Free Into the Storm by Larry Correia

thought Madigan had taken his share of the bounty for himself. Madigan shot him a glance, and Cleasby knew he wasn’t ever to mention it.
    The knock on the door frame was entirely unnecessary, as there wasn’t anything stopping the man from coming inside. “I’m looking for Sixth Platoon,” he said.
    “You’ve found it.”
    “I was told to report to Lieutenant Madigan for assignment.” He shook the rain from his cloak, came in, and pushed his hood back, revealing the dark hair, dark eyes, and tanned skin of someone of Idrian blood. He was tall, thin, and probably only a few years older than Cleasby. He saluted. “Corporal R—”
    “Rains!” Wilkins clanked forward in his armor. He pointed one gauntlet at the stranger. “Begone, you wretched Menite dog! Go back and lick the boots of your hierarch in Sul!”
    “Easy, Wilkins,” Madigan cautioned.
    “That’s a Protectorate spy!” Wilkins shouted.
    “I’m Corporal Enoch Rains.” He glared at Wilkins. “Stormblade, Army of Cygnar , and loyal subject to King Leto Raelthorne.”
    “Your own evil doctrine says you can place none above Menoth. You can’t serve two masters, traitor.”
    “I no longer worship the Creator.” Rains let his cloak fall open, revealing his sheathed sword. “But call me a traitor again and I’ll arrange it so that you can explain it to him in person.”
    “You claim to betray your merciless god and declare yourself no traitor?” Wilkins lifted his galvanic sword. “His jealous commandments hold no sway over the righteous.”
    “Stand down, Sergeant,” Madigan ordered.
    The former Precursor took another step toward Rains, who placed his hand on his own sword and readied himself. The other soldiers looked between them, surprised by the sudden confrontation, but Madigan had lost his patience. He grabbed Wilkins by the open visor of his helmet while simultaneously kicking the back of the man’s knee. Wilkins’ leg buckled beneath his armored weight, and Madigan used his leverage to swing him around and hurl him in a great clanking mass to the floor. Madigan put his boot on Wilkins’ neck and applied some pressure.
    “I said stand down. ”
    Wilkins was turning red. “Yes, sir,” he managed to croak.
    “Can’t rightly call it standing down if he’s lying on the floor,” Thornbury said.
    Madigan removed his foot, and Wilkins gasped for air. The lieutenant turned back toward Rains. “What’s this spy business?”
    “I am originally from Sul,” he said simply. “But I am no longer a citizen of the Protectorate.”
    MacKay was leaning against the wall, still puffing on his cigar. “So you must be the one they call the Apostate.”
    “I have been called that by some, but rarely so casually to my face.”
    Cleasby had been so distracted by Wilkins being tossed around by the smaller and older Madigan that he’d nearly forgotten his clipboard. He got it out and scanned until he found Rains’ entry. “He’s on the list. He’s got an exemplary service record, including a commendation for bravery during a skirmish against the Khadorans in Llael. The only problem listed is ‘Personal issues with squad mates.’ Currently unassigned.”
    “‘Personal issues’ means no one wishes to serve alongside someone born and raised in the Protectorate of Menoth in a war against the Protectorate of Menoth,” MacKay pointed out. “I’ve heard some of the soldiers talking about him around the military district. How can you trust a man to fight against his own people?”
    “They are no longer my people .” Rains’ voice was firm. “Cygnar is my country and has been for five years. I have served this king and protected its citizens. Do not question my honor.”
    MacKay didn’t respond to Rains. Instead he addressed Madigan. “Some folks say he’s a Protectorate spy. Now I’m not saying he is . . .”
    “He’s a spy!” Wilkins insisted from his spot on the floor.
    “I’m not saying that, but a soldier’s got a right