I’m telling my father the Mercarian League needs to hire that lunatic,” Thornbury gasped. “Whatever it costs.”

“I don’t know if you can afford him.” Cleasby spied the yellow sign for the central pump control room. “There!”

Acosta kicked the door in.

This was the heart of the Great Dome. The circular room was a forest of pipes that were bigger around than a man, with a great brass valve on each. Waiting for them in the middle of the forest was a lone warrior.

“Bastion,” Thornbury warned.

The huge warrior walked toward them, easily several inches taller than Pangborn. He was adorned in the helm and heavy armor of the Bastion order, except while their plates were covered in Menoth’s scripture, this armor was covered in dents, scratches, and decades of battle damage. He extended his arms wide, and in each hand was a curved Idrian sword. “I am Madra Zevrhan, Exemplar of Menoth.” The swords suddenly burst into magical yellow flames. “I am an instrument of the Lawbringer’s righteous judgment.”

“Great,” Thornbury said. “I ever tell you how much I hate bastions?”

“That is no mere bastion . . .” Acosta came to a stop. “That is a proper test.”

“You will die now, interlopers, and go to Menoth’s judgment with my name upon your lips.” The helm turned quizzically, almost as if he were confused. “But there is a foul taint of corruption upon one of you.”

Cleasby and Thornbury automatically stepped away from Acosta.

“Unexpected. My orders can wait,” the bastion continued. “Such darkness must be expunged from this world.”

“I am Savio Montero Acosta.” The Ordsman spun the two galvanic blades and took up an unfamiliar fighting stance. “I accept this challenge.”

“There is no challenge for one whose soul has been purified by Menoth.”

“Then maybe I will take your soul and see for myself . . .” Acosta answered.

The Protectorate warrior snarled and started toward them. Cleasby raised his sword, ready to fight.

“No!” Acosta said. “He is mine. You two do what must be done. I believe my Lady has a lesson she wishes me to learn from this Madra Zevrhan . . .”

More Menites were coming from above. Madigan hurried up the metal stairs. His armor felt too heavy. His arms ached and his chest burned. The fever had left him weak. He climbed onto the next landing just in time to dodge a clumsy spear thrust. He simply bashed the militiaman in the side of the head with his buckler and let him fall down the stairs. Something black flashed by his visor, falling past him. Grenade! Madigan turned aside as the fire bomb detonated on the stairs with a roar. The unlucky man he’d pushed down began screaming as his robes caught fire.

Madigan pointed his storm glaive at the zealot who’d thrown the bomb. “You’re next.”

A shout came from above. “No fire, idiots! You hear that? You hit a charger vat and we’ll all be blown to Urcaen!” Madigan looked up. An old man, dressed in an odd suit of light armor, was standing at a railing at the very pinnacle of the facility, shaking his fist over the edge. “No fire bombs, I say!”

Madigan raised his visor and bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Groller Culpin!”

The alchemist leaned over the edge. “Who knows that name?” He glared at the Storm Knight. “Wait . . . Do my eyes deceive me, or is that Sir Hugh Madigan? Can it be?”

“It’s been a long time, Culpin.”

“Last time I saw you was when we roasted the Hartcliff brats!” He cackled. Madigan had always hated that laugh. “Good times. What’re you doing here? Did King Vinter send you to help me?”

What? Was the man’s mind that trapped in the past? His thoughts were interrupted when the zealot pulled a long knife from his robes and rushed forward. “You need to stop this,” Madigan called as he sidestepped the clumsy slash and cleaved the zealot nearly in half. “End it, Culpin!”

“Ha! Leto’s even got you licking his boots now? I thought Vinter had sent you to talk me down, even after I’d clearly explained how I’m doing him a favor.”

He was two floors above, and every second Madigan had him talking was one he wasn’t using to set fire to Caspia. “What do you mean, Culpin?” More zealots were heading his way, readying their bombs.

“No fire, you Menite morons! I swear I should have taken those away,” Culpin shouted. Bombs were lowered in favor of short swords. “That’s better!”

“And here I’d thought you’d converted to the Menite faith,” Madigan said.

“I’m a man of science and reason, not mindless memorized chants masquerading as devotion. My asylum, the chance to continue my work, and my current bodyguard were provided to me by a Protectorate warcaster with some ambition, who happens to understand a good business arrangement. Now good-bye, Sir Madigan. I’ve got work to do.” Culpin disappeared back over the edge.

“Culpin!” There was no answer. He closed his visor. “Damn.” The zealots rushed forward in an angry mob, almost tripping over each other to get at him first. Madigan went in swinging. Lightning tore through the mob and men screamed in pain. A neck was opened in a geyser of arterial spray. A leg came off at the knee. A head was split in two. He was struck, and struck again, but his armor held. A Protectorate sword broke, and the man behind it died. A dagger thrust caught him, but he slammed his buckler’s edge into the zealot’s throat, and then hurled him over the side of the catwalk.

Madigan was standing in a red circle of dying men, gasping for breath, limbs quivering. He looked down to see a wound in his side. He hadn’t felt it when he’d taken it, but he certainly could feel it now. There was no time to tend to it. “Malcontents!” He was unsure who could hear him. “Culpin is at the top!”

One of the round, black, Protectorate fire bombs was lying in the blood, so he took it. Culpin was afraid of fire inside this place, so if all else failed, Madigan would give him fire to spare.

The stairs were agony. The wound in his side was deep, and he feared it had pierced his stomach. That was a terrible, lingering way to perish, one he’d seen take dozens of good soldiers before their time, but there was no use dwelling on it when there was so much work still to be done.

Upon reaching the next floor, Madigan felt a sharp pain in his back. He hadn’t heard the twang of the bolt’s release. Madigan turned and fired at the Exemplar crossbowman, but he had already retreated behind cover to reload. Madigan touched the end of the bolt and pain radiated down the shaft and through his body. It had been a lucky shot, right through the arm socket and deep into the muscle. Blood was rolling freely down his back.

An Exemplar came down the stairs, two at a time, sword raised. It was difficult to fight a man in an elevated position, especially when you were weak and wounded, but Madigan wasn’t in a sporting mood. He touched his galvanic blade to the steel steps and discharged. The Exemplar jerked as electricity popped through his feet. It wasn’t enough to stop him, but Madigan needed only the briefest distraction to swing the glaive upward, through the crotch joint, deep into Exemplar’s pelvis. Madigan twisted it out and the Exemplar fell. The former knight moved out of the way and let the Exemplar roll past.

