Warhammer 1. Prologue

Prologue

The aging lord general stood before the towering observation windows of his on-board quarters. He always marveled at the expanse of the empty void and its quiet majesty. Stars of white fire pulsed impossibly far away and celestial bodies danced their circular patterns around them. Of the near infinite number of twinkling stars there would be millions of exploitable systems. Of those, a pitiful few would harbor life. Unfortunately for the Imperium, most of those life forms hated and feared it. It was mankind's manifest destiny to conquer the galaxy, as ordained by the God-Emperor himself ten millennia ago. It was only natural for the Xeno to despise mankind, for mankind hated them more for standing in the way.

Lord General Augustus Trevin sighed deeply. His formal regalia weighed heavily on his shoulders, as well as the weariness brought on by warring against the Emperor's foes across the breadth of his domain. A century and a half of service was being celebrated this very evening, devised auspiciously by his staffers to fall on his hundred and seventy third birthday. He tugged on the heavy gold clasp of his finely woven cloak of Talarian ocean silk, taking a moment to brush the fingers of his flesh and blood hand on the heraldry of his house and home, a rearing long strider against a cross of spear and sword, and pulled the gossamer fabric from his shoulder. It was a finely sculpted clasp gifted to him by his ceremonially minded wife on his first command as brigadier general over a century ago.

Outside his private quarters another cheer sounded. Glasses rang from honored toasts and praises to his name were bellowed heartily three fold. Augustus had retired early, only 3 hours after the beginning of the celebration, while his better half entertained the gathering of guard generals, naval captains, and the planetary commander of the Regulus system. This last campaign had been a hidden blessing for the lord general. The unruly rebels had folded quickly at the might of the Imperial Guard and flew the white flag of surrender early on. The masterminds of this latest tomfoolery had not expected the strength of a million-strong army to land on their worlds. In truth, Augustus and his cohort had been on route to another engagement of a more sizable importance when the Munitorum had rerouted his forces to quickly stomp out this budding fire.

It had just been unfortunate for the secessionists and fortunate for the Imperium that the timing of their revolt coincided with the tides of the warp that brought Augustus at hand. Naturally the rebel leaders were all put to death and a quick reshuffling of power structures within the system made it unlikely a revolt would happen again. Given a century or two that would probably change but for now, Augustus and his forces could move on. After this ridiculous celebration that is.

No, tonight the lord general would pay his respects to the guardsmen who had died to make "his" victories possible. He supposed it was why he had chosen to excuse himself and call on a very special person to attend him. With the soft whirling of his augmented wrist's actuators, his mechanical digits fluidly freed the couplings from his dress shirt and the wide rimmed solid platinum catches trailing down his Persephonian blue vestments. Like the stars beyond, he chided himself for the child-like wonder he felt at his replaced limb. What secrets the Mechanicus had whispered to its machine spirit made the intricately detailed bronze segments of the appendage fluid in their motions. It was one of the rare limbs that did not pain him at the joints. Give or take a few application of sacred oils during the week.

Mankind's history was filled with wondrous creations and dark deeds. He would share many of his own tonight, for good or ill. A soft rasp informed him of the arrival of his guest and he sent his attendant to the matter before giving him leave for the night. The manservant disappeared down an arched hallway. Had the world of Regulus Hydra not spun lazily outside his viewing ports, a naval term that did the eight meter tall Gothic lancet window no credit, the lord general would have been hard pressed to remember he was aboard the massive grand cruiser _Righteous Oculus_, home to half a million souls and the flag ship of Lord Admiral Gregori.

The telltale pitch of a lady's stilettos stabbed the hard wood floor, which made him smile. What kind of woman would attend him, the master of world sundering armies, in such impractical footwear, he wondered? The answer came swaying out of his foyer. She wore a surprisingly flowing dress of softly overlapping shades of purples which shimmered as she rolled her hips, the fabric moving in an almost hypnotizing way. A feathery black lace covered her backside and met below the line of her waist, which was tightly cinched by a corset that made the bell like lower half of her dress puff out in sharp contrast. It also braced her humble bosom in an all too pleasant, albeit tasteful, fashion. Opera length gloves wrapped her youthful skin in tight semi-reflective fabric of matching purple which left the eyes to wander her naked shoulders and the slender curve of her collarbone.

Despite the powerful impression left by her sense of fashion, it was much to her credit that the crowning jewel of her appearance was her delicately curving pink lips, which smiled sincerely and warmly. Augustus was set immediately at ease, even before meeting her passionately shimmering violet eyes. He chastised himself for not having begun his inspection a little higher up but then his discipline had waned a bit during the long years.

'Good evening your lordship,' Serenity chirped energetically as she curtsied gracefully. No mean feat considering her petite stature probably boasted at least six inches of heels, by Augustus's appraisal.

'Good evening my dear.' The lord general bade her take a seat by his fireplace, an exceptionally rare allowance aboard a ship of any kind, as flames were the bane of any voidsmen, second only to the warp and its denizens. Serenity took a seat on the heavily cushioned state chairs. She combined a harlot's stride with a virgin's purity and left the lord general wonder what kind of rumors would surface about him tonight. he reminded himself to leave tangible proof of their transaction, least his lady wife find too many opportunities to harangue him for his impulsive last minute request for the young serenity.

He joined her by the softly crackling fire and set before the young girl a small flat box of lacquered wood. Her eyes lit up in excitement and she bit the corner of her lip. She leaned towards it to trace her gloved finger tips over the seal of the House of Trevin.

'Is this it?' she asked.

Augustus confirmed her giddy question. 'Indeed it is, from a dusty vault straight to your hands, an artifact rarely used in the last ten millennia. I trust it will buy your services until we are done with this little engagement?'

'Assuredly so my dear lord general, it will be something you will never forget. In fact, I make it my personal business to make sure no one ever does while I still draw breath.'

Augustus chuckled. 'You almost make it sound like a threat,' he said.

'I understand men of your stature know the value of leaving an imperious legacy behind.'

Augustus' eyes filled with icy cold. 'Let me be clear lady Serenity. I will not tolerate any embellishment beyond the poetic prose common to your craft. You will relay my story with clarity and respect. Truth is what I seek from you; it is why I chose you. I was led to believe you had a no none sense approach to recording information for posterity. Was I mistaken?'

'Understood your lordship,' Serenity was surprised by this change of demeanor. She had tallied up the rumors about the lord general to fawning sycophants. No man of such power could climb the ladder of imperial power with ideological notions intact. She smiled as disarmingly as she could; this assignment was proving to be something much more interesting than she had previously anticipated.

The iron in the commander instantly faded, replaced by the avuncular tenderness of a man who had seen too much pain to cause anymore then he had to. 'Opened it' Augustus offered as he waved a hand at the box between them.

Serenity's excitement bubbled back to the surface as she carefully savored the moment. She felt like a child opening a gift on Emperor's day, when families thanked the Master of Mankind for his eternal vigilance and celebrated the blessings of living safely with their loved one under his protection. He who protects against the manifold threats of within, without, and beyond.

