Into the Wild Page 16

  Though his skin was still blackened and charred, Ivor had healed enough to participate in the night’s hunt, so he had demanded the right of sacrifice. They’d found the lone trapper wandering in the wilderness weeks ago and had kept him locked in a pen with their pigs. The man was of Cygnar, and he stunk of fear and his own waste as Ivor dragged him before the basin.

  Polearms and axes—all too clumsy and big for the warriors holding them—were lifted and slammed against the packed dirt, over and over again, striking out a desperate rhythm.

  The mad shaman’s dance increased in intensity. While only the blackclads knew how to travel through the stones, the tribe’s shaman had gone through the wilding that made him truly of the wilderness. The druids had taken him from their tribe as a boy but returned him to them years later, his mind damaged. He might not have been fit to be a blackclad, but he served as Caradoc’s tribe’s holy man well enough. He was touched in the head, but Caradoc figured most holy men were anyway.

  But their deranged holy man still possessed the knowledge needed to send warriors through the stones. It required great ceremony and sacrifice for him to reach the proper state of mind, but once the fever was upon him, the old knowledge became clear in the frayed tatters of his mind. The Circle did not know the tribe occasionally used the blackclads’ stones and would surely be outraged if they found out—but the druids were not here and the tribe’s circumstances were dire.

  Their arrival on the other end would not be nearly as accurate as if they were sent by a real druid, and Caradoc’s warriors would be scattered across the mountainside, but for a lucky few it would be close enough. The glory would be theirs. He prayed he would be one of them and that he would feel bodies parted by his axe, blood in his mouth, and the crunch of bones between his teeth.

  The Cygnar was babbling, begging for mercy and for his young god to come and save him. But Morrow was afraid. Morrow did not dwell on the mountain. The sacrifice saw the massive form of Blood Drinker crouched on the other side of the fire, and the Cygnar began to scream in terror. Ivor yanked back the man’s hair and slashed his throat with a knife. He gurgled and kicked as his blood sprayed into the basin.

  Caradoc. Caradoc. Caradoc.

  Ivor let the body topple to the side. The shaman’s totem stick was wrapped in feathers and sinew, and he violently drove it deep into the basin. The holy man drew it free, dripping red in the firelight. Caradoc waited before the bonfire, his intricately carved armor hanging from his small frame, his huge bracers ready to fall from his narrow arms—for all the world looking like a child dressed in his father’s clothing—as the shaman approached.

  “Do you speak for the mountain?”

  “I am he who speaks for the mountain,” Caradoc declared for all to hear.

  The shaman pushed the stick against the chief’s forehead, painting him with blood. “Then let the will of the mountain be known.”

  As darkness fell upon the village, the change began.

  At dusk, Cleasby had led all the workers back into the stockade and locked the gates behind them. Professor Wynn and his most trusted advisors continued to study the tablet they’d found that morning. Though it was now well after sundown, the scholars were still working.

  Cleasby watched them from a distance with a bad feeling growing in his stomach. The scholars were engrossed in their find, and had he chosen, he could have been among them, trying to decipher the ancient texts, but at that moment he didn’t give a damn about learning. He thought he should have at least been conflicted—his military responsibilities pitted against his love of pursuing new knowledge—but when it came down to it, he made his decision without hesitation or second thoughts. He only cared about getting his charges home safely. His duty as an officer.

  His men were posted across the camp, watching over the palisade walls. Interspersed between the Storm Knights were workers with firearms, men who Raus identified as decent shots, mentally fit, and not prone to panic. If anything came for them, they’d see it coming and blast it.

  “Sergeant Rains,” Cleasby called.

  “Yes, sir.” Rains was standing on top of some crates so he could get a view over the sharpened wooden walls. He hopped down and went to the lieutenant. Rains’ helmet was dented and scratched from where the wolf creature had tried to rip his head off. “All’s clear.”

  “How goes the preparation for the night?”

  “We’re about as secure as can be, all things considered. I don’t think those things will be able to make it over without us hitting them. They’re not the great walls of Caspia, but they’ll do.”