The top platform was filled with machines and giant panels, each with a map of one of Caspia’s neighborhoods lacquered onto it. Culpin was before one of them, his back turned, quickly pulling levers. There were only fifty feet between them, well within range of the storm glaive’s electrical discharge. The weapon was already humming, charged. Madigan lifted the glaive and fired.

BOOM.

Electricity danced around the controls and across the metal grate of the floor, but Culpin turned and grinned, thumping his odd armor. It was a mismatched suit of leather and brass plates. “Do you think I’m a fool, knight? I’m as insulated as you are.”

“I don’t mind doing this the old-fashioned way,” Madigan said as he started forward.

“Well, I do!” Culpin made a clicking noise. Coal smoke shot up from behind one of the giant panels as an idling boiler was suddenly stoked hot. Steel feet struck the floor and the whole platform shook as the heavy warjack walked out from behind cover. “Surprised? I built this place with a freight elevator capable of holding laborjacks, and each floor is rated for an additional ten tons of stress. You know I never do anything halfway.”

Giant club in its right hand, cannon instead of a left arm . . . It was a Protectorate Reckoner, a ghastly, tough monster of a warjack.

Culpin said, “Now, I’d just have it shoot you and be done with it, but I’m afraid that may be a touch too much gun to be using here in my control room, so I’m going to have to ask you to take this downstairs . . .”

The Reckoner lifted its club and started forward. That thing was designed to crack Ironclads. Madigan wouldn’t have a chance.

But maybe Caspia would.

“I’ve got something for you,” Madigan said as he pulled the cord and tossed the fire bomb into the center of the control room.

“No!” Culpin shouted, diving aside just before the bomb detonated, showering the maps with burning Menoth’s Fury.

The club came crashing down. Madigan barely got out of the way, but it didn’t matter. The club smashed through the grate, and the whole world opened up around him as his footing disappeared. Madigan fell, but the grate was already rising up to meet him at an odd angle. He hit and began to slide over the edge. The interior of the Great Dome seemed to reach forever into the bowels of the world below.

“Hold!” Culpin shouted at the warjack. It immediately stopped, club ready to end Madigan’s life.

The Storm Knight hung on for dear life as Culpin came out from behind the control panel, shielding his face from the heat. The alchemist glared at Madigan. “You simpleton. You just condemned your own city. I was using them! I was intending to destroy every quarter filled with Protectorate next! I intended to rid this kingdom of its internal sickness and its external foe all in one blow. All you’ve accomplished was saving the lives of the very fanatics you’ve been fighting . . . But you’re too late to get what you came for.” Culpin reached for a red lever. “Witness the end of Leto the usurper king!”

“No!” Madigan shouted.

Culpin laughed. “Don’t worry. I can rebuild it.” He pulled the lever.

Cleasby was reading the instructions pinned to the corkboard on the wall as fast as he could, but it was hard to pay attention to engineering diagrams when a giant with two flaming swords was crashing about the room battling an Ordic duelist.

“Thornbury, grab that valve. Turn it when I tell you.” He looked over and found that Thornbury was staring at the fight. It was hard to blame him. The two master swordsmen weaved back and forth through the forest of pipes. “Thorny!”

Thornbury jumped. “Sorry.” He rushed back over. “What’s happening?”

The needles on the pressure gauges were all pegged red. “The holding tanks here are full of the alchemical mixture. It’s bubbling up, building pressure. If the gates are lowered the gas will be forced through Caspia’s pipes in a matter of minutes, and when they’re full, there must be some form of ignition—” A bell sounded from the machine. “That’s bad.”

“Bad? How bad?”

That bell had been a warning: the gate had been opened. The alchemical mixture was being forced into the palace district. “Shut up and turn that valve! Clockwise!” Thorny did. Cleasby grabbed another one and spun it hard. Then he reached down, took hold of a big brass lever, and cranked it back. That should do it! “Do the next one as well. Do as many as you can, as fast as you can!”

Thorny rushed to the next. “What’re we doing?”

“We’re dumping the main tanks.” Cleasby ran back and looked at the pressure gauges. The needles were dropping. “If there’s no pressure from the alchemical mix, it won’t be forced through the pipes in sufficient quantity to cause as much—”

“I get it! I get it! Where are we dumping it?”

“Uh, well . . .” Cleasby hadn’t thought that part through. He looked back at the instructions. He’d been focused on saving the palace and its surrounding quarter. More than likely it was going to pour back into the tanks below the Great Dome itself and then overflow into the Black River, which meant that as soon as Culpin set off his magical ignition system, this whole section of the dock district would probably be obliterated, but there was no use dwelling on that. “Just keep turning valves!”

Madigan pulled himself up the grate. He had to let go of his storm glaive so he could use both hands to get up the slick surface. The sword slid off the edge and disappeared. The Reckoner raised its club, and he had nowhere to go.

“I told you to hold.”

The Reckoner heeded its marshal, but it watched the Storm Knight through its glowing vision slit, waiting for the order to smash.

“You ruined it, Madigan. I don’t think you realized what a mess you’ve made of things.” Culpin walked up behind the Warjack, but he was smart enough to not get any closer than that. “I’ll accomplish what I told the Protectorate I’d do when I offered them my services to begin with. Their honorable hierarch turned me down, but luckily there were others with power in Sul far more pliable. As we speak, my marvelous invention is collecting beneath the most vital parts of Caspia. The palace will be destroyed, taking the usurper king with it. So, too, the Sancteum; the heart of the Church of Morrow, gone. The War Council? Gone. Any members of the Royal Assembly still in the vicinity? Dead. All those who conspired to cast down King Vinter, and all who’d bowed their heads to Leto afterward, all of them burned to ash and scattered on the winds, just like traitors deserve.”

“You’ll kill thousands.”

“I’d kill millions if I thought it would make a difference! This is for the greater good of Cygnar, after all. I’m looking at the broad view. Of course, a decade ago when I presented this plan to the Protectorate, hoping for a new home and funds to continue my research, the plan was to do this when they invaded Caspia, not when you invaded Sul, but things worked out. This way I got a good field test beforehand. That explosion in central Sul? That was done with a mere five hundred gallons of my mixture. Whereas I just released thirty thousand gallons of it into Caspia.” Culpin clapped his hands. “Oh joy, I can’t wait to see how it lights up the sky. It’ll be marvelous.”

Madigan pulled against the grate, struggling upward. His wounds left him unsteady. His legs were hanging off in space. The Reckoner watched him, waiting for the order to club the Storm Knight flat.