Within the box laid the most singularly precious piece of archeotech Serenity had ever seen. A soft circlet of precious metal rested on a bed of red velvet. It looked so innocuous but to one of her profession, it was the holy grail of mnemonic rendition. She lifted the frail looking instrument and turned it reverently in her gloved hands. Unseen mechanism of such fine craftsmanship were hidden within its body, designed as a slender and unpresumptuous tiara, it would mesh with her nervous system and record her every senses. Combined with its intra-neural crystalline matrix, it could even record the input from psychic sources such a witch-sight. Though she did not have that potential herself it spoke immensely of its long lost technological secrets.

'The Remembrancers of old used them to chronicle the Emperor's great crusade,' said Augustus, interrupting Serenity's rapture. 'I was told that at one point, patterns such as the one you're holding were common place. If you can believe that, the Ecclesiarchy and the Cult Mechanicus would pay a sector governors ransom for one with an image of his majesty. Although I doubt it would be to the same ends.

Serenity shivered at the thought that a circlet like the one she held could hold the memory of witnessing the Master of Mankind before his internment in the golden throne. She placed the marvelous device on her head, slowly and as dotingly as if she were crowing herself. The old General couldn't help but grin as he leaned his head against his palm. He sometimes missed the youthful exuberance that new experiences could stir within a person's heart. He knew that if Serenity were to live as long as him, this moment, right here, would still be remembered with vivid clarity for its momentous nature. One could live a thousand lifetimes and never even see a archeo-mnemonic recorder, least of all own one. But the nature of the task set before the young girl was of grave importance to Augustus and he would only trust one who felt as passionate about the opportunity as he did.

The young scholar let out a shuddering breath as monomolecular tendrils burrowed inside her skull to mesh with her synapses. For a seemingly timeless moment, no more than a minute in reality, subtle pain snaked through her skull. It was simultaneously sharp but exquisite, and over with far too quickly. The circlet had sparked off a flurry of sensations in her body and her chest was heaving deeply as pinprick beads of sweat glittered off her face in the fire light. Her skin was flush and her heart beat a rambunctious staccato that had all the symptom of a divinely triggered climax. Serenity relaxed her limbs as she caught her breath, her fingers aching were they had gripped the chairs armrest savagely.

'That was... unexpected,' she finally managed to say as she tried to compose herself. The reflective device was poised weightless around her head and rested against the dark curtain of her hair. It was not entirely out of place, a feature Augustus mused was surely intended by its architects.

'Would you like a refreshment young lady?' offered the general.

'Yes please' she said timidly, slightly embarrassed at her instinctual response to the mnemonic device's activation. The gentlemanly officer left her to compose herself as he walked to a cabinet for refreshments. Like the rest of the large vaulted room, it was decorated in a simple yet elegant tracery of finely sculpted wood and precious metals. Its tall facing a doubled pane of glass which kept the artificial chill of its embedded contents at serving temperature. He gingerly plucked a crystal goblet and poured a measure of a soft tangerine colored liquid made from a rare citrus from Golgia. It was a preferred substance of his, with a demurred alcohol content and a sweet tang, which pleased the senses and left the mind clear despite its lightly intoxicating content. He returned to his seat with a measure of dark cherry wood bourbon for himself and handed her the citrus liquor, which Serenity took gracefully and sampled.

She murmured contently and smiled. 'Thank you, are we ready to begin?' she asked politely.

'I suppose we are,' the old man answered quietly. He stared up to the painted fresco of the vaulted ceiling and pondered where to begin. It had been so many years, yet every moment came rushing back as if his very soul eagerly wished to unburden itself in this pseudo-confessional context. Muted by the distance between them, the festivities none the less rose to a cheer as some unheard of toast was loudly offered and well received.

'To understand what I wish to convey tonight, it is important to understand where I, where we, came from.' The general's tone became solemn and nostalgic as he began to recall the founding of the Persephonian 1st.


	2. Chapter 1

_**The Kursk battle line**_

1.

Persephony, the jewel of the Yurelias subsector. It was not a world of teeming billions nor of massed industry. It was not a world dedicated to the worship of the god-emperor nor the seat of government for the subsector imperial commander. It was not a bread basket for the sector, much to the contrary; it imported most of its foodstuff. It held no great historical significance or hid secrets worth defending. The Administratum classification for it was tithe exemtus, it didn't even pay Imperial taxes. It was a jewel because it had been made into a pleasure planet, a paradise world. Its inhabitants were the rich and the powerful, the aristocratic classes of the sector came here to enjoy themselves in their summer homes and ignore the truth. That in the galaxy, there is only war.

It came as a great surprise then, when the Administratum received orders from the Segmentum office that Persephony was to have a founding. It made little sense. Those who lived on Persephony did so sporadically. The nobles' official residences were on other worlds and their contributions to the great Imperium of man were fulfilled there. The only permanent residents of the pleasure world were their servants and those of mercantile leanings that made fortunes from the aristocratic classes' indulgences. Despite the reality that a great number of young nobles born on the peaceful shores of Persephony had never left the world and most likely never would, they were not considered a permanent fixtures of the world and with a great deal of petitioning and indignant rants, the planetary governor was convince to exempt the nobles from a draft, whom in turn convinced the ordinators of the Administratum to take their soldiers from the servant classes instead.

This did not please the patrician houses neither, but the paperwork involved in gaining exemption for their hereditary bondsmen was not worth the hassle. Even if death was almost guaranteed to those chosen to live the Guardsmen's life, the languid lords and ladies did not find it in them to try and save their menials and the few who did were mockingly waved off with derisive comments about being over attached to the furniture.

Thousands of manservant, maids, gardeners and cooks were drafted to form the logistical support for the new founding. Those with military training, the expendable house guards who were sharper of dress than of discipline, were given the Guard's formative training. The security forces of the entire world barely made muster and fell woefully far from any number that could constitute a stout regiment. So majordomos and attendants were forced into the fighting ranks to bolster their numbers. Where some regiments of the Imperium boasted tens of thousands of men under their banner, Persephony managed to wrangle a single regiment with barely five thousand fighting men. Although it had one of the best support element, the noble's servants had very little to work with, none the less generations of clockwork servile men and women attentive to every detail managed to fulfill their role with amazing success. The only thing that was truly missing was a command echelon for the somewhat meek Persephonian 1st.

The planetary governor, trapped between a rock and a hard place, balanced the needs of the Administratum and his fellow nobles. He could not order them to serve for fear of becoming a social pariah, a fate worse than death on Persephony. So he did what nobles do best, he threw a glorious martial themed soirée and bent his considerable wiles to convince many a family to send their youngest to lead the regiment with honor and valor. In this way the heirs of their houses would remain safe and some politically inconsequential younger sibling could set off into the stars and maybe win some glory for their house. It worked.

The house patriarchs warmed to the idea and suddenly there were more unwilling volunteers than the regiment had room for. The bachelors, the ambitious, the black sheep, and the families' bastards were sent to the Guard's muster camp. This had the unexpected effect of bolstering the pride and spirit of the regiment-to-be. Unbeknownst to the rank and file was the nature of their noble leaders, the bonded servants who had been reared to submit to their master's whims were now on familiar ground. They felt complete and their anxieties melted away, if only slightly. It revived breeding and class distinctions between the guardsmen-to-be and effectively turned the entire regiment into an extension of old family loyalties and grudges. Despite the obvious schism that it formed, the drill sergeants couldn't deny that the peons were now fired up and outdoing all the expectations the discouraged training staff had come to harbor.

