dinner with a stick. “ This is why I enlisted. Three square meals a day made fighting Cryx sound like a fine deal.”
That explained a lot.
Madigan stopped in front of a rundown warehouse. “This is the place.”
“Should we power up our swords?” Wilkins asked, eager.
“Feel free.”
Cleasby activated the weapon by rotating the haft in opposite directions until it locked in the armed position. It took a moment for the storm chamber to warm up. Then the sword began to hum at a very low pitch. The coils running through the copper tube in the center of blade began to glow with a pale, flickering light. Energy that had been gathered in the arcane accumulator flowed through the conductive lattice of the blade. There was a trigger stud beneath the guard to discharge the energy. Cleasby had never seen one of these used, but he’d heard they were absolutely devastating against tissue—including the user’s own, without proper attire. Suddenly he found that the storm armor didn’t seem quite so uncomfortable.
Wilkins was grinning. “Who are we fighting?”
“Nobody. You two just need to look official and intimidating. Lower your visors.”
Cleasby reached up with one insulated gauntlet and moved the visor down. The world seemed to close in as his vision was drastically curtailed. His breathing seemed very loud.
Madigan went up to the door and knocked. A small portal rasped open, and a pair of eyes appeared. “Password?” Then the guard saw the two glowing, fully armored Stormblades flanking an officer. “Uh oh.”
“The place is surrounded. Open this door now or I’ll have my warjack make a new one.”
“Right away!” The portal slid closed. They heard the scrape of a heavy metal bar being moved on the other side of the door.
“Warjack?” Wilkins asked in a low voice. “Surrounded?”
“Does Morrow have a problem with lying in order to gain a tactical advantage, Sergeant?”
“Not that I’m aware of, sir.”
“Good. Me and him will get along fine then.” The door opened. The guard was a fat, unkempt thug, but he got right out of their way, apologizing profusely. As soon as Cleasby was past him, the man took off running down the street.
The front of the warehouse had been portioned off by walls made of old boards and canvas curtains. The sound of many loud, excited voices echoed in the large space—easily dozens of voices, cheering and booing. It sounded like a sporting event. Madigan led the way through the curtains and bumped into a man wearing an armored great coat on his way out. The two men studied each other for a moment. They seemed to recognize each other. The man in the great coat looked over at the Stormblades, then back at their leader. “Madigan.”
“Caine.” Madigan nodded in return. “Here on business?”
“Always.” Then the man in the coat brushed past the Stormblades and walked outside.
“Who was that?” Cleasby asked Wilkins. The other sergeant shrugged.
Their commander shoved the last curtain aside and entered the main area of the warehouse. There had to be at least a hundred people inside. Crates and shelves had been arranged around a wide space in the center, almost like the seating of an amphitheater. In the open center of the warehouse two shirtless men were beating each other to a bloody pulp in a bare knuckle boxing match. Throughout the crowd money was changing hands rapidly as bets were placed. The crowd went wild as a gob of blood, spit, and a few teeth were sent flying across the ring by a particularly nasty right hook.
Madigan didn’t bother trying to shout over the racket. “Wilkins, get their attention.”
There was a wooden barrel off to the side. Wilkins looked inside, probably to make sure its contents weren’t dangerous, then lifted his sword. It hummed as the storm chamber charged, and he brought it down hard against the wood.
CRACK!
The release of electrical energy was far louder than Cleasby had expected. He flinched and closed his
That explained a lot.
Madigan stopped in front of a rundown warehouse. “This is the place.”
“Should we power up our swords?” Wilkins asked, eager.
“Feel free.”
Cleasby activated the weapon by rotating the haft in opposite directions until it locked in the armed position. It took a moment for the storm chamber to warm up. Then the sword began to hum at a very low pitch. The coils running through the copper tube in the center of blade began to glow with a pale, flickering light. Energy that had been gathered in the arcane accumulator flowed through the conductive lattice of the blade. There was a trigger stud beneath the guard to discharge the energy. Cleasby had never seen one of these used, but he’d heard they were absolutely devastating against tissue—including the user’s own, without proper attire. Suddenly he found that the storm armor didn’t seem quite so uncomfortable.
Wilkins was grinning. “Who are we fighting?”
“Nobody. You two just need to look official and intimidating. Lower your visors.”
Cleasby reached up with one insulated gauntlet and moved the visor down. The world seemed to close in as his vision was drastically curtailed. His breathing seemed very loud.
Madigan went up to the door and knocked. A small portal rasped open, and a pair of eyes appeared. “Password?” Then the guard saw the two glowing, fully armored Stormblades flanking an officer. “Uh oh.”
“The place is surrounded. Open this door now or I’ll have my warjack make a new one.”
“Right away!” The portal slid closed. They heard the scrape of a heavy metal bar being moved on the other side of the door.
“Warjack?” Wilkins asked in a low voice. “Surrounded?”
“Does Morrow have a problem with lying in order to gain a tactical advantage, Sergeant?”
“Not that I’m aware of, sir.”
“Good. Me and him will get along fine then.” The door opened. The guard was a fat, unkempt thug, but he got right out of their way, apologizing profusely. As soon as Cleasby was past him, the man took off running down the street.
The front of the warehouse had been portioned off by walls made of old boards and canvas curtains. The sound of many loud, excited voices echoed in the large space—easily dozens of voices, cheering and booing. It sounded like a sporting event. Madigan led the way through the curtains and bumped into a man wearing an armored great coat on his way out. The two men studied each other for a moment. They seemed to recognize each other. The man in the great coat looked over at the Stormblades, then back at their leader. “Madigan.”
“Caine.” Madigan nodded in return. “Here on business?”
“Always.” Then the man in the coat brushed past the Stormblades and walked outside.
“Who was that?” Cleasby asked Wilkins. The other sergeant shrugged.
Their commander shoved the last curtain aside and entered the main area of the warehouse. There had to be at least a hundred people inside. Crates and shelves had been arranged around a wide space in the center, almost like the seating of an amphitheater. In the open center of the warehouse two shirtless men were beating each other to a bloody pulp in a bare knuckle boxing match. Throughout the crowd money was changing hands rapidly as bets were placed. The crowd went wild as a gob of blood, spit, and a few teeth were sent flying across the ring by a particularly nasty right hook.
Madigan didn’t bother trying to shout over the racket. “Wilkins, get their attention.”
There was a wooden barrel off to the side. Wilkins looked inside, probably to make sure its contents weren’t dangerous, then lifted his sword. It hummed as the storm chamber charged, and he brought it down hard against the wood.
CRACK!
The release of electrical energy was far louder than Cleasby had expected. He flinched and closed his
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