“I’d love to see the look on Leto’s face for the brief instant before the pressure strips the flesh from his bones. If the Protectorate were to start another war, Leto and his lackeys would die in a horrendous fire, but the invading Protectorate troops would all be killed when the pipes beneath their lines detonated as well. By their own mistake, most would reckon. Then King Vinter could return, triumphant, and his people would cheer as he rallied them around his banner, entered Sul, and destroyed the Menites forever.”

“Caspia would be destroyed.”

“It’s old. New is better!” Culpin spread his hands wide. “Imagine the modern city I could build in its place . . . But now I’m only going to blow up part of Caspia, so neither of us gets our way. Except for the Protectorate. I’m sure those backward, superstitious dolts will have a splendid time rooting like pigs through the ruin of civilization. Perhaps in another hundred years they’ll reinvent the sundial, or maybe the wheel.”

Though he couldn’t see any of them, Madigan could still hear his men fighting in the maze of pipes below, so maybe all wasn’t lost. “Vinter’s done. He’ll never return.”

“We shall see.” Culpin pointed to Madigan and spoke to the ’jack. “If this man gets any closer, hit him with your club.” He then walked away to get a better view through one of the windows. “My alchemical solution is rather stable. It has to be at the correct density to detonate at its full potential. Any minute now the steadily increasing pressure of my mixture will reach its ignition point.” Culpin pulled out a pocket watch and glanced at it. “Hmmm . . . This is taking a bit longer than expected. I’d check my instruments, if you hadn’t just set them afire.”

CRASH!

The noise had come from the main floor. Madigan twisted around in time to see a huge chunk of the wall fall inward, followed by one ugly warjack. Headhunter had plowed right through the militia guarding the building, squishing them underfoot. Its huge blade swept through the building, tearing soldiers in half. Pangborn and Rains were right behind, shouting and firing their weapons.

“Up here!” Madigan shouted. “Shoot this ’jack!”

Rains heard him, grabbed Pangborn, and pointed. The ’jack marshal shouted a command at Headhunter. It swiveled toward the target.

It was as if time slowed down when the two warjacks saw each other. He knew it was impossible for a ’jack to actually have an expression, but Madigan could have sworn Headhunter got excited. It ran across the Great Dome, plowing through soldiers, pipes, and tanks, leaving a trail of blood and steam in its wake. Once it was within range, Pangborn shouted another command, and Headhunter’s massive galvanic blade rose, buzzing with charge. It fired, electricity forming an instant bond between the two warjacks, which then turned into a blast of sound that swept over them all.

He could taste the electricity.

The Reckoner stumbled back, crashing through the smoldering maps. Madigan held on as tight as he could as the grate shook under the impact, threatening to shake him loose to fall to his death.

“Destroy that ’jack!” Culpin shouted. “Destroy it!”

The Reckoner didn’t go to the freight elevator. Rather it went to the edge, missing Madigan by inches, and stepped off. It fell to the next landing with a terrible impact. Beams bent, and the interior pyramid of the Great Dome shuddered. It went off another floor and landed on the main.

Without hesitation, the two warjacks launched themselves across the space, crashing through anything helpless enough to get in their way. Culpin has said he’d rated each floor for an extra ten tons of stress, except with the two of them, there was closer to thirteen tons of angry warjack going at it. The interior structure of the Great Dome swayed as if it were experiencing an earthquake.

Madigan climbed. The wounds in his side and back had drained him of strength, but he found more and pushed on.

Headhunter’s blade crashed into the Reckoner’s chassis in a shower of sparks. The club came around and tore their Stormclad’s damaged shield arm clean off. Pangborn had to dive for cover as the huge arm flew past. Headhunter simply lowered its shoulder and rammed its body into the Reckoner. The Protectorate ’jack hit a water tank, which burst under the onslaught, and a wave swept through the running Menite soldiers, sweeping them from their feet.

Madigan stood up and shouted at his men below. “Sergeant! Retreat! Get the Malcontents out of here!” Rains signaled that he’d heard and began repeating the order. Madigan turned back to the thing that had brought him here.

Culpin was checking his pocket watch again, annoyed. “It should have detonated by now. Something has thrown off my calculations.” The arcane mechanik saw Madigan coming toward him and calmly drew a hand cannon. “I’ve no time for you.”

He fired.

The heavy bullet hit Madigan low in the torso. He stumbled but didn’t fall. Raising one hand to his abdomen, Madigan found a perfect round hole in the plate. Struggling to breathe, he took a halting step forward.

Culpin scowled at the pistol.

The pain hit then, piercing through his side, but Madigan kept walking. The armor hadn’t stopped the extremely powerful round, but it had slowed the bullet enough that it didn’t kill him on the spot. It would be enough.

“Damn you, Madigan! It’s too late. Even if my calculations are off, it’ll still detonate. You’ll see,” he sneered. “But you’re too stubborn to accept defeat, even when it’s obvious. Vinter was right about you. He must’ve known all was lost when he sent you to murder Hartcliff and his spawn, because a lesser man wouldn’t have had the stomach for it.”

His platoon was still fighting, and more Protectorate were sure to converge on the noise. Headhunter and the Reckoner were pounding the daylights out of each other. A pipe was split open and fire came belching out. A purple liquid splattered across both of the warjacks and shimmered with arcane energy as it caught fire. A chain of small explosions shook the main floor of the Great Dome. It felt as if the whole place was about to collapse in on itself.

Madigan took another halting step forward. “In the name of the crown, I hereby arrest you for high treason. Surrender your arms and stand down. Resist and I’ll kill you.”

The old alchemist knew he was no match for Madigan in a fight. The hand cannon was dropped on the metal floor. “I yield.”

Madigan looked down at the pistol lying on the grate between them. Then he looked back up and smiled, showing bloody teeth. “Nobody wants you alive, Culpin . . .”

“Wha—”

Madigan stepped close enough to put his gauntlets around the old man’s neck and squeeze. Eyes bulging, Culpin clawed futilely at the gauntlets. “Those are the exact words I told Earl Hartcliff all those years ago. At least he had the guts to fight for what he believed in,” Madigan said as he dragged the struggling man to the broken edge of the platform. He saw a spreading puddle of the flammable purple ooze far below, seeping up through the grates.

He released his grip a bit, and Culpin gasped for breath. “Let me live. I have information! Valuable information!” He looked down at the bubbling alchemical mix. “Let me live. I beg you. Have mercy.”

“You long for a return to Vinter’s rule?” Madigan snarled. “Then receive his brand of mercy.” And he hurled Culpin over the side.