The regiment's designation had been left to the discretion of its commanders. Seeing as it was a paltry gathering of soldiers, the Munitorum branch of the Adeptus Administratum did not bother paying much attention to their organization beyond the minimum requirements set before them by their orders. Bureaucrats followed instructions to the letter and it was no exception here, they didn't care about these men and women, the average life span of a guardsman was 15 hours once combat was joined, after all.

The Persephonian elite had a fondness for all things equestrian. Through the culture that evolved on the pleasure planet, no greater sign of nobility could be found than the mastery of the mount. In all things, even in their language, the equine beast was the apex of expression. It was no surprise then that the Persephonian 1st became a mechanized infantry regiment. They would have no doubt taken real flesh and blood horses with them to form cavalry units but the thought of so many noble beasts being forced to endure the trials and indignity of war broke the equine loving hearts of the noble sons and daughters of Persephony. No thought was given to their servants however. The armored personnel carrier became their metaphorical mounts, 38 tons of imperial steel equipped with a mix of heavy flame throwers, heavy bolters, multi-las turrets, and auxiliary flank gun ports able to carry a full squad in combat. The Chimera was able to churn up any terrain with its heavy tracks and could peak at a speed of 75 kph. It would do nicely thought, the commanders.

The weeks that followed were the toughest any soul on Persephony ever experienced. Physical training interspaced with firing drills and equipment familiarization were the norm. Every day was hell for the pampered would be guardsmen. Drill sergeants who had survived the death of their regiments passed on vital knowledge and mind numbing abuse to harden the men and women of the new regiment. The servant class managed better than most, this training being slightly more demanding than an off day in an eccentric's lord's house. The fact they couldn't hide away from their tormentors, and the lengthy duration of the abuse broke many of them, but still they fared better than the prissy peacocks that had been used to looking down on the hereditary bondsmen of their houses. The house guards were better in every combat simulation but the mud and dirt coupled with the verbal abuse of their overseers push a few into actions that resulted in their immediate execution. The house guards quieted down as a whole after that. Of the aristocratic scions and their officer training, no one knew. They were segregated from the lowly masses even in this hell camp. But few expected them to have suffered as they had.

The only junior officer to have trickled down to the ranks of the enlisted kept quiet as to why and how. But the young noble was warmed to quickly by the servant class. He was friendly and unpretentious, he also had a knack for infuriating the most feared drill sergeant, old zigzag, a man with a mangle faced that only a blind mother could love. The amount of trouble and harsh punitive ordeals he endured were astounding in themselves. Because of that, he also became part of a small click of troopers others had taken to calling the misfits. Amongst them were a smooth talking gambler and ladies' man, two things strictly forbidden in the camp, though that did not stop him. There was also a fidgety boy with a wandering eye who bungled up drills so bad he was always on punitive duties despite his best efforts. A few more came and went but the core was those three. The charmer, Jensen Melot. The fritz, Frederick Lancer. And the disgraced aristo, Augustus Trevin.

Once the troopers were partially inured to the barrage of abuse heaped upon them by their overseers they were quickly thrown out of their element as infantry men and put to the test as operators and mechanized troopers. The drills changed entirely, from formation maneuvers and marksmanship to Chimera basic maintenance and mounting/dismounting exercise. The fortunate side in the change was that half the curriculum was headed by the strange priesthood of mars. The techpriests were of an entirely different order of magnitude on the scale of unpleasantness. Most didn't complain however, their battered psyche needed a different kind of pain to process in order to remain functional anyway. The techpriest were not abusive in the way the drill sergeants were but they were more demanding. The machine spirit, they constantly preached, were a gift from the machine god. The technology inherit in the Chimera was alive and sentient they said. It deserved respect and worship of the highest magnitude for they had been gifted to them by the Omnissiah, their version of the God-Emperor in his aspect as the master of technology and avatar of the machine god. The theological part of the training was hard to follow. The technical was of a much more digestible vein.

Prayers to be intoned, proper anointed tools to be used, ritual gestures to be performed, it was very straight forward and the best amongst the troopers were given special consideration. It seemed ridiculous at times that a lug needed to be turned 11 times, no more no less, otherwise the machine spirit would be angered and its performance reduced. But to disregard the protocol rituals was a good way of getting the half-man half-machine priests to blurt angry binary chants at you. Trooper Felix even had his hand crushed in the caliper grip of enginseer Killian's mechadendrite after he had offended the machine spirit by banging his spanner against a stubborn engine block. Thus was the techpriest's convictions obeyed and feared.

It did not help that the Enginseers always walked around with lobotomized servitors either, men and women who had been 'upgraded' to perform specific tasks to help the techpriests. They never talked, not with words but rather angry screeching mechanical sounds, and stared ever onwards with glassy soulless eyes. They never ate nor slept and worked tirelessly, their augmented limbs of pistons and industrial tools banging on endlessly. Someone had asked old sergeant Zigzag what they were. He had answered 'heretics and blasphemers against the machine spirits' or 'criminals rendered into mindless machines instead of being executed'. A fate they reserved to those who offend their god. The sergeant had made a point of looking at trooper Felix and his broken hand. The Persephonian's paid more attention to the theological instructions after that. It was a different kind of abuse, the better to train men they said, at least it gave them a different kind of pain.

The day came to ship out and it was filled with nervous excitement and adventurous expectations. Great pomp was afforded for the circumstance. The men and women of the Persephonian 1st were on the parade ground in their best regalia. Light blue uniforms trimmed with golden braids, immaculate white caps matched by white cotton gloves, and pips denoting their breeding and class. Hierarchy and class were important to the Persephonians. It ordered their world and made sense of their lot in life. Even amongst the servants, the cast system pervaded their interactions. The lowest were the maintenance bondsmen that tended to the waste of the noble estates. Then there were those who toiled outside the house like the gardeners and the stable attendants. Indoor servants such as maids and cooks ranked higher and those in direct contact with the masters even more so. Finally there were the house guards whose duties involved wrangling and punishing wayward servants. Exceptions did exist however, reflecting the reality of their roles and the affections of their masters. Hand maidens were rarely treated like the maids and no one but the majordomo argued with the master. Likewise, if the stable master did a good job with the master's steeds he was accorded much more respect than nominally afforded for an outdoors bondsman.

This intricate system of casts was informally retained. Few of the regimental NCOs were other than house guards. Sergeants and corporals were taken from those who knew how to bear arms. Logistical experts such as stewards were given rank to become quartermasters and no cook worth his salt was placed beyond the confines of a mess hall, the best of which were reserved for the senior commander's officer club and mess. Military hierarchy took precedence as the Guard's organization demanded, but even the lowliest of house guard-turned-trooper gave a sergeant quartermaster little more than a glace, and usually with disdain. The soldiers would leave their world soon, but their world would not be left behind.

A band played loudly as the governor and a slew of nobles inspected the troops standing at attention in front of their newly painted Chimera APCs. The regiments' commander Colonel Lazarus shook the hand of the governor. He looked like a man who had drawn the short straw and was clearly unhappy to leave his home after nearly 60 years of enjoying its fruits. His dour second in command was another story entirely. Major Tiamat stood stock straight and proud; ready to unleash the wrath of the Emperor on any who would oppose his rule and the manifest destiny of mankind to conquer the galaxy. The company commanders were an eclectic group. Some bore their colonel's disgruntle acceptance of fate while other, younger and more idealist, shared Tiamat's zeal. None the less the Captains painted a pretty picture for this austere occasion. The first and probably only time this world would ever send men and women to die far away in the name of their divine lord. This entire founding was probably a clerical error after all. It was to be expected when the Imperium governed a million, million worlds. All this despite its dogmatic and rigorous if somewhat byzantine bureaucracy.

