Into the Storm by Larry Correia Read Free Book Online Page A

you schooled in the doctrine of Morrow?”
    “That’s the good twin, right?” Madigan asked, completely deadpan.
    “Sir!” Cleasby choked. Everyone knew that Thamar was Morrow’s sister, the dark to his light, and that she was the goddess of selfishness and the merciless search for personal gain, worshiped only in secret in exchange for giving her followers dark powers.
    Madigan chuckled. “I’m joking, Cleasby. Wilkins is a fanatic, but we’re about to go to war with some fanatics, and it wouldn’t hurt to have one of our own. Look for a street preacher with a Precursor’s shield. I heard Wilkins carries that with him everywhere. Thinks it’s a holy relic or some such thing.”
    They found Sergeant Wilkins two streets over, standing on top of a crate giving a passionate discourse on his interpretations of doctrine to a small crowd that included pilgrims, several trollkin, a few gobbers, and an ogrun. Resting against the crate beneath the burly, square-jawed preacher’s feet was a battered steel shield bearing the symbol of Morrow and the Precursor Order.
    “The ascendants have taught us there are many righteous paths to Morrow’s domain in Urcaen. Rowan renounced her wealth and helped ease the suffering of others. Doleth gave his catch to the hungry and risked his life to save drowning sailors. Gordenn tilled his fields and used that bounty to feed the poor. What do they all have in common?”
    “Sacrifice!” shouted one of the listeners. “Sacrifice!”
    “Correct, my brother. Though there are many paths and many philosophies, sacrificing for the good of others is the ultimate display of devotion. The wretched Menites do not sacrifice for their fellow man but instead sacrifice each other to their merciless god!” He raised his voice so the entire street could hear his words. “The Creator is a petty, jealous god. Every soul is born with the ability to choose between righteousness and wickedness. Morrow would encourage that choice, allowing us to better ourselves. We choose to sacrifice! We choose to be good! We choose to be willing servants.”
    There were murmurs of assent from the crowd. Even the Dhunia-worshiping trollkin, gobbers, and ogrun seemed moved.
    “But Menoth doesn’t want servants; he wants slaves. Menoth would take that agency and crush it beneath his heel until we are all ground into dust. We must not be enslaved by the Protectorate, a government that focuses only upon the rigid inflexibility of their god. No, my brothers and sisters, they must be destroyed and Hierarch Voyle cast down from his palace of gold! We all must sacrifice in our own ways to stop this Menite menace!”
    The crowd cheered. Wilkins’ talk was certainly animated, though it was more militant than Cleasby was used to. Yet if Madigan had one personality trait that showed consistently, it was impatience. He wasn’t the type to waste time listening to a lay preacher. The knight stepped forward. Several members of the audience, seeing the medal on his chest, respectfully moved out of the way. “Sergeant Aiden Wilkins?” he said above the clamor.
    The preacher looked down. “Yes, my brother?”
    “You’re not my brother. You’re my subordinate. Get down.”
    “We all must answer to Morrow eventually, and if we’re to have victory over the Menites, we will need his light to guide us.” He glanced at the patch on Madigan’s shoulder to ascertain his rank. “So tell me, Lieutenant, who among the ascendants do you follow most closely? It appears you are knighted, and Ascendant Katrena is the patron of knighthood and nobility, yet you carry yourself as a common soldier, and they are watched over by Ascendant Markus. So who guides your path?”
    Cleasby was actually curious about the answer to that question.
    Madigan’s expression did not change. “King Leto Raelthorne guides my path, by way of his holy prophets Lord Commander Stryker and Major Laddermore, and they’ve ordered me to scrape together a unit to go