  That was another thing gnawing at Cleasby. “If the fort was so helpful, why did the monsters leave this place standing after they had slaughtered the others? Why not tear it apart so we would have no shelter?”

  Rains obviously hadn’t thought of that; he seemed to consider it. “I don’t know.”

  Cleasby dealt in evidence and facts, but Madigan had taught him that an officer had to trust his instincts above all else, and right now, he felt like they were trapped. “I want you to spread the word. Have everyone start packing up. We’re moving out at first light. If I thought we could make it down the mountain without breaking the oxen’s legs in the dark, we’d leave now.”

  Rains cocked his head. “I didn’t think you’d spoken to the baron about leaving yet.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “What if he disagrees?”

  “Frankly, I don’t care what he thinks at this point. If it was up to me, we’d already be halfway back to Ironhead by now. He found what he was really looking for.” The fact that the professor had kept potentially dangerous secrets from him was nearly as annoying as Acosta being proven right. “If I can’t persuade him, then he can stay here by himself. My responsibility is to this entire expedition, not one man’s ambition.”

  “So, what happens to your career when the baron goes back to Caspia and complains about you to the Warmaster General?”

  He still hadn’t told Rains he was getting out of the army. “I’d rather be considered a bully or a coward than be responsible for another massacre. You didn’t see what was in that shrine.”

  Rains knocked on the side of his battered helmet. “No, but I saw the thing that did this. I’m not disagreeing with your assessment.”

  “Good. Spread the word. We move out at dawn.”

  Cleasby walked to where the professor was working. Someone had stretched a tarp between two wagons to form a makeshift tent, and the larger stones taken from the ruins were already loaded into the wagons. To one side, the students were working on the less significant items, but the strange tablet was resting atop a crate. The baron hunched over it with a magnifying glass, speaking while Pickett took notes. Bugs flew around the lanterns hung from poles.

  Horner was sitting back a bit, but rather than a notebook, she had her scattergun laid across her knees. Horner looked as nervous as Cleasby felt. She whispered to him as he approached. “I told the professor we should be going, but he won’t listen.”

  Cleasby approached to the professor. “Pardon me, your Lordship.”

  “You’re blocking my light,” he muttered.

  “Good. I believe you said earlier such things shouldn’t be studied in the darkness. I’ve given the order for us to leave in the morning.”

  “What?” the professor looked up, startled. “But we’ve just gotten started. I forbid it.”

  “As the acting military commander, I believe I have insufficient resources to guarantee the safety of this expedition, so I’m overriding your authority.”

  Pickett wasn’t used to anyone ordering around his respected teacher. “You can’t do that.”

  “My only regret is that I didn’t do it sooner.”

  Baron Wynn gestured at the tablet. “But we just found this. Who knows what else could be inside those ruins?”

  “And who knows what else is guarding it.”

  “So, a mysterious creature tries—and fails—to maul one of you
r men, and you just turn tail and run?” Pickett demanded. “I thought the mighty Storm Knights were supposed to be courageous.”

  Cleasby was disappointed; he thought he’d made peace with his old friend. For a moment, he just studied Pickett. His first thought was that his friend was taking the professor’s side to curry favor, but Cleasby realized that was unfair. Pickett had actually caught the fever and was excited by the find. This was the kind of thing Pickett had trained for years for, and now he clearly believed Cleasby was trying to steal that adventure away from him.

  “Think whatever you wish.” Cleasby kept his tone flat and even; it was best to keep this professional. “As long as you do as I say, I don’t particularly care what your opinion of me is.”

  “And here I thought you had become some kind of war hero when in reality, you’re still the same frightened little bookworm I knew in Corvis. Still scared of his own shadow.”

  Even though he understood Pickett’s desire to stay, Cleasby couldn’t help but lose his temper. “How many of your friends have you watched die in battle, Pickett? Blown apart by Skyhammers or their flesh melted off by Menoth’s Fury?”