Escorted by the sonorous bombastic clash of the grand orchestra, those who would soon fight and die for the Imperium mounted the great mass conveyors that would take them to the stars, never to return home again.

It was fortunate that the ceremony did not extend to disembarkation. The land loving equestrian Persephonian soon found that their stomach did not handle well the virgin flight through the tumultuous atmosphere of their home world. The proud guardsmen waddled and tripped as they exited the mass conveyors aboard the kilometer long Imperial transports that would ferry them across the galaxy to their unsure fate. More than a few no longer wore immaculate uniforms, the content of their stomach or their neighbors plastered across them. The voidsmen, those used to traveling through the stars and whom in most case were born and died without ever leaving their colossal ships, laughed at the drunken exit of the troopers. It was one of the rare few pleasures they had, as life in the Navy was as consistently cruel as in the Guard, even without the horrors of traveling through the warp.

And horrible it was.

No one had mentioned, and for good reason, the difficulty of one's maiden voyage through the warp. To travel faster than light, the only means capable of reaching the far off worlds in the endless expanse of the void, that dark empty space, Imperial ships traveled through an extra dimensional plane called the Empyrean, or more commonly known as the warp. Miracles from the dark age of technology allowed for such a jump, but not without a price. Even with the expertise of techpriests who tended the great and forbidden knowledge of the massive plasma drives and warp engines, a ship had to traverse the empyrean shielded only in a thin and all too fallible device. Another hallmark of Imperial technology lost to the ages and maintained by the erudite members of the Cult Mechanicus, the Gellar field created a membrane thin field of energy that kept the psycho reactive substance of the warp at bay. Without it, the warp would hammer against the hull of a starship finding ways in and bend the laws of reason and sanity until breaking point.

The warp was a realm of infinite energy and potential, a swirl of multicolored hues impossible for man to endure or understand, and one which human thoughts and fears came to life. Primitive cultures had called it the Sea of Souls, the Great Beyond, the Astral Plane, and many more monikers beyond that. Whatever they called it, it was not empty. Things, unimaginably horrible things from beyond real-space-time existed within its chaotic confluence. Creatures that were hungry and starved for the stuff of souls. As the warp reacted to human thoughts so did these terrible denizens, and if it were not for the tenaciously thin membrane of counter resonant energy, they would swarm within the hulls of a ship like a tide of nightmares given forms. Less scholarly folks knew them by a singularly insightful name, daemons. Although the Gellar field shunted utter destruction and an eternity of suffering aside, it did not stop those beings from clawing at the ships and whispering into the unprepared and often time unaware minds of the newly initiated void traveler.

Despite the inherit risk of using such a mode of transportation, the Imperium depended on its use. Astrotelepathic psykers, mind forged and melded to the light of the Emperor in a ritual few who had the potential survived, hurled their thoughts and the message they contained across incalculable distances to communicate with one another. The binding, as it was called, altered their mental architecture forever more, the stress of the experience searing their neurological system and blinding them to a man and often time also robbing them of other senses as well. It also protected their minds from the predation of the warp and its denizen. A sliver of the Emperor's light was bound into their soul and allowed them to commune across space. Still, the life expectancy of an astropath was woefully shortened by such a daunting calling.

The psyker's were not the only essential participants in cross galactic travel. Navigators, ancient gene-modified mutants whose lineage could be traced millennia past into the dark age of technology, guided starships across the impossible plane of the warp. They were gifted, and some say cursed, with a third eye set within their cranium which allowed them to process the sanity blasting landscape of the warp. They were an insular type, feared and hated for their aberrant nature but needed beyond a shadow of a doubt. They kept to their towers atop the ships and measured the tides of the empyrean with hermetic rituals and auguries. The Navigator houses were the most powerful and wealthy institutions within the Imperium, short of the dreaded Inquisition. But even _it_ would be hard pressed to contend with the houses of the Navis Nobilite. Were the house to join forces together, an occurrence that had never happened in the last twenty millennia of the Imperium, all of mankind's, nay, the Emperor's work could be undone. These dreaded creatures, often time subject to unstable mutations that ravaged their warp infused body, were said to be able to kill a man with a single glance of their third eye, stripping his soul from his body.

All these things the guardsmen knew nothing of. Not of the terrible risk of their travel through a plane of timeless horror or the lengths at which the Imperium had to go to make it possible. Ignorance was not bliss however. Nightmares, hallucinations, neurosis and madness brought by the insidious buzzing of the terrible creatures outside the hull claimed many. Disease, cramped spaces, lack of cyclical lights, and ague brought by bacterial ecosystems unique to the ships killed fewer. Of the twenty thousand souls sent from Persiphony, five thousand of which were fighting men, hundreds died during the months long voyage. The trials of their formative training had indeed insulated the guardsmen, who suffered far less than their support elements. They soon forgot their earthbound laments, replacing them with newer and more difficult anxieties to comprehend.

It was in further drilling, surprised inspections, kit and Chimera maintenance that many found salvation, a way to cope. No one wanted to be left alone in the dark corners of the ship, with those creeping voices at the edge of their senses. No one wanted to know what they said, what the voices meant. Despite the ban on gambling and other illicit convening, the misfits managed to thrive in their rebellious ways. They organized some games of chance and cards. Playing high lords or rolling dice carved from disturbingly large bilge rats' bones. Jensen Melot even managed to reassure a few female troopers with his special brand of compassionate affection. Even the political officers, the Commissars whose duty were to oversee discipline and the proper faith and loyalty of the guardsmen they were attached to, were lenient. Better to let them have a night spent gambling and drinking spirits distilled from questionable sources than finding another trooper dead in his bunk, his lasgun in his mouth.

As harrowing as the voyage was, it paled before the onslaught that would be their first battle. They translated to realspace in a little known system. The region of space they would live in for the next few years was an unimpressive one. Designated as the Kursk system for its largest inhabitable world, it boasted little in the way of mineral wealth, although it could be debated that the massive gaseous nebula that shrouded most of its primary biosphere had a potential as an extractable source of fuel. The system's cauldron was a blasted swath that occupied half of the relatively small system and was highly radiated by the powerful star that burned like a tiny pinprick of condensed fusion. Beyond Kursk proper and its unassuming satellite, a formation of moons described a lazy elliptical along the outer reach of the gravitational pull of the sun. Every few decades the wayward moon and its twelve spiraling lesser siblings came within reach of Kursk, although the nebula's thick blanket obscured it from view, voidsmen knew an unnatural celestial body when they saw it. They mentioned it in hushed voices, afraid to draw its ire with their superstitious whispers. They called it the beholder. An ancient word used by a long lost civilization on terra. It was a bad sign; legends said the monstrous sphere had a dozen eyes mounted on stocks, like a radial sun, whose center mass was one giant oculus. Each eye could deal a different torment, all of which were fatal in the end. When the beholder wandered the system, ships made sure to keep out of its way least they draw its cursed gaze.

