Into the Storm (34 page)

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.