  “What does that—?”

  “How many?”

  “None.”

  “When that number grows beyond zero, then you can lecture me on the nature of courage. Until then, you can shut up.” So much for professionalism, he thought, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that he had at least made an honest effort.

  Pickett was clearly offended, but the professor seemed more disappointed by this development than anything else. He held up one hand to silence his assistant. “You’re truly that worried, lieutenant?”

  “We’re isolated, two days from help, facing an unknown number of dangerous foes.” Cleasby pointed at the tablet. “Foes who I believe may have religious reasons to hate our presence. I think we’ve violated their sacred ground.”

  “This tablet is thousands of years old. There’s no way there’s any connection with whatever animals attacked your soldiers.” The professor was grasping at straws, and they both knew it. “You have a warjack and the most advanced weapons in the kingdom. Surely you can protect us from mere savages.”

  “People say the same thing about gatormen. They’re just simple tribes wallowing in the mud, without much technology beyond sticks and rocks, but there’s nobody from my part of Cygnar who isn’t scared to death about accidentally straying into their territory. When that savagery comes to bear and you’re outnumbered on terrain they control, you will die.”

  “Nervous guesswork, nothing more,” Pickett declared. “We started this survey, we should finish it.”

  Cleasby was annoyed. Now Pickett was just putting on airs as if he were an experienced adventurer. But Cleasby had seen how frightened his old friend had been inside that shrine full of dismembered bodies. “Trust me. I’m something of an expert when it comes to how motivated people can become when you invade their sacred ground. We don’t want to be here.”

  “Cleasby is right,” Horner finally chimed in. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this. A squad of mercenaries and a ranger patrol are dead. We can gather more troops in Ironhead to properly secure this place and come back. The delay will be inconsequential.”

  “As soon as we walk away, Rathleagh will move in to loot this place of all its precious knowledge.” The professor looked at her, then Pickett, then back at Cleasby before letting out a defeated sigh. “I did specify that I didn’t want a yes man. Very well, lieutenant, your point has been made yet again. I will try to be reasonable. I’ll sleep on it, and give you my answer in the morning.”

  “I know what your answer will be because we’re leaving in the morning.”

  He’d pushed too far, and he knew it. The professor snapped, “Then we’ll be very sad to see you go. If Horner has lost her stomach for exploration, she can return with you and request replacement troops. As long as I’m paying them well enough, I’m sure Raus and his men will stick around, and they will be a sufficient deterrent.”

  Cleasby wasn’t so sure about that. He’d seen how shaken the ogrun had been when they’d come out of those rotting ruins. But even if Raus left, surely some of his laborers would be greedy enough to stay. Even a few armed men would probably be sufficient to convince the professor to stay. Wynn was too close to this, too blinded by his own desires.

  “I’m begging you, your Lordship. You asked for me to protect you, so you need to trust me.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Cleasby. I truly do. It’s obvious you care a great deal about the safety of all these people, but there’s no such thing as great discovery without great risk. We’ll be alert during the day and safe inside these walls at night.”

  “I’m sure the last group felt exactly the same way.” Cleasby walked away without another word. There was nothing else he could do to sway the professor, but he still had work to do.

  The bunkhouse was quiet. The small building was filled with bedrolls, most of them occupied. Some of the university crew and most of the workers were trying to get some sleep. One of the students had brought a bottle of fine wine to crack open if they made any great discoveries, but it was still sitting, uncorked and lonely, on the table they’d cleaned the mercenary’s brains from. Considering this historic discovery, they should have been excited, even celebratory, but their mood was muted. Cleasby suspected a chamber of bones would have that effect on an expedition.

  One corner had been set-aside as their hospital. Cleasby pushed his way through the hanging blankets and stopped in front of the ranger. She had a few candles lit next to her cot, and even in the dim light, he could see Novak was much healthier. She was conscious, alert, and her color had returned. Unfortunately, she was now belligerent.

  She sat up on her cot. “You! About damned time you showed your face.”