It was another augur of the hell the Guardsmen would be trust into. They never found out about the bad omen, being segregated from the crew as they were, but when the truth of it came out years later, the few survivors of Kursk couldn't help to agree deep down that they had indeed lived various torments on that empty world. The beholder was in its Kursk side migration when they debarked.

Rows after rows of guardsmen and their equipment lined the embarkation decks of the colossal star ship. Made for the singular purpose of transporting the Emperor's warrior's across the void of space, the ship whose name no one ever bothered to tell them, boasted four kilometer long stretches of lighter and conveyor bays. Each bay held thirty-six mass conveyors to bring guardsmen to the surface of the worlds they were to conquer or defend. Each ship, moored in their cradles or ready to launch across the millimeter thin barrier of energy that separated all those who labored within the docks from the cold vacuum of space, were fifty meters long and could hold an entire company of men, or a platoon with their vehicles. Eighteen ships could launch at once from every docking bay with a subsequent launch ready within half an hour if the crew was competent. The flight marshals of the navy coordinated the embarkation with cool and precise manner. As daunting a task was it was, they performed admirably and without a hitch. The first fighting wave of soldiers to touch foot on Kursk was therefore a little over seven thousand men and women of the Guard. The entire Persephonian 1st, just one of a handful of regiments to land on Kursk. Within the hour that number would be double. In less than twelve hours the Guard and their support elements were firmly on terra firma, a little fewer than 150,000 souls committed to a barren wasteland in half a day. Such was the undeniable grinding of the Imperium's gears that this landing was below the notice of sector command. Indeed, millions of guardsmen landed and took to the stars every day across this sector of space. Billions fought and died across a Segmentum. There was a saying in the Guard, _'there is a guardsmen for every world in the Imperium_,' a pan galactic empire of a million, million worlds.

Amongst those who landed to persecute their war within this footnote of a greater conflict, the Persephonian 1st mechanized infantry added their timid five thousand souls to the thirty-thousand strong force of the Ranok 568th heavy siege infantry, the ten-thousand strong Pangean 364th hunter-killers, and the Galvan 5th light infantry reconnaissance's matching five thousand. For the first time the various regiments saw those who would fight shoulder to shoulder with them and took stock of their allies with appraising wariness. Fifty-thousand soldiers supported by twice that number in logistical and service providers. What was traditionally called camp followers. They were whores, seamstress, shoemakers, entertainers of all sorts and anyone capable of producing something of value within civilized society. They were part merchants, part colonists, following in the wake of great armies to settle the land or turn a profit. If the Guard faltered or failed, the camp followers usually shared their fate in defeat and so a symbiotic relationship often evolved between the two. Many who could took their wives with them, raised families, and indeed many a citizen of the Imperium were descendants of Guard-brats, as they were known.

With a day, kilometers of temporary habitats and motor pool spread from the eastern peninsula, the last bit of verdant soil on the blasted surface of Kursk. Men and women milled about in a seemingly chaotic hive of activity. Beneath the surface of the tumultuous encampment a military order could be seen by those with the eye for it. Guardsmen of the various regiments disembarked to facilitate their movement and role. The Galvan scouts spread south into the jungle swamp of the peninsula. Pangean sentinel walkers and hellhounds flamer tanks rolled out into the vast barrens to seek out any signs of an enemy. The Persephonians patrolled mounted within the Chimera to secure the long stretch of camp tents and basic essentials. Slit trenches, waste ditches, stockpiles, and rudimentary command and control stations were erected of flak board and canvas. Within the core of the bustling tent city the Ranok settle up the preliminary defenses for their siege battery, tanks, and power grids. Their engineers were both master of civil and military matters. Water, power, and medical stations were built quickly and sturdily, albeit with temporary material that could be disassembled and reused elsewhere in time.

Within a week, the regions were gridded and mapped with the aid of the powerful surveyor systems from the star ships above. Their help was vital but only available for the initial stage of debarkation, which was coming to an end. No enemies had been found. Thousands of tons of fast drying rockrete and ferrocrete were used to raise buildings of a more permanent nature where none stood a week before. Although military priorities were attended to by the Guardsmen, the camps hanger-on were not without their means. It took a hardy breed to follow the guard from world to world in the midst of never ending war. They salvaged and scavenged materials to build their shanty towns between the shore, which had been reserved by the general as his HQ due to its beautiful crystal water shores, and the rapidly forming curtain wall that sealed the rest of the wastelands from the peninsula. It was a vast undertaking of dense building materials with defensive towers, casemates, redoubts, and inner wall transit passages to store ammunition and supplies. A simple yet wide road was being paved from the wall to the shore. It facilitated military mobility and was strictly patrolled by a Persephonian battalion to protect the building crews from surprise attacks.

After a month, the naval support having long translated out of the system, the Guardsmen of the Kursk campaign were on their own. Murmurs of a coming storm circulated as gossip amongst the Imperial forces. The presence of an enemy had been confirmed. It was the savage Greenskins that they had come to fight, although over what no one knew, but theories abound. By then the curtain wall stretched for kilometers on each side and boasted a system of advance parallel trenches with live in foxholes and dugouts. Along the length of the wall, powerful phosphorous lights shined actinic lanes along the no man's land that was hundreds of meters away beyond the trenches. Razor wire, mine fields, kill zones, heavy weapon bunkers, and protected transit lanes were all organized by the meticulous Ranok siege engineers to create a massive overlapping field of fire with regrouping areas, hillocks for mobile artillery, and reinforcement lanes for the Persephonian Chimeras. If that was not enough to obliterate any enemy foolish enough to attack head on, specially built block houses and armored dug outs had been devised to house the powerful Basilisk earthshaker artillery, which could blast foes to bloody bits up to thirty kilometers away with advance spotters and precise firing coordinates. It was as deadly and defensible as it could ever been, all in time for their first blooding. The war they had been trained for had finally come.


	3. Chapter 2

2.

The orders trickled down. The guardsmen were on a twenty-four hour advisement of readiness, the Greenskins were coming. From the gossip going around, it seemed like the Orks had rallied every bloodthirsty kin in the region and were coming to greet their new neighbors with frightening zeal. Although the Galvan scouts were told to kept quiet, the detail of their sorties were eventually found traveling the ranks. The trenches ahead of the battle line were manned by eager troopers, the Basilisks' cannons saluted the sky in preparation to unleash a rain of high explosive shell and the reserves were filled with Persephonians waiting to shore up any breach in the defenses.

Captain Rommer, commanding officer of 3rd company informed his junior officers of what to expect. The self-styled descendent of a proud martial tradition was holding a briefing out of the embarkation hatch of his command Chimera. Like a lord of old sitting on his throne, he explained what Colonel Lazarus expected of their company, and the lieutenants, shadowed by their veteran sergeants listened carefully. The details of their first battle would be one to remember. Rommer dismissed all but his first lieutenant, Belogius, and the juniors walked together for a bit before going to their respective platoons.

'Do you think we will even be called in to support the front line?' asked Lomis excitedly. He and Wessler always hungered for glory while Della was happy just doing her duty. Boys will be boys she thought to herself.

'Of course' laughed Wessler, his crooked smirk typically over confident. 'No Ranok, no matter how tough they are, will be able to hold their line without us charging in to their rescue. I wager I'll earn my first medal today.'

