Into the Storm (12 page)

“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.”