  On the other side of the blanket, workers attempting to sleep shouted for them to keep it down.

  She lowered her voice a bit. “So, am I supposed to be a prisoner or not?”

  “No. I believe you are who you say you are.”

  “I wouldn’t know it by the treatment.” The young ranger alternated between anger and suspicion. “You had one of your men stationed at this bunkhouse all day, keeping an eye on me, and he wouldn’t say so much as a word about what was going on.”

  “Corporal Bevy’s not much of a talker. Don’t take it as an insult.” In fact, Cleasby didn’t think Bevy liked anyone much at all, but it was hard to tell since he’d uttered a grand total of possibly fifty words since they’d left Sul—and most were just some variation of yes, sir or no, sir. “I left him to guard the whole camp.”

  “Am I free to go, then?”

  “Well, since you could barely walk the last time we spoke, it didn’t come up, but yes, you are. If you were a prisoner, I’d have shackled you to our warjack. I’ve done it before. When the prisoner tries to run, Headhunter just tugs. It’s hilarious to watch. But I digress. I came to see if you’re ready to travel.”

  Novak appeared relieved. Regardless of what else she’d told him, Cleasby believed she was sincerely terrified of this place. “Good. I’ve got to report what happened to my patrol.”

  “We’re leaving for Ironhead at first light.” Cleasby pulled up a stool and carefully lowered his armored bulk onto it. When the wooden legs didn’t creak too much, he figured it was safe to rest for a moment. One got used to living in armor, but there was no getting around the constant strain. A soldier could ignore discomfort, but it was always there anyway.

  “Not soon enough.”

  “I believe your story, Novak. I’ll be glad to be free of this place, too.”

  “I just want off this wretched mountain.” Novak was a petite, fair-skinned, blonde young woman, but there was something about the way Cygnaran rangers spoke and carried themselves that made Cleasby think they were about to spit on the floor and start a fight. “To hell with it, and to hell with those wolf things. If I come back, I hope it’s with my wh
ole battalion to clean those hairy bastards out, once and for all.” She hesitated. “Something’s eating you. You look worried, lieutenant.”

  “I think we’re being stalked by the creatures that hit your patrol, and I’m afraid we just stole something from them.”

  “Then put it back.”

  “Sadly, it’s not my call to make. All I can do is make sure we’re as secure as possible for the night.” He imagined it wouldn’t hurt to try getting more information out of her one more time. “If I knew more about what we were dealing with, I’d be able to do a better job of protecting us. You seem clearheaded now. I need to know what’s out there. Can you tell me anything else?”

  Novak shook her head. “I told you what I know.”

  “Not about the monsters, but tell me what brought your patrol here to begin with. I think the CRS sent your patrol out here for a reason. I want to know if whatever you were scouting for is related to this danger.”

  “Fat chance of me knowing anything useful, sir. Even if I were allowed to tell you, I’m only a corporal. It isn’t as if you officers are free with information.” As Novak spoke, her eyes flicked to the side, an unconscious tell. She was trying hard not to give too much away. If she had to consciously think of what not to say, then she knew something. “We’re mushrooms.”

  “Kept in the dark and fed dung. I get it. It’s no better for Storm Knights. But soldiers talk. Well, everyone but Bevy. And we hear things. I know you’re sworn to secrecy, but I just want to keep what happened to your patrol from happening to anyone else. Anything you could tell me might help.”

  “You’ve got me between a rock and a hard place here, lieutenant. You’re not in my chain of command, and I really don’t want to be court-martialed, but I also don’t want to end up like the rest of my patrol either. I’m fond of keeping both my arms attached to my torso.”

  “Understandable. Think about it. And in the meantime, if you hear an alarm, I put your weapons and equipment right over there. There’s a spare box of cartridges on top of your cloak, and I had your rifle cleaned and oiled so it wouldn’t rust. Of course, I was never been issued a rifle; instead, I went right from shuffling paperwork to carrying a storm glaive. But Langston first enlisted as a long gunner, so I’m assuming he did a passable job.”