Lomis and Wessler teased and taunted each other as they parted ways and Della headed for her platoon's waiting Chimeras, which stood silent by one of the curtain wall gates. Her shadow walked beside her.

'Glad to hear you are not taking this engagement as lightly as your peers m'am.' The veteran sergeant always seemed to growl his words. It was the only way he could speak, on account that most of his flesh was a crisscrossing mass of scarred tissue that deformed his features into a permanent snarl.

'Thank you, Siggurd. I'm glad you approve.' Lieutenant Della was one of the few female officers that had joined the founding. She was young, attractive, and always had to fight twice as hard to get her point across. The aristocratic tendencies of her people made the men crave her subservience more than her tactical insight. Consequently, she was often considered cold and demanding. Siggurds' unforgiving nature and beastly appearance was a perfect match.

'Fine enough officers, those two are, but too eager to have a statue erected in their likeness for my tastes,' shared Della as they walked on.

'Mark my words m'am, it will be one found in an ossuary, not a city plaza,' agreed the veteran sergeant.

'Which reminds me,' the young officer said as she adjusted the long length of her pleaded blond braid, 'See to Misfit squad personally. There is poor breeding leading that mob. They will need your tender touch.'

Siggurd smiled, his face a rictus that conveyed anything but pleasure, and growled his approval. 'With pleasure, m'am.'

'Form up you lousy bastards! Inspection!'

Misfit squad scrambled to present themselves to the bellowing veteran sergeant, a mixture of panic and pre-battle jitters making them sloppy. Siggurd walked the line of the squad cinching lose webbing belts, tightening straps, and inspecting lasguns for proper maintenance. He stopped in front of the squads' heavy gunner, who bared the automatic stubber across his wide shoulders to ease the load.

'By the Emperor you're a big one, aren't you trooper Derrick, was your mother a grox?' the trooper was a head taller than Siggurd and twice as broad, but he seemed like a child wavering against the storm that was the veteran sergeant. 'You look just as dumb, too.'

A trooper to the left snickered. Siggurd was on him in a blink of an eye. 'You think that's funny trooper Reiner? Bet yours was a stable rat. You look like the kind of trooper who enjoys eating shit, and by the throne, I'll provide!' The svelte loader stiffened, these two were instrumental to the squads operation. Without their proper coordination Misfit lacked essential firepower. Siggurd always made sure they got an extra dose of discipline to keep them from becoming complacent.

The sergeant moved on, cuffing troopers behind the head to make his point, earning his back a murderous glance from trooper Corvin, and stopped in front of Corporal Melot, the gambling, whoring, good for nothing squad assistant leader. The pretty boy never cut his hair to regulation, always undermined discipline, and constantly schemed with his sergeant. For him, Siggurd reserved a quieter brand of reprisal. Eyes dripping with contempt, tone barbed and venomous, he corrected the corporal's ill distributed kit along his webbing and confiscated his lho-sticks and playing cards. Humiliating him would only lead to his increase popularity amongst his squad. Pretty boys always made superlative victims and garnered far too much support.

Siggurd turned to the next trooper in line, Frederick Lancer. The nervous little wretch was almost shaking like a leaf. His wandering eye was looking for a place to hide as the veteran sergeant scrutinized him. Scoffing, Siggurd shook his head and didn't even spare him a second look. He'd be dead after today anyway, most likely.

Siggurd paused, took a second look at the unit and growled. 'Where is he? A thousand torments on his warp spawned soul! Where is that useless waste of skin? Where is your sergeant? '

Siggurd never got the time to find the wayward Misfit leader. Alarm klaxon filled the air of the curtain wall. The earshaker canons fired a moment after, the thunderous blast rattling men's ribcages from the concussion wave. Even hundreds of meters away, the dust on the ground jumped as dozen of Basilisks unleashed their devastating payloads.

Siggurd quickly rejoined Lieutenant Della as she paid attention to the reports coming in over the regimental vox frequencies. Her adjutant and vox operator, a timid girl, scribbled notes on a pad of paper beside her.

'Squads are ready m'am' said Siggurd. She nodded, distracted but still paying attention to half a dozen things at once. It was Siggurd's job as the chief platoon sergeant to assist and advise the junior officer in the event she required it, or messed up. He was also in charge of keeping the squad leaders up to code and doing their job, which is why he hated Trevin with a passion and had done so since the day he trained him in the founding camps. The young scion was a disgrace and representing everything Siggurd hated about the nobles of Persephony.

Della received instructions from captain Rommer and relayed them to her platoon through Honig, who dialed in the squad vox frequencies and passed on the instructions of their deployment while Della kept abroad with the larger context of the engagement.

The sergeant pulled himself up into the turret of the Chimera's multi-las and popped the hatch, giving him a good 360 degree view. From behind the curtain wall, not much could be seen except the energetic hustle of troopers and logistical trucks getting ready to supply the defenders. Della's platoon was lining up with her Chimera. Shield, Spear, Misfit, and Della's own Charger, all were ready to move out the gate as soon as they were called for. Siggurd noticed that Trevin had also popped his hatch and was giving him a sarcastic salute. The gesture was overtly offensive. For one, you didn't salute non commission officers like himself, and second he had escape his wrath and was clearly gloating about it.

More dull crumps came from the distance beyond the curtain wall. Those Orks were getting a hell of a shelling. It almost made Siggurd feel bad for them, almost.

'Quake take me,' a trooper swore loudly, 'what the frak are those?'

Sergeant Urlof didn't even spare a look over the lip of the trenches. 'Targets,' he yelled back. His boys were putting a hell of a fight. Ranok troopers always did, they were a stubborn lot.

At first it had been a cake walk. The Orks sped straight at their trench sector headless of the danger. The Basilisks had dropped high explosive shells amongst their ranks taking out dozens of their ramshackle vehicles. The big guns still barked, filling the wastes with bright blossoming plumes of fire and filling the air with black oil smoke. All his boys had to do is look down their sights and watch as the horde of greenskins rode to their doom. What the artillery didn't kill, the mine fields took care off. But there was a lot of greenskins. Every sector of the battle line was under attack along its kilometers long defenses.

The faster bykes and buggies had made it into firing range and the Ranok had laid into them with withering fire. The Orks fired wildly from their rides and although the weight of the fire was considerable, it was not coordinated. It didn't keep his boys down. The riders had died to an Ork, charred by the las bolts that riddled them and their chortling machines. By design or accident, it was hard to say if the horde had any plan at all beyond getting to the trenches; it had bought enough time for the surviving Ork transports to close in.

The garish flat beds, festooned with armor plates and Orkish glyphs, came to a halt. From the open top platforms, Orks unleashed a hail of heavy caliber shots from long barreled machine guns. Urlof could hear them yell in pleasure as they raked the dirt glacis of the trenches. Dakka dakka dakka they yelled, imitating the sound of their weapons barking loudly.

The Ranok sergeant ordered his squad flamer to come up. If they didn't keep those xeno brutes from the trenches it was going to get ugly fast. Urlof dropped down the firing step to reload his lasgun when he felt something heavy hit him. He fell to the ground, his gun dropping from his grasp and skidding on the flak board flooring. Hot wet slobber splashed his cheek and neck as he instinctively reached out to grapple with whatever was on top of him.

