Into the Wild Read online

  “There is nothing petty about protecting the sacred place,” Caradoc spat. “It’s the duty of my tribe to keep trespassers from that mountain. It was our heritage from long before we allied with you. The only reason they were allowed a foothold to build near our shrine was because my warriors were away, serving the Circle for too long.”

  “Do you wish for me to say the Potents appreciate your sacrifice? Your head swells, Caradoc. Don’t forget: the Circle made you. It can replace you just as easily.”

  Caradoc resisted the urge to break the little man in half. It was true the Circle had given his tribe great power, but that fact galled him. His tribe had always worn the skins and taken the savage power of wild beasts upon them. That was why his tribe had been the first to accept the druid’s elixir centuries before. The old ways, handed down from the Molgur, had prepared them. They had always transformed in mind, but the Circle made it so they could transform their bodies as well. The Circle had created many like them since, but they were pale imitations of the first tribe. His tribe.

  “We have a long history with the Circle. For generations, my people have fought for the druids’ cause, but in exchange you blackclads were supposed to protect our lands. What have we gotten in return? While you druids scheme and plot, Cygnar builds more cities and breeds like vermin. Their trains cut through our forests, spew filth, and cut holes through our mountains. My people dwindle in unbelief. Villages shrink and our young flee, tempted by the malignant civilization. Fewer of our young follow the old ways and take up the skins. And through all this, where are you blackclads?”

  “We are working on great things that will restore balance to the whole world, things far beyond your meager comprehension.”

  This exchange was placing Caradoc in a difficult position. His people were watching. Caradoc did not consider Zamir significant or formidable—he was but a lackey for the truly powerful master—but most in Caradoc’s tribe saw Zamir as a priest of the Devourer Wurm, someone to be feared and respected; however, a few of Caradoc’s warriors had come out of their huts to listen, and tolerating an insult in front of them would lead to whispers and possibly challenges to his leadership. Caradoc could not abide such things, especially now. He reached out and grabbed Zamir’s cloak with one rough hand, dragging the tiny man close, and snarled. “Work faster, because we tire of games. Deliver your message and be gone from my sight, Wayfarer.”

  Zamir was offended by Caradoc’s hold on his cloak, but he was unafraid. Attacking him would be the same as attacking his master, and no chief was that foolish. “The Stormlord has need of your warriors elsewhere again. You’re to gather them and follow me through the stones.”

  “We’re not going anywhere until these outsiders are dealt with.” Caradoc tightened his grip on Zamir’s cloak.

  “Come to your senses. There is nothing of real value in that place. Those ruins hold nothing but memories.”

  “Look around you, Wayfarer. Memories are all my people have left.”

  Zamir was not used to such disobedience. “You would dare disobey the will of the Stormlord?”

  “To protect what is sacred.” Caradoc had to be careful. The Stormlord Krueger’s wrath was legendary, but Caradoc could not show weakness now. “Tell your master that we must deal with the intruders first, and then we will serve.” Caradoc unclenched his fist and let go of the druid.

  Zamir gave him a cold glare as he brushed the dirt from his black robes. “I will return in two days. If your warriors are not here, ready to depart, there will be consequences, skinwalker.” The druid returned to the standing stones without another word, stepped inside the circle, and was gone.

  It took a moment to rein in his anger. Caradoc could feel the weight of his people’s eyes on him—they were curious, maybe even afraid, of what their chief would do. Failing to obey Krueger would endanger them all, but the idea of letting outsiders continue to destroy their heritage was unbearable. More warriors would arrive soon, but two days was not enough time to ensure a one-sided massacre against the Cygnar. Striking too soon would be risky.

  The last time, his warriors had laid in wait, watching until the moment was right. Most of the Cygnar had been caught out in the open; the rest had been killed when they tried to flee. His warriors had swept away the Cygnar, hardly receiving a scratch, and then they returned to pour the invaders’ blood into the sacred stones as a gift to their ancestors.