Culpin’s scream cut off sharply when he landed on a metal catwalk several floors down. Madigan leaned over to watch. The fall hadn’t killed him, but it had obviously shattered bones. He lay there, groaning, and the groan turned into a long sob. Then the flooding mixture reached him, and he must have realized what it was. Culpin splashed and wailed, thrashing in the rising alchemical soup. A rainbow sheen had formed across the surface of the purple ooze, and Culpin desperately tried to claw his way out of it, but it was stuck to his skin and had seeped through his clothes.

Sparks and burning debris fell into the mix, and the surface ignited. The fire spread rapidly, hissing and sputtering. Culpin was engulfed in licking flames, his body consumed by the fruits of his mind. The base of the Great Dome turned into a sea of fire.

Madigan stumbled for the stairs, weak with blood loss. He felt a coldness inside his chest. His life was drizzling out through his wounds. He did not remember falling, but he found himself lying facedown on the floor. There was nothing left to give, no final reserve of strength, just the blessed darkness of unconsciousness, and then the fire would take him. It was a fitting end.

I hope the men got out. Morrow preserve them. This kingdom needs good men.

Noxious smoke surrounded him. Somebody coughed. Boots struck the stairs. “Madigan!” he heard. Hands latched onto the straps of his armor and pulled. “Pangborn! Up here.”

He grimaced in pain as he was lifted. Something was tearing inside. “Rains?” Madigan gasped. “I ordered you to flee.”

“Madigan’s Malcontents are notoriously bad at following orders, sir.” Rains hoisted him up and began dragging him down the stairs. “Now hold on.”

The Great Dome was collapsing all around them.

Cleasby had saved the palace district, but he’d doomed this place. Back pressure had built up in the big pipes, and they were bulging dangerously. Rivets popped and shot out like bullets. Thornbury had found a ladder to the next level up and already started climbing. “Acosta! We’ve got to go.”

The Ordsman was circling the dangerous Madra Zevrhan. “I’ll be along.” They’d clashed repeatedly, with the much bigger and stronger Zevrhan chasing Acosta around the room. But Acosta was far too quick and had used their complex environment to his advantage, constantly keeping machinery between himself and the flaming swords. “I still have more to learn.”

“Whatever the lesson, you’ll get to analyze it in Urcaen if you don’t hurry, because this whole place is about to explode,” Cleasby warned as he began climbing the ladder. “Wrap it up!”

Acosta sighed. “Very well.”

“Your skills are great, but they will not be enough to overcome mine, child of murder,” Zevrhan said to Acosta. He circled, keeping one flaming sword between them defensively and the other low at his side, ready to disembowel at the first careless mistake. “My power comes from Menoth.”

“That is your mistake, relying on another for strength.” Acosta stepped a few feet to the side, and shifted his grip on the pair of storm glaives. “My power is my own.”

Zevrhan roared as he struck, lunging forward, driving the tip of his blade at Acosta’s chest. He dodged at the last possible instant, raising a glaive to smoothly deflect the flaming sword—so fluidly it was almost as if Acosta were guiding his opponent’s sword himself. Too late, the Protectorate warrior realized his mistake. The flaming sword was guided directly into a bulging pipe and pierced the metal. Acosta stepped back as a pressurized jet shot from the hole. It ignited as it rolled down Zevrhan’s flaming blade, a rolling ball of liquid death, and the giant was almost instantly covered in sticky, consuming doom. He went spinning away, thrashing and beating his hands at his own body.

Acosta walked toward the ladder, muttering. “Menoth should have taught him how to pay better attention.”

Climbing a ladder for several stories while wearing heavy armor was not for the weak, and Cleasby was thankful for all the hours Madigan had worked them like dogs. It didn’t help that something was shaking the ladder. With aching limbs, Cleasby heaved himself onto the main level.

Headhunter and a Protectorate Reckoner were throwing each other through vital supports, and every impact made the whole building sway dangerously.

Private Langston waved his arms overhead, getting their attention. A new, warjack-sized exit had been made for them. The wounded had been gathered, and it was almost all of the platoon. He quickly counted, noting they were a few bodies short, but he’d seen Debney and Newman killed for certain earlier. Allsop was somehow still breathing even with a hole in his neck. Cleasby caught sight of Pangborn running through the flames, carrying the limp form of another Storm Knight in his arms. Madigan! Rains appeared right behind him, slowing just enough to blast apart a zealot.

“That’s everybody. Move out!”

They rushed through the hole, nearly everyone wounded and only half moving under their own power. They were in the middle of thousands of Protectorate, but the fire, explosions, and smoke provided some cover. Half a block away, a wagon team was thrashing and tearing at their ropes, trying to get away from the crumbling dome.

“Seize that wagon,” Cleasby ordered. “Get the wounded in back.”

There was a high-pitched whine. It came from the south, growing steadily louder. “Incoming!” Rains shouted. An artillery shell struck just to the north of the Great Dome.

Cleasby looked to the river and saw a flash. He heard the boom a second later. It was a Cygnaran warship. “The navy’s bombarding the Great Dome.” Well, at least Commander Bradher believed my message . . . That would have been a small comfort, if it hadn’t been too late to stop Culpin. The solution was just as liable to kill all the Malcontents as any Protectorate, and worst of all, the first cannonball that hit one of the big tanks was going to blow this whole neighborhood apart.

Thornbury had gotten to the horses. When he cut the legs out from under one of the Menites guarding them, the other ran for his life. Their aristocrat slashed through the ropes tying the team to a fence, grabbed hold of the reins, and began pulling the terrified animals along. A cannonball landed less than a hundred yards away, and the horses rose and kicked, but Thornbury held on and kept them from bolting. Luckily they were yoked together and appeared to be mostly deaf. They had probably spent the war hauling artillery.

Dirt and chunks of rock were falling from the sky as more cannonballs landed. Wounded Storm Knights were shoved onto the bed of the wagon. Langston got in the seat and took up the reins. “Move!” Cleasby shouted. Only half of the platoon were onboard, but the rest would have to run for it. It wouldn’t take the navy long to zero in on the dome, and when one of the main tanks of Culpin’s lethal concoction was hit . . . Thornbury got out of the way, and Langston cracked the whip—not that it mattered, as the team was desperate to get away from the fire.

Cleasby ran alongside the wagon. A dazed Temple Flameguard stumbled into their path, but the horses just crunched him underfoot and the wagon wheels finished the job. Pangborn gave a sharp whistle, trying to signal for Headhunter to follow them, but he doubted their Stormclad would hear it.

“Faster!” Cleasby shouted. “It’s going to blow!”

They passed surprised Protectorate troops who were busy taking cover from what they thought was an ordinary naval bombardment. They had no reason to expect to see a wagonload of bedraggled Storm Knights come tearing down the main avenue. A cannonball struck the Great Dome. A huge section of the curved roof collapsed in on itself. A pillar of fire shot into the night sky. The navy had found their target . . .