Whatever it was, it had teeth, lots of them. Tusks and fangs really. Urlof grappled with some kind of animal, a rotund ball of sinew and pink muscle that bunched as it tried to eat him alive. The creature had two large bulging eyes and a mouth wide enough to bite his head off. It was nothing but a ball with two stumpy legs, and a mouth. A mouth on legs. But it was compact and powerful; it was all he could do to keep it from chomping on him.

He screamed in pain as it managed to bite down on his arm, but the pain paled with the realization that it wasn't just an attack...thing. A saddle bag was strapped to it full of grenade sticks and sparkling detonation wicks. It was a walking bomb with teeth. Urlof yelled for his men to get out of the trench, to run, flee, retreat, but the carnage buried his pleas. He died with his men as the trench collapsed from the explosion and sent their mangled body parts sailing into the air.

'Sector Epsilon-seven, move out and cover the Ranok retreat to the second parallel trench. Emperor protect you,' ordered Della in the vox transmitter. Her platoon set out of the gate into the raging battle beyond.

The Chimeras sped off on their tracks, clattering along the steel plates that had been laid over strategic trenches to allow a fast deployment of reinforcement to support the Ranok 568th. Operators spread out their mounts along Epsilon sector and the brunt of the armored personnel carriers was unleashed above the trench lines into the Orks. They had already filled the first parallel, the one set out furthest from the curtain wall, and troopers ran bent in half through the connecting trenches to choke points covered by their allies. The Orks that tried to follow the retreating guardsmen found the zigzagging passages difficult to maneuver. The Orks were bigger, taller, and most of all dumber.

As the survivor of a siege engineer squad passed the flash point, the pursuing Orks were met with the nozzles of two pyro-troopers. The blast of burning promethium scourged the flesh from their bones and set them alit. The tight trenches also funneled the flames so that it twisted and turned along the zigzagging trenches and cooked dozens of Orks following close behind the firsts. The connecting trenches were easily held and became twenty meters long flaming death traps.

But it did nothing to stymie the Orks' blood lust. They continued to throw themselves against the flames as their kin climbed over and out of the trenches and threw stikkbombs, their lesser cousins the gretchin, or their explosives fed pet squigs over and into the other trenches with a gleeful degree of disregard for their lives.

The Persephonian battalion arrived just in the nick of time. Before the second parallel could be breached, the mounted companies arrived. Troopers disembarked and knelt by their mounts to fire into the mass of green flesh boiling out of the 1st parallel trenches. Sergeants manned pintle mounted stubbers along the top of the APCs while the multi las turrets were used to scour the ranks of the foes with a thousand bolts a second-cycling-rates. Those foolishly brave Orks that came at the Chimera's directly found their deaths at the hands of the forward mounted heavy bolter, shooting .75 caliber self-propelled mass reactive shells. The bolter spat death loudly, rounds thudding in the flesh of the Orks which then explode from within them. It was a gory and spectacular tool for death dealing, designed at the dawn of the Imperium for just such foes.

A man stepped out of the trenches, his long black flak coat covered in blood. His right eye was a baleful augmentic, it looked jammed into his skull and glowed an angry red. He waved troopers out of the safety of the trenches and sent them into close combat with the ravening Ork horde. It was sheer folly. His peaked hat marked him as a Commissar, a political officer charged with the responsibility of inspiring, or terrifying, the guardsmen into action. A trooper hesitated, surely seeing the pointlessness of charging a foe twice his size. A prospect more than befuddling when he could fire from the safety of his trench instead. The Commissar shot the man in the head, the bolt pistol round exploding making a ruinous mess of his skull and helmet. He waved more men out. None hesitated after that.

Trevin saw it all. He couldn't believe it. He ordered Derrick to take his place at the heavy stubber and called Jensen and Frederick to his side with the rest of the dismounted troopers. They ran to the commissar, keeping their profile low, and Trevin waved him to stop.

'Sir!' Augustus screamed over the crack of lasgun fire and the staccato of heavy weapons. 'The Persephonians are here to support the retreat. The Ranok don't have to advance, just hold their ground.' The commissar unleashed a burst of fire into the Orks and reloaded nonchalantly.

'Don't have to advance, you say?' The man didn't raise his voice but somehow Trevin could understand him perfectly. 'It is their duty to fight sergeant. To purge the galaxy of the Xeno, to hate unendingly, and incarnate the fury of _His_ holy will. These cowards are hiding in their holes and refuse to fire.'

'But sir, they have been fighting tooth and nail for the last hour.' Countered Trevin angrily.

'Then they are toothless specimen of our most glorious species. Now why don't you join them and show me the mettle of a true guardsman.'

'Excuse me?'

The cankerous commissar turned his battle scarred gaze over him and then leveled his pistol to his face. 'I said forward, guardsmen.' The blood drenched officer curled his finger over the trigger. Trevin's men tensed, unsure what to do.

'Forward!' he ordered with all the authority of his vocation.

The result was instant. Trevin and his men startled and ran towards the enemy on sheer impulse. The commissar roared behind the charging men and unleashed a hail of shots between them, heedless of the danger to them. He followed behind them, keeping their momentum going. The guardsmen were terrified and confused in equal measure. They loosed shots haphazardly into the tightly packed greenskins, gretchin and ork alike. They crashed into the hulking bodies of the xeno, the melee roilling around them. Ranok's brown engulfing the spattering of Persephonian blue.

An ork backhanded Trevin to the ground savagely, his head was spinning and his helmet was ripped free from his head. The chin strap had cut into his flesh before giving out and he could feel warmth spreading down his neck. The massive ork stood above him, raising a cleaver-like weapon to hack him in to two. A blistering storm of las bolts hit into the creature, filling the air with the stink of burned meat and coarse hair. The ork bellowed in pain and turned from Trevin. It was Jensen, opening up on full auto, emptying his cell's charge into the foe.

Jensen struggled to switch clips, fumbling as the hulking slab of green muscle charged into him. He went flying. Trevin got to his feet in time to see the twig like figure of Frederick come between the supine Jensen and his would be killer, stabbing his bayonet tipped las gun into the greenskin's throat. It didn't stop it.

The Ork gripped the offending weapon's barrel and yanked it out of his thickly corded neck, twisting it out of Frederick's grasp and brought the pommel of his cleaver down onto the trooper's helmet, cracking it. Frederick Lancer crumbled into a heap of awkward limbs as if life has simply left his body.

Trevin pulled out his combat knife and charged the greenskin's back, using the ork's miss matched leather armor to hold on, he drove the blade down into his neck. He clinched his thighs around its hips and used it as leverage to saw the blade back and forth, praying to sever something vital. The beast howled, its tusk filled mouth spewing bloody saliva, and tried to reach behind him, twisting and flailing all the while. It was worse than breaking in a bucking war steed.

The commissar finally caught up where the charge had stalled and urged the Persephonians on with a litany of hate, shooting at the creature's vulnerable chest. The bolts blew chunks out of its muscular torso but still it raged. The dying greenskin lunged towards the commissar, the only visible source of his pain and rage, and cleaved the man from shoulder to groin with the hefty choppa in its mitts.