  It was the elder Guto who had urged caution on the trail, but now the old warrior approached, grim and silent. It had been easy for him to counsel biding their time until they had an overwhelming number of warriors, and the Cygnar had let their guard down, but that was before the Stormlord’s summons. They could be gone for weeks, months even. By the time they returned, there might be hundreds of the obnoxiously industrious Cygnar despoiling their sacred ground.

  “Where is your counsel now, elder?”

  “I have none for you, Caradoc. I do not envy the position you are in. You have to make a decision.”

  “We have always fought for the druids, but I begin to chaff against their constant demands. We have earned the right to be treated as allies, not as lackeys to be ordered about.”

  The Haul family was watching him closely. Ivor Haul was far younger but nearly his equal in combat, and he was the favored to rule the village once Caradoc faltered. He might have been the fiercest of them all, but Caradoc knew he would be a terrible chief. While Caradoc had been just as aggressive at that age, experience had tempered him and taught him there was more to wearing the skins than just fury. All Ivor cared about was the next battle, and he lacked the wisdom to appreciate their history. Ivor had passion, but a leader needed wisdom more than fire.

  Ivor’s twin sister Betrys was murderous, even by their collective standards. She was a selfish beauty who enjoyed toying with her prey and often flew into unpredictable rages when she didn’t get what she wanted. Betrys liked to tear an animal’s limbs off, one by one, letting its lingering screams disorient the rest of the herd. Callous and broken inside, she was probably more dangerous than her brother.

  If Caradoc made a misstep, the Hauls would surely try to usurp him. Ivor would challenge him to his face, or Betrys would put a spear into his back.

  Caradoc glared at young Ivor. “What are you staring at, pup?”

  “A chief trapped between two masters,” Ivor said. His sister made an annoying, cackling laugh.

  “If forced to choose between the Circle and the history of our tribe, what would you do?”

  Ivor dipped his head, feigning submission. “That’s not my riddle to answer. I’m not chief.” Although yet was left unsaid, it was implied by his sardonic smile.

  The rest of Caradoc’s people were gathering around to hear his words. Not just warriors, but their families as well. They would do whatever he chose, but if he chose wrong, they would pay the price. That was a chief’s burden.

  “We have two days to drive the outsiders from the mountain. Once more warriors arrive, we will strike.”

  “We should have ambushed them on the road.” Ivor’s snide tone let the whole village know what he thought of that decision.

  “But our chief was too scared of their fake lightning,” Betrys crowed. “One burning tree and we ran. Wolves are not scared of loud noises, but rabbits are.”

  “Silence.” Deep down he knew they were right, and Caradoc cursed himself. His caution may yet be his undoing. “Since there is nothing to fear, you two can go watch the outsiders tonight. See how prepared they are. Look for weaknesses. Once the rest of our warriors arrive, I will lead them to you.”

  The Haul twins had an eerie way of sharing their thoughts and communicating without words. He could tell they didn’t like being sent away, but they would do as ordered. To balk would make them look cowardly. Caradoc elected to throw them a bone. “Do not alert them to our presence, but if you can, pick off any stragglers. Leave no sign of your passing. If you can kill a few, make it look like the work of an animal.”


  That seemed to momentarily placate the bloodthirsty twins. If Caradoc were lucky, they would do something stupid and get themselves killed.

  The workers had come from Ironhead Station prepared to dig, but unfortunately their first hole was a grave. It would have been easier to put the foot in with the suicide victim, but that seemed disrespectful, so Raus had ordered two separate holes dug. He’d already declared this mountain was haunted enough and didn’t wish to tempt any other vengeful ghosts to come trouble them.

  The obstinate professor had still managed to squeeze in a few hours of surveying while most of the expedition had cleaned the abandoned fort and made it fit to live in again. Once they’d returned, Cleasby had called his foundation together for a meeting. They’d built a roaring fire in the middle of the compound, pulled up a couple of logs to sit on, and gathered to clean their armor and discuss their situation. He’d given them the bad news that the professor wasn’t going to call off the expedition on account of some missing miners. Their mission would continue as before. His men didn’t like it, but his soldiers were used to doing things they didn’t like.