A series of flashes lit up the haze-covered river. The booms came a split second later, and then cannonballs were falling like rain. Holes appeared all across the top of the Great Public Works.

One of the big holding tanks was hit.

The whole of the world seemed to fly to pieces as the shockwave washed over them. The team of horses came apart and the wagon crashed, its rear rising as the front plowed into the dirt, and then the whole thing flipped over, flinging wounded Storm Knights like leaves on the hot wind.

The world stopped spinning long enough for Cleasby to realize the unfocused light in front of his face was the meager sunrise coming through his visor. He raised one shaking hand and pushed up the visor so he could see. The sky was filled with black smoke, but the first weak bits of orange daylight were poking over the horizon. He was covered in bits of rocks, splintered boards, and shards of glass, but it all fell off as struggled to his feet. He looked back and saw a smoking hole where the Great Dome of Caspia had once stood.

Their stolen wagon was on its side, bodies lying all around it. Some were moving. Most were not. He limped toward them. Men were groaning, coughing. A horse was crying. Another one was loose and running in circles.

Their wounded had been thrown from the overturned wagon. He had no idea what state any of them were in. They were deep behind enemy lines, surrounded by Protectorate forces. Cleasby didn’t know what to do.

The others began to stir. It was almost like the heat and pressure of the explosion had blown out their consciousness like a candle, but it was coming back now. Langston had been thrown from the seat and was cursing as he realized his landing had broken his leg. Watersford had been hit with a piece of flying pipe, and it had crushed his helmet so badly that Cleasby didn’t need to check to know he was dead. But he couldn’t find the one he needed to find, the one man who would know what to do, because he always knew what to do.

“Madigan?” Cleasby shouted. “Where’s Madigan?”

“He’s over here,” Acosta said.

Cleasby limped over to the other side of the wagon. Madigan was lying on his back. The straps of his armor had been cut away and his breast plate removed. Acosta moved aside, and Cleasby saw that Madigan had a ghastly laceration deep on one side of his abdomen and a large-caliber bullet hole on the other. The lieutenant was ghostly pale, his skin a weak grey. Acosta gave him a sad look and shook his head in the negative.

Cleasby knelt next to him. “Madigan?” His voice cracked. “Can you hear me, sir?”

Madigan opened his eyes. One was bloodshot solid red. “Cleasby . . .,” he whispered. “Glad to see my . . . conscience made it . . . through.”

“Not through yet, old friend,” Acosta said, nodding down the street. “We have company.” Through the settling dust, shapes appeared, and as clarity grew, hope died. They were Protectorate soldiers—hundreds upon hundreds of them. There was no escape.

“Make the bastards work for it,” Madigan gasped.

Cleasby found his sword in the debris. He walked toward the advancing Menites, stopped in the middle of the road, and waited, prepared to die like a true Storm Knight.

Rains stood at his right hand.

“Did you ever find what it was you were looking behind those masks?” Cleasby asked.

“Yes,” Rains answered. “But it wasn’t what I thought.” He readied his Precursor shield.

Thornbury came up on his left. “You should get out of here, Thorny,” Cleasby suggested. “You might be able to escape in the confusion.”

“The noble blood of Cygnar won’t run thin today . . . Besides,” Thorny grinned. “I’m too damned tired to run.”

Pangborn joined them. He put his storm thrower over one shoulder, took a look at the approaching troops and chuckled. “They don’t know what they’re getting themselves into, picking a fight with the Malcontents.”

“No they don’t,” Acosta said as he walked up behind Rains, still armed with a pair of storm glaives. He spun them both through the air. “Let’s show them.”

There were only five of them able to stand against an army.

The marching Protectorate force was being led by two full squads of Exemplar knights. They were followed by an untold number of Temple Flameguard, their upright spears so numerous it was like a field of waving grass. A shout went up, and a horn was blown. The Protectorate came to a stop a mere fifty yards away.

The street was quiet as the two sides studied each other. Five men should have been nothing more than a bump in the road, but the Protectorate commander must have recognized there was more to these men than that.

A lone Exemplar broke from the Protectorate line and walked toward them. It was a remarkably brave maneuver, as there was nothing his fellows could do to protect him. He stopped ten yards away and lifted off his helmet, revealing the face of a weathered, tired soldier.

“What happened here?” he asked without preamble, nodding toward the flaming wreck of the Great Dome.

“We killed everyone and broke everything,” Cleasby answered. The others laughed. “Just following orders.”

“I see.” The Exemplar looked back at the overturned wagon. “You have many wounded. Are your orders for this few of you to block my company from passing?”

“I suppose that depends on where you’re passing to.”

“We are returning to Sul. The war is over.”

“What?” Cleasby looked at the others. “I don’t—”

“You have not heard?” The Exemplar held his head high. “Menoth has let his will be known through his holy voice. Hierarch Voyle is dead, slain by the sword of Menoth’s Harbinger. The war is over. Each nation is to return to their own borders. Caspia is yours for now. Sul belongs to Menoth forever.”

They’d been fighting for a year. They’d given so much, they’d lost so many . . . It couldn’t be. This had to be a trick.

He could sense their mistrust. “When I was told the news, I fell to my knees and gave thanks. I poured out my heart, and wept for my dead brothers and sisters, and I wept for their families and their children who would never know their love. I thanked the Creator for this respite, and I rejoiced I didn’t have to spill any more blood.” For a moment, the Exemplar wasn’t a fanatical enemy, he was just another tired soldier. “Please, step aside, Storm Knights. My men just want to go home.”

Cleasby nodded. “Very well, Exemplar. You may pass.”

“Thank you.” The officer put his helmet back on and returned to his column.

They returned to Madigan. The lieutenant was barely conscious. His breathing was shallow and weak.

Cleasby knelt at his side. “The war’s over. The Protectorate is retreating back to Sul.”

“Good. Good work, lads. You’ve made me so proud.”

“You saved the city,” Cleasby said. “You saved Caspia. You saved the king.”

“No . . . I only saved you soldiers from yourselves, and you saved the city.” Madigan smiled weakly.

The Malcontents looked at each other. They knew it wouldn’t be long now.

“My last orders,” Madigan whispered. “See to the men. Save who . . . whoever you can. Get them home.” Cleasby looked up and nodded. The other four moved away. “Last requests . . . Those books about knights . . .”

“I know they’re foolish now, Madigan.” Real knighthood wasn’t about chivalry, or glory, it was about battle brothers doing whatever they had to in order to protect what they loved and each other.

