Into the Storm (19 page)

“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.