  Rains, Thornbury, and Pangborn had no shortage of theories about what had happened, ranging from the nearly plausible to the absurd. The ever-pragmatic Rains thought maybe the miners had been buried in a cave-in, and the foot had wound up here because of scavengers. Pangborn, having grown up on country legends about the dark things that lurked in the forgotten corners of the wilderness, was quick to suggest unknown beasties. Thorny had the most lurid imagination and suspected that their unidentified ranger had murdered everyone.

  Sometimes it was hard to be the logical one. Cleasby waited until they’d finished arguing before ruining all their theories. “An accident doesn’t explain the suicide or the missing mercs. Even if the miners were all buried in some hole up there, the mercenaries wouldn’t have left because Rathleagh wouldn’t pay them. They’ve been gone at least a week, but from what I could see at the ruins, the ranger had only been sheltering there for the last few days.”

  “She still asleep?” Thorny asked.

  Cleasby nodded. “She was in bad shape, but they’ve given her medicine.” Cleasby had been there when Horner had tended her wounds. It looked like the poor woman had been through hell. She’d been covered in small injuries, scrapes, bruises, and a few cuts that had become infected. It was the fever that had nearly killed her, and she was still suffering from the effects of dehydration. “When she wakes up, I’ll question her myself.”

  “She could have murdered everyone,” Thorny insisted.

  “Rangers don’t patrol alone,” Rains pointed out. “Where are her companions?”

  “She snapped and murdered them!”

  Cleasby didn’t think so, but he’d left her under guard, just in case. “I doubt one severely injured woman invoked such terror that a mercenary took his own life rather than face her, but I suppose it could happen. We’ll table that idea for now, which leaves—”

  “The forest took them,” Pangborn stated, as if that was the most obvious thing ever. “It carried off everyone for trespassing on this mountain. Things that hunger for our blood, just like that stranger on the road said.”

  Sadly, Cleasby didn’t have a logical reason to dismiss that theory. “Perhaps it was those Clamorgan villagers, and Caradoc was trying to warn us away from finding evidence of their crimes.”

  “What did they do—leap over the fence and kidnap everyone in their sleep?” Rains asked. “The palisade is ten feet tall. There’s some damage but not much sign of a battle, so if that’s the case, then those Clamorgan are sneakier than Daughters of the Flame.” Rains had a particularly strong hatred for the Protectorate assassins.

  The young lieutenant prided himself on his reasoning skills, but for this, he had no explanation that didn’t involve something nefarious. “You know, scientific research in Corvis has shown there’s a species of crypt spider that consumes a portion of a person’s memories when it devours the corpse. If that spider is then rendered down into essential oils, it can be turned into an alchemical solution. Drinking this potion can give you the last memories of the corpse. We’ve got a corpse, but sadly we don’t have any crypt spiders or an alchemist handy.”

  “I ain’t drinking no corpse spider juice.” Pangborn gagged. “Sorry, lieutenant. I don’t want to know what happened to those guys that bad.”

  Cleasby shrugged. “I’d be willing to sacrifice for science to keep this expedition safe. If it were up to me, we’d already be on our way back, but since it isn’t my call, we’re going to make sure whatever happened before doesn’t happen again.”

  “They didn’t have Headhunter watching over them.” Their mechanic jerked one thumb toward their warjack was. Its boiler was burning just hot enough to keep it alert and ready. Standing over twelve feet tall with six-and-a-half tons of hardened steel, armed with a gigantic version of Cygnaran galvanic weaponry, Headhunter cut an imposing figure. Saved from the scrap heap and repeatedly rebuilt, their fearsome warjack made Pangborn justifiably proud. “Nothing gets past the big fella. Nothing.”

  Cleasby was fond of their warjack, too. It had saved his life a few times, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t nervous around it. Cortexes could develop quirks over time, especially the smarter types of cortexes. Usually such personality issues were minor, but Headhunter possessed a homicidal, aggressive, and malicious nature. He had no doubt that if anything climbed over that fence, Headhunter would live up to its name.