“No. People need heroes, even if you’ve got to make them up . . .” Madigan coughed. “The Sixth were real. Tell . . . their story.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Last . . . Deliver this message . . .” Madigan’s voice had become dangerously quiet, and Cleasby had to lean in close to hear his whispered final words. He listened carefully until Madigan trailed off into silence.

Cleasby leaned back. Madigan was staring up at the sky. He removed his gauntlet so he could gently close his commanding officer’s eyes.

The Protectorate troops were marching past in formation. Cleasby looked up to see the Knight Exemplar watching him. As the last of his men went by, the Exemplar moved on after them without a word. He had left a wagon and horses so the Storm Knights could carry home their wounded and their dead.

It was one last show of respect between capable foes.

Kelvan Cleasby patiently waited his turn. There were far more important people than him coming and going about the War Council. The uneasy armistice with the Protectorate was holding, but already Khador had taken advantage of Cygnar’s distraction and stepped up their efforts in the north. Cryxians were raiding up and down the coast and had been spotted deeper inland in northern Cygnar. There was word that more of the trollkin kriels within their borders were in open revolt, and the skorne raiders were staging out of the Bloodstone Marches.

These were dark times for the kingdom. As for Cleasby, he would go wherever they sent him, because that’s what you did when you were a soldier living in a time of war.

The interior of the royal palace was more beautiful than he’d expected. This was a much better place to pass the time than the Barn. Because the Sixth was back up to a full complement of troops, it was rather crowded. His request for most of the original Malcontents to be returned had been granted, and they’d had a steady stream of new recruits and replacements to fill in the gaps.

In fact, they’d lost only one man since the end of the war. One morning he’d woken up and found Acosta’s bunk empty and his kit missing. There had been a note. Let me know when you find another good war. I know you will.

The Barn was also very loud, usually because of the hammering. Since Headhunter had been found in the rubble of the Great Dome, burned but still mostly in one piece and with a functioning cortex, Pangborn had been working on that undying warjack around the clock. This time, though, he had the army’s blessing, a couple of gobber assistants, and actual parts. Their ’jack was looking pretty good, complete with the Protectorate Reckoner’s severed head added to its chain.

An aide approached. “He will receive you now.”

Cleasby swallowed nervously, gathered up his gift, and followed the woman into the council room.

King Leto Raelthorne was not well. That much was obvious. Though months had passed, the severe wound he’d taken while fighting Hierarch Voyle was not yet healed even with the ministrations of the finest physicians in all of Caspia. Cleasby could only assume the business of rebuilding a city and fortifying a nation could not wait, so Leto pushed on despite the pain, just like any other servant of Cygnar.

“Lieutenant Kelvan Cleasby, Sixth Platoon of the 47th Storm Knights Company,” the aide announced.

Cleasby entered and then knelt before his sovereign as he had been instructed. He’d never dreamed he would meet his king—and especially not under these circumstances. There was no pomp, no banners or trumpets, and especially no fancy throne room with the trappings of the kingdom. He was grateful for that. They were in a simple conference room, and the king sat in a regular chair at a table with a map of Cygnar upon it.

“Please, be seated, Lieutenant.” Leto gestured at another chair.

Cleasby did as he was told, careful to keep the bundle gripped tightly under his arm so it wouldn’t unravel. “It is an honor, your majesty.”

Leto looked younger than he expected, though recent events had surely worn him thin. “I’ve already been briefed by Scout General Rebald about Groller Culpin’s plot and what happened at the Great Dome. The kingdom is thankful for your actions. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for your platoon.”

Cleasby smiled. It wasn’t just because of his love of history and his interest in architecture that made him glad he’d kept this place from burning to the ground. “It was really Lieutenant Madigan’s platoon then.”

Leto nodded slowly. “I am not normally so forthcoming on a matter of so personal a nature, but you are aware of my history with Sir Madigan?”

“I believe I am.”

The king seemed distant. Surely, rising up against his tyrannical brother had to still weigh on him. “Madigan was simply following the orders of his king, but he took from me a very dear friend and a family of whom I was deeply fond. It was only after a great deal of thought and reflection that I granted Madigan amnesty along with the other loyalists. I felt it was for the best if the kingdom moved past those events as quickly as possible.”

“You thought about executing him but didn’t want to be thought of as a vengeful king,” Cleasby said. Sadly, he still suffered from speaking before thinking. Leto frowned. “Forgive me, your majesty. I don’t mean to speak out of turn.”

Leto chuckled. “I’ve heard you can be a painfully honest man, Lieutenant. Yes. Madigan followed orders, but those orders wounded me to my core. He stole the lives of my good friends, and that’s a difficult thing for a king to let go.”

“You are a good man, your majesty, but so was Madigan in his own way. His loyalty to his men and to Cygnar was unflinching.”

The king gave him a very tired smile. “For today, your recent service has bought you a bit of leeway in your honesty, Lieutenant. Please, carry on.”

“Thank you, your majesty.” They had already pinned a medal on his chest, but he and the king both knew that wasn’t why Cleasby had been summoned to the palace. “I’ve come bearing a message.”

“I was told you were rather insistent that you would give it to me alone.”

“I promised Madigan, and he gave it to me with his dying breath.” Cleasby paused and looked the King of Cygnar square in the eyes. “He told me to tell you . . . I am sorry.”

Surprised, Leto blinked a few times. The blinking became faster. He put one hand over his mouth, and then the king had to look away for a moment to collect himself.

“That was his entire message, your majesty. I am sorry to have troubled you, but I made a promise to a dying man.”

Leto bit his lip, trying to conceal his emotions. “Thank you, Lieutenant. That will be all.”

Cleasby stood and took the rolled banner from under his arm. “I know it is unworthy, but on behalf of the men of the Sixth, I’d like to give you this standard as a gift.” He unfurled it and set it on the table.

Sixth Platoon of the 47th Company.

Madigan’s Malcontents.

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.

Redemption.

GLOSSARY

Arcane Tempest, Militant Order of the: A branch of specialized and highly trained gun mages who serve in the Cygnaran Army after being trained at the Tempest Academy.

archon: A holy angelic emissary of Morrow, said to be the soul of a deceased primarch. Archons may manifest to convey the will of Morrow, often conveyed through prophecy.

Bainsmarket: The largest commercial hub in the north central region of Cygnar, located in a sizable fertile valley within the Dragonspire Peaks.

Brisbane, Markus “Siege”: A major and warcaster in the Cygnaran Army with a long and highly decorated service record. Nicknamed “Siege” after earning a reputation for demolishing enemy fortifications.