Trevin was still trying to gouge and stab deeper into the things neck as it fell over dead on the corpse of the commissar. It was Jensen, kneeling beside the crumpled Frederick, which realized the thing was dead. Still riding the adrenaline, Trevin got off the foul ork and looked around. 'Where the frak is that commissar, I heard him shooting the thing while I was on its back, is he mad?'

'Ah no, no he's dead,' said Jensen shakily. He pointed under the ork as the close quarter combat still raged. A three foot tall emaciated greenskin cackled madly as it ran pass. Damn gretchin, thought Trevin.

'Good riddence then. Freddy, how about him, did he survive that clubbing?' asked Augustus. Jensen shrugged anxiously as Trevin walked over on shaky legs.

'Yeah he's still breathing but his head looks bashed in, we need to get him to a medic.'

'Alright, sure.' They both were shaken up. Close combat was not a specialty of the guard, and the Ork's were bred for it. Battle nerves were making it hard to think. Shots, screams, and chaos threatened to rob Trevin of his mind. Together they carried the body of their friend back to the trenches, all thoughts of helping the Ranok out forgotten. Without the Commissar, most ran back to their lines anyway. Any sane person would have. Commissars weren't exactly sane, by any measure though.

'You remember the posters back home? Those of the triumphant guardsman planting a flag over a mound of xeno corpses,' asked Jensen a bit out of breath, settling Frederick down on the muddy flakboards of the trenches.

'Yeah. What about them?' Trevin was looking around, expecting a greenskin to pop up, or another commissar. The subject seemed disconnected from the reality of the moment, perhaps Jensen was too. He had heard tales of the battle shock might do to a man.

He couldn't orient himself. The battle field had been churned up; bodies littered everywhere, many were greenskins but far too many were guardsmen. Ranok troopers fired from their positions, keeping up the pressure despite being caked in gore or wounded seriously. No medics in sight. The trenches had turned to mud, the blood of the dead filling the grenade ditches. It smelled of offal and viscera. That's what death smells like, he thought.

'Kind of full of manure weren't they?' joked Jensen nervously.

They both chuckled through clenched teeth, on and off like snickering idiot, trying to keep their mania quiet. Trevin was so tense it hurt, laughter seemed to be the only way to not lose his mind. They drew some stares from troopers ducking to reload but the stress laughter spread even amongst some of the Ranok. It was cut abruptly short as a stikkbomb fell in a disused section of their trench and blew a chunk of soil up. The guardsmen were back to the business of war after that. Barely stopping to brush the grit and muck from their shoulders, the two addled Persephonian hefted their friend in a semblance of up.

'Alright, I don't know where our chimeras are anymore. I think that ork knocked any sense of up and down out of me. My head's still spinning. We need to go back down the connecting trenches and find a medic for Freddy.'

Jensen agreed, and hefted Freddy on his shoulders, leaving Trevin free to take point with his lasgun thumbed to the highest setting. If Jensen hadn't down that ork on standard then he would learn from that. It drained the cell quicker but it focused the beams much more and packed a hell of a punch. Trevin tried his comm bead but the explosions and flying led probably kicked up so much interference that the vox frequencies were being distorted. All he could hear was static and warbling voices that made no sense.

Finding their way back wasn't very hard. Everywhere they went, bits and pieces of their muddied blue uniforms marked them as the Persephonian support, which had just turned the tide , and afforded their brown coated compatriots them enough time to regroup. The Ranok were grateful and pointed them in the right direction. The two stumbled into a dugout that looked as dejected as they did. It was a square pit as deep as the trenches but reinforced with more sandbag and flak board walls. Rows of wounded soldiers were laid down in various state of dismemberment. An overhead sheet of flak and ruddy camouflage netting cast shadows in the packed dug out.

Medicae auxilia moved back and forth stabilizing bleeding wounds and administering pain balms to those whose limbs had been shorn. Three medics were in the browns of the Ranok and two more in blue. Trevin recognized their platoon medic, Laura Steld, tying a tourniquet around the stump of a shoulder. She barely had enough of the limb to work with. Augustus and Jensen went straight for her, laying down Freddy beside the corpse white Ranok trooper Steld had just finished bandaging.

She saw them and turned her attention to their comrade. 'What happened?' she asked disinterestedly.

'Got clobbered on the head by an ork' said Jensen.

Steld looked over his blood matted scalp, and then pealed his eye lids back to flash a light in his eyes. She did the same with his lips, and then cut the laces of one of his boots, pricking Freddy's big toe with a needle. His foot twitched. Steld fished out a few vials from her hip pouches, injecting him with a cocktail of counter biotics and anti-inflammatory. It was discomforting to watch her work. Her pale white skin and jaw length black hair making her seem like a doll, her eyes dead and glassy. The troopers took to calling her 'dead eyes' because of how methodical and passionless she was.

'Looks like he's just out. His skull is fractured and he probably has a severe concussion. He also swallowed a few of his teeth. But he doesn't seem to have any spinal damage. Place him against the wall over there, he'll be transferred to the medicae center at HQ.' she said matter of fact.

'Thanks Steld' offered Trevin. She grunted a reply and moved on to the next patient without a second glance.

'Hell of a first battle, huh Gus.' Jensen let out a long sigh, the sounds of the battle fierce for its proximity.

'Isn't over yet, Jensen.'

'I… don't want to go back out there, Gus.'

'I know, I don't want to either, but we can't let our boys down.'

Jensen groaned but picked himself up to follow Trevin. They shared a nod and checked their ammo count before heading out of the dugout and back into the trenches, and the firefight beyond.

The imperial forces at the Kursk battle line were hit hard. The first contact with the Xeno specie known as the Greenskin had not been kind to the newly minted soldiers of the Imperium. This was due in part because the troopers, no matter how well drilled, had never faced an enemy before. Even veteran regiments had been known to lose cohesion when assailed by the masses of the Ork hordes. It was also partly because the only way to convince a man to stand against a creature larger, stronger, and far more savage than he ever could imagine was to lie to him. The lie was put to the test and the guardsmen of the Kursk campaign had learned the truth the hard way.

There was nearly two thousand dead within two hours and many more wounded, taken out of action for weeks or months to come. These numbers fell within acceptable loss parameters for a first contact scenario with Xeno forces. The Departmento Munitorum adepts assured the general of the war, von Richter, that it was a success. He agreed. It was far less acceptable for those troopers who had shouldered the brunt of the Ork assault, which by any measure was probably just a probing attack. But command didn't care one wick for their opinions.

Estimates put Greenskin casualties in the range of thirty-thousand casualties. That was a ratio of fifteen to one in favor of the Imperial forces. The figures were propagated amongst the rank and file and the commissars and officers set to celebrating their first engaging and assuring their subordinates that with a kill ratio like this, the war would be settled in a matter of weeks. The wise and the wary thought differently. Amongst the Persephonian officers, a few captains disagreed with the supposed status of the victory they had won. Colonel Lazarus was in absentia and Major Tiamat was expecting a mobilization into the waste to find enemy strongholds, but short of captains van Helger, Lidipus, and de la Croix, the officers celebrated oblivious of the portents of this first battle.

Victory didn't involve expending nearly 20% of their ammunition stock, hiding behind defense earthworks and a ten meter tall wall. The captains were not like minded to begin with, but they all had noticed how the majority of the enemy dead were the lesser kin of the orks, that or their attack squigs. There had been no heavy support with the enemy. No