Into the Storm by Larry Correia

slow, and loud. The armor hadn’t been properly sized yet, and bits and pieces chafed against his skin in the most obnoxious manner.
    It was very late in the day, but the street still held many people. Most of them seemed rather shady. Near the gates they had seen beggars, but none seemed to try their luck here. He imagined this was first because there was no money to beg and second because as soon as any unfortunate closed his fingers on a coin he’d be mugged for it. Cleasby had been trying to pay better attention to such things since his embarrassment in the Thornwood. “There’s a notable lack of city watch in this area.”
    “The few guards around are probably bribed easily enough,” Madigan agreed as he looked around. “Good choice of location, clever use of existing terrain. The area is perfect for this sort of thing.”
    “What sort of thing would that be, sir?” Cleasby asked.
    “You’ll see.”
    The lieutenant had forgone armor, and the other two still didn’t know why they’d had to suit up. They might look impressive, but Cleasby had never worn the insulated, electricity-proof armor before, and he’d never wielded a sword capable of channeling lightning. He hadn’t powered up the sword yet and was frankly a little nervous to do so. At least Wilkins seemed confident.
    More alert, too, he noted when Wilkins shifted to the side and lifted his shield as something small moved in a nearby alley. It was a female gobber, barely three feet tall, with grey skin and clothing made from old flour sacks. “You Madigan?” she hissed as she looked both ways, making sure none of the locals saw her talking to the army.
    Cleasby and Wilkins exchanged a glance.
    “That’s me. Where’s the ring?”
    “Coin first!” the gobber insisted.
    Madigan flicked a gold crown toward the alley, and the gobber snatched it from the air with one tiny fist. She bit the coin to satisfy herself that it was real and then told them, “End of the road, go left, half a block. Big warehouse with green doors.”
    “Thank you.” Madigan gave a small bow.
    The gobber turned and scrambled away, quickly disappearing into the warren of garbage and boxes.
    “You sure seem to have a lot of friends wherever you go, Lieutenant,” Cleasby said.
    “Enemies too, but I’ve outlived most of those. Come on, lads. We’ve got work to do.” He started walking again. The lieutenant’s fast pace had proven difficult to keep up with in the best of circumstances. Cleasby practically had to jog in the armor, which just made the pinching worse.
    They reached the end of the street and turned left. This area looked even worse, if that were possible. Some of the tenements had been damaged by fires and never repaired. Although most of Caspia had a good sewer system, from the smell he’d say either this area didn’t or it was backed up and leaking into the streets. The air was cold and damp, and he saw people sleeping in alleys and huddled around barrels, burning trash for warmth.
    “Rowan weeps, this is shameful,” Wilkins said. “These poor souls. The Church should do something about the poverty in this place.”
    Madigan grunted. “When the war is over, you can help here all you want, Wilkins.”
    “When my shield is no longer needed to defend the righteous from the Menite scourge, maybe I will. These poor souls need to hear the words of the ascendants and pull themselves up from this filth.”
    “Good luck. The Church does a little, sure: feeds the hungry, hands out a few blankets in between building marble cathedrals in Caspia. But some neighborhoods aren’t inclined to take help. Sooner or later some gang gets tired of being preached at. The pushy preachers end up taking a swim in the harbor.” He turned his head to Cleasby. “Remember when I asked why you enlisted? I grew up not far from here.” The lieutenant gestured at a crumbling tenement. A mangy dog ran past them, tail between its legs. A young gobber chased after his escaped