  “We brought a lot of coal, and the miners had a decent supply as well. I want Headhunter stoked around the clock. As for the rest of us, no less than half of the squad needs to be in armor and ready to fight in an instant.” One downside of galvanic weaponry was that if it was used outside of protective clothing, the wearer would likely electrocute himself, so Cleasby felt the need to be extra cautious. “The rest of us are never to be without our insulation and our glaives.”

  “Constantly being that wary will wear a man down. I’ll speak with Raus and get a few of his reliable men to help on watch,” Rains suggested.

  “Talk to Pickett, too. There’s no reason some young scholars can’t spend a few hours every night on lookout.”

  “They’ll complain they can’t afford to tire out their precious brains,” Thorny said.

  “I’d have more pity if I didn’t know firsthand that half of university life is staying up all night, drinking.” Cleasby smiled. Those had been good, simpler times, even with the hangovers. “If they complain, tell them guard duty gives them time to ponder the mysteries of the universe.”

  There was a shout from the bunkhouse. Corporal Allsop came outside, calling Cleasby’s name. “The prisoner is awake.”

  He didn’t like calling a fellow soldier of Cygnar a prisoner, but until he knew what was going on, the label would have to do. He looked down at the helmet he’d been cleaning. As they’d been taught in basic training, rust was the enemy, and sleeping in the mud wasn’t conducive to maintaining good-looking armor, but it would suffice. He put it down on the log with the rest of the pieces and stood up. “I’ll go speak to her. We’ve done all we can for now. Spread the word that everyone has a companion everywhere they go. No one wanders off alone.”

  “Speaking of which, where’s Acosta?” Pangborn asked.

  “Except for him, obviously,” Cleasby added. Banging his head into a brick wall would be more fruitful than trying to give Acosta orders.

  “I mean, I’ve not seen him since we came down from the ruins and locked the gates. Did he come back in with the rest of us?”

  “No idea. You know how he is,” Thorny said. “He’ll either turn up soon or abandon us as the mood strikes him. But I’ll say this: with all this strangeness afoot, I’m rather glad that madman is with us again. Just like old times.”

  Cleasby had been too preoccupied with the wounded ranger and the indignant noble to pay attention to their wayward mercenary. He looked to Rains, but the sergeant was just staring into
the fire, lost in thought. Cleasby knew his sergeant was still suspicious about Acosta’s release and expected the worst. “Rains?”

  “You’d best see to the ranger,” Rains answered as he absently ran a cloth over the symbol of Morrow on his shield. “I’ll find Acosta.”

  The forest was very quiet and very dark. Bugs clicked and chirped along the path. There was probably something murderous stalking the mountainside, but it was a pleasant evening, so Acosta whistled a sea tune as he walked along the trail. The air here was thin and crisp. It was nothing like the salt and ocean rot of Five Fingers, the ice bite and smoke of Korsk, or the perfume and blood stink of Merwyn. In his travels, Acosta had discovered that every place had a different flavor, but regardless of their differences, all places had some things in common—like greed and treachery.

  If he were correct, it would not be a very long walk to find what he was looking for. Men like Baron Rathleagh tended to be predictable. And sure enough, Acosta found that the men who were trailing the expedition had made camp only a mile from the fort. They had picked a good, elevated position from which anyone returning along the road from the fort would be spotted. They had lit no fire that might give away their position. There were bound to be riflemen watching the approach, so rather than play games, Acosta walked directly toward their camp, still whistling his happy tune.

  “Halt!” someone shouted. “Who goes there?”

  “Hold your fire, idiot. That’s the Ordsman.” Someone crouched thirty paces ahead of him. Its shadow separated itself from the rest and approached. As he closed on Acosta, the Ordsman could see he was wearing an armored great coat and a tricorn hat. Acosta was quite pleased when he realized Rathleagh had sent his pet gun mage. The man stopped with his coat open, hands resting near his pistols. “I recognize that song.”