Free Into the Storm by Larry Correia Page A

to wonder if his squad mate would hesitate to raise a sword against his former countrymen.”
    Rains gestured rudely at Wilkins. “He’s my current countryman, and I wouldn’t hesitate to raise a sword against him.”
    MacKay chuckled and took a puff from his cigar. “Fair enough.”
    “Why did you leave the Protectorate?” Thornbury asked, suspicion tingeing his voice. “I understand that doesn’t happen very often in a country full of fanatics.”
    Rains’ eyes narrowed. “My reasons are my own.”
    Cleasby was still studying the clipboard. “You were already serving in a Stormblade unit in the north. You had to request a transfer to get back to Caspia, where we’re about to invade your home city.” He didn’t need to point out why that seemed odd.
    “My reasons are my own,” Rains repeated.
    An uncomfortable silence fell. Rains was staring down all of the others. Madigan had been listening intently but had not spoken. Rains turned to him. “Your orders, Lieutenant?”
    He rubbed his scar thoughtfully. “You know your way around Sul?”
    “Yes, sir. I know it like the back of my hand.”
    “And you’ve got no problem spilling Menite blood?”
    “None whatsoever, sir.”
    Madigan smiled. “Pick a bunk, Corporal.”
    “What?!” Wilkins demanded.
    Rains gave Madigan a formal bow. “I swear on my life and my honor I will not fail you. Thank you for this trust.” He straightened, then walked to the back room and set his pack down in an isolated corner.
    “Lieutenant?”
    Madigan looked down to where the sergeant still lay on the floor. “Yes, Wilkins?”
    “With all due respect, I think you’re making a big mistake. After he finishes informing on us, and we’re in Sul, he’ll slash our throats in our sleep—or worse, get us captured, tortured, and wracked.”
    “Thank you, Sergeant. Remember when I said you needed to go a week without annoying me before you could have your shrine? Make that two.” Madigan walked off.
    Wilkins, red-faced with embarrassment, rolled about a bit in his armor, then looked to Cleasby. “Help me up?”

    The troops were assembled in the open yard between the slaughterhouse and their crumbling barracks. Forty men stood in two sloppy ranks, unkempt and unruly. Madigan had no doubt a few of them were still hung over as well. They’d been dragged here from the stocks, from the brig, and from various flop houses and taverns, and they looked it. Madigan walked in front of the line, inspecting each man carefully. Some had given into laziness and turned to fat. Some looked down as he passed, ashamed to be here. Others met his gaze, cocky or even belligerent.
    He certainly had his work cut out for him.
    Sergeant Cleasby had taken roll. Satisfied everyone was accounted for, Cleasby announced that the lieutenant wished to address them.
    “Welcome to the Sixth Platoon. I’m Lieutenant Hugh Madigan, your new commanding officer. I’m not one for giving flowery speeches and I figure you lot aren’t the kind that likes to listen to them, so I’ll save us all some time. You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t screwed up somehow.”
    “Neither would you,” one of the men in the second rank muttered. Several of his fellows laughed.
    Backtalk was to be expected from a lot like this, and Madigan was prepared for such an eventuality. A reputation was just another tool to be used. He walked up to the soldier who’d spoken. “What’s your name, Private?”
    “Langston.”
    “Why yes, Langston. I understand what it means to be in trouble, to be on the outs with the army. You are here because you drink too much and have a stupid mouth and a bad attitude.” Madigan leaned in close enough to smell the ale on Langston’s breath and looked him in the eyes. “I’m on the outs because I slaughtered a family of nobles during the coup. If I cared so little about personal friends of Leto Raelthorne’s, just imagine how much less I care about you.”
    Langston took a step