Caine, Allister: An infamous gun mage and warcaster in the Cygnaran Army with a reputation as a loner, a drifter, and a scoundrel. Unknown to most of his superior officers, he sometimes performs secret missions for the Cygnaran Reconnaissance Service.

Caspian battle blade: A traditional wide, hefty double-edged blade suited for slashing and cleaving and descended from cleaving swords used by Caspians for many centuries.

Cinten: The fifth month of the standard calendar of the Iron Kingdoms and Rhul, named after ancient Priest-King Cinot. This month is called Cinotes in the Protectorate calendar and Odul in the Rhulic calendar.

Creator, the: See Menoth.

CRS/Cygnaran Reconnaissance Service: Cygnar’s foremost intelligence-gathering body, which has the dual purpose of gathering military reconnaissance and spying on potential enemies both foreign and domestic. Most members are army rangers serving alongside other soldiers, while higher officers are agents supervising a large network of spies, contacts, and informants.

Daughters of the Flame: An insular order in the Protectorate that reports directly to Feora and operates as the covert strike force of the military. Many of its core members count husbands, parents, or siblings among the thousands of soldiers who have died in defense of the Menite faith.

Defender: A formidable heavy Cygnaran warjack that entered service in 564 AR as a modification of the older Ironclad chassis. Its signature weapon is an intrinsic heavy barrel cannon offering unprecedented range and accuracy.

deliverers: One of the mainstay ranged units of the Protectorate military, deliverers are easily replaceable troops armed with reinforced cylindrical tubes capable of launching Skyhammer rockets.

Dragonfather/Dragon Lord: See Toruk, Lord.

Engines East: A designer and manufacturer of machinery and steamjack chassis based in the Cygnaran city of Corvis. Widely respected for having designed the Ironclad warjack as well as the more recent Cyclone.

Fort Falk: One of the largest of Cygnar’s eastern border fortresses and a major training facility for both trenchers and Storm Knights serving the Cygnaran Army.

Fraternal Order of Wizardry: The foremost civilian arcane order in western Immoren, notable for its occult research and the production of steamjack cortexes. Most of its wealth and power derive from cortex production, both for commercial industry and to serve military contracts in Ord and Cygnar as well as formerly in Llael.

gorax: Hulking, primitive creatures with long arms ending in oversized claws and faces distinguished by protruding jaws filled with fangs suited to tearing through flesh and bone alike. Gorax are known to appreciate the taste of human flesh, and some prefer it over all other fare.

Great Crusade: The ongoing campaign initiated in 605 AR by Hierarch Voyle to unite all of western Immoren’s humanity in the worship of Menoth under the dominion of the Protectorate clergy.

Great Fathers: The divine pantheon of the Rhulic people who are regarded by Rhulfolk as their actual and literal progenitors. Each of the ruling Stone Clans of Rhul is named after one of the thirteen Great Fathers.

Great Temple of the Creator: The center of Menite worship in Sul and one of the most impressive temples in western Immoren. The exterior of the temple is a large step pyramid while the interior is a vast cathedral.

guttersnipe: Term used in a crowded city for poor gobbers or, less commonly, human children who earn a living through petty crime.

Idrian: Formerly nomadic tribesmen native to the Protectorate interior and the fringes of the Bloodstone Marches. Most Idrians have converted to the worship of Menoth and joined the Protectorate, but some unconverted tribes remain.

infernalism: The study and invocation of infernal entities, a discipline even more blasphemous and feared than necromancy. Most infernalists are arcanists who have bargained for additional power from enigmatic beings called infernals who exist beyond Caen, beings who demand payment for their services in living essence or preferably souls, including those stolen from others through ritual murder.

Ironclad: The most common and recognizable heavy warjack in the Cygnaran Army since entering service in 556 AR. The Ironclad’s strength and utility have made it a mainstay of Cygnaran commanders on every battlefield, and it is notable for employing a powerful quake hammer in melee.

’jack marshal: A person who has learned how to give precise verbal orders to a steamjack to direct it in labor or battle, sometimes called marshaling. This is a highly useful occupational skill, although it lacks the versatility or finesse afforded by the direct mental control of steamjacks exercised by a warcaster.

laborjack: A steamjack used to perform heavy manual labor. Laborjacks come in both light and heavy variants and many different chassis, each designed for a specific type of work.

Lawgiver, the: See Menoth.

Markus, Ascendant: The patron of soldiers and watchmen, Markus was an Ordic soldier who ascended in 305 AR after breaking the Siege of Midfast by defeating fourteen barbarian chieftains in a series of duels.

marshal: See ’jack marshal.

mechanik: One who builds, maintains, and repairs mechanikal equipment such as steamjacks.

Menofix: The symbol of the Menite faith, in the form of a stylized cross depicting the shape of Man. The Menofix is displayed prominently throughout the Protectorate as a reminder of the god’s purpose, scrutiny, and wrath. The presence of a Menofix on the battlefield can inspire the faithful.

Menoth’s Fury: An extremely volatile and flammable substance refined from oil found in abundance beneath the Bloodstone Marches and commonly used as a weapon by Protectorate troops and warjacks.

Midlunder: The second-largest ethnic group in Cygnar, Midlunders tend to have dark skin and hair, thick features, and solid frames. They are most concentrated in northern Cygnar.

Morridane: The descendants of the ancient and ominous kingdom of Morrdh, Morridanes are a rustic people, most of them Cygnarans, who live throughout the Thurian and Midlunds regions but who are most numerous in the Thornwood.

necrotite: A foul mineral found in places that have seen mass torture and death, where life energy has saturated the stones beneath the soil. Used to power Cryxian warjacks, it is functionally similar to coal but longer burning and more efficient. Both the substance itself and the fumes and residue it produces are highly toxic to all living things.

Nemo, Sebastian: One of the most famous and respected warcasters in Cygnaran history, Nemo is also a brilliant scientist responsible for the invention of most of the nation’s storm technology.

Pendrake, Viktor: A legendary naturalist and field researcher who earned his fame risking life and limb to study dangerous beasts in the wild and then compiling his research in dozens of respected scholarly tomes. He has served as a ranger in the Cygnaran Army and is the head of the Department of Extraordinary Zoology at Corvis University.

primarch: The top-ranking leader of the Church of Morrow, chosen for life through a manifestation of archons after the death of the predecessor.

Repenter: A Protectorate light warjack developed in 533 AR and armed with a three-headed flail and an integrated flamethrower fueled with Menoth‘s Fury.

Rowan, Ascendant: Morrowan patron of the poor and downtrodden, Rowan renounced all material wealth and spent her life alleviating the suffering of Immorese under Orgoth oppression. She ascended in 289 BR.

Rowen: The sixth month of the standard calendar of the Iron Kingdoms and Rhul, named after Asc. Rowan. This month is called Prautes in the Protectorate calendar and Gordul in the Rhulic calendar.

Sancteum: The center of the Church of Morrow hierarchy. The Sancteum is a small self-contained and self-sufficient walled city within Caspia and is treated as a sovereign nation. It is most notable for housing the Archcourt Cathedral, the holy see of the primarch.

scion: The antithesis of the saint-like ascendants of Morrow, the scions of Thamar have similarly transcended mortality by heeding their goddess’ teachings and seeking their own distinct paths of enlightenment.

scrutators: A specialized caste of Menite priests tasked to enforce the True Law. In some communities scrutators serve as judges and executioners who police their congregation. In the Protectorate of Menoth, scrutators comprise an inner circle of clergy and are seen as the ultimate protectors of the faith, subject to few limits and no oversight except among their own number.

Skyhammer rockets: Simple yet long-range rockets delivering an explosive payload which are notorious for being both powerful and inaccurate.

Solovin, Ascendant: Patron of healers, battle-chaplains, and midwives, Solovin was a Thurian priest who visited countless battlefields to treat the wounded regardless of their affiliation. He ascended in 1253 BR after sacrificing himself to destroy Scion Remel.

storm armor: Heavy plate armor layered over alchemically treated insulation that protects a Storm Knight from the electrical discharges emitted by voltaic weaponry.

Stormguard: Storm Knights who wield voltaic halberds, typically deployed to hold strategic positions or shore up the flanks of Cygnaran forces.

storm glaive: A powerful voltaic weapon derived from the more ancient Caspian battle blade, the first of Cygnar‘s weapons to incorporate a storm chamber capable of generating continuous lightning in combat.

storm gunner: Members of the Stormblade infantry who wield storm throwers in battle, a weapon capable of discharging lightning at greater range than the storm glaive.

Storm Knights: A military order in Cygnar comprising Stormblades, Stormguard, and Storm Lances. Storm Knights serve as either heavy infantry or heavy cavalry in support of other army units.

Storm Lances: Mounted Storm Knights who charge into battle wielding voltaic lances.

stormsmith stormcaller: Members of an order of Cygnaran specialists called stormsmiths who are trained in the use of mechanikal apparatus with power over storms. Stormcallers can use machinery to summon lightning to smite Cygnar‘s foes at a distance. Stormcaller can also refer specifically to the rod wielded by these stormsmiths to summon lightning.

storm thrower: A complex Cygnaran ranged weapon designed to interact with standard Stormblade equipment, storm throwers fire bolts of mechanikally generated electricity. Extremely lethal on their own, these bolts also help guide subsequent storm glaive blasts at a given target.

Stormblade: The first and most esteemed of Storm Knight specialties. Most Stormblades wield storm glaives in battle. They supplement ancient Caspian sword fighting traditions with state-of-the-art voltaic weaponry such as storm glaives.

storm rod: The weapon employed by Stormblade sergeants to coordinate and empower nearby storm glaives. The term is sometimes used informally to refer to the stormcaller rod, a different weapon entirely.

Stormclad: A Cygnaran heavy warjack developed in 597 AR based on the Ironclad chassis and armed with a voltaic blade. Draws on the excess galvanic energies emitted by storm glaives to enhance its own capabilities.

Sulon, Hierarch: The first of the Sul-Menite hierarchs and a revered leader who seized control of eastern Caspia in 482 AR to begin the Cygnaran Civil War, which ended on his death in 484 AR. Sul is named in his honor and he is remembered as the first leader of the Protectorate of Menoth, though the theocracy was technically founded after his death.

Templar: A common Protectorate heavy warjack armed with huge iron flails and enormous shields. Entered service in 539 AR.

Flameguard: A Menite martial order traditionally charged with the defense of temples and holy sites. Armed with spears and protected by shields and plated armor, members of the Temple Flameguard have become the standard frontline infantry for the armies of the Protectorate of Menoth.

Temple Flameguard: See Flameguard.

trenchers: The second most numerous infantry of the Cygnaran Army, trained to dig in and defend ground. Typically armed with heavy rifles, hazer smoke grenades, and, of course, their entrenching tools.

Toruk, Lord: The dragon that is both the oldest known entity on Caen and the progenitor of all dragons, Lord Toruk is the evil and vastly powerful ruler of Cryx. Also known as the Dragonfather, the Dragon Lord, and God of Caen.

ulk: A hardy breed of large deer native to the cold northern areas of western Immoren.

Vanar, Empress Ayn: The sovereign queen of Khador, Ayn Vanar XI declared herself Empress in 606 AR following a sweeping military conquest including victory in the Llaelese War.

Vassals of Menoth: The only organization sanctioned to practice arcane magic in the Protectorate of Menoth. Vassals are tightly controlled and allowed to wield their power only for the furtherance of the Temple of Menoth, employed primarily to fabricate vital mechanika such as steamjack cortexes.

Voyle, Hierarch Garrick: The hierarch of the Protectorate of Menoth during the period of the Caspia-Sul War, Voyle is known for having instituted both the Vassals of Menoth and the Order of the Fist as well as launching the Great Crusade.

Westwatch: One of Cygnar‘s major fortresses. Located on the western coast north of Ramarck, Westwatch is a part of coastal defenses and is a significant officer training facility almost as prestigious as the Strategic Academy.

War Council: The body tasked primarily with coordinating and planning all Cygnaran war efforts and the allocation of defensive troops at garrisons throughout the realm. Initially instituted in 595 AR as an advisory council but transitioned into a full-time coordination body in 603 AR.

warmaster general: The supreme commander of the Cygnaran Army. This position is currently held by Warmaster General Olson Turpin.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Larry Correia is The New York Times bestselling author of the Monster Hunter International series, the Grimnoir Chronicles trilogy, and the military thrillers Dead Six and Swords of Exodus. He has been a finalist for the Campbell award, the Julia Verlanger award, and won an Audie Award for Hard Magic. He is published by Baen Books. A former accountant, military contractor, firearms instructor, and machinegun dealer, Larry now lives in the mountains of northern Utah with his wife and children, where he has moose in his yard.

Into the Storm

Copyright © 2013 Privateer Press

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First printing: August 29, 2013

ISBN: 978-1-939480-36-1

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Table of Contents

- MAP
- PART I: THE RECRUITERS
- PART II: THE INVADERS
- PART III: THE DEFENDERS
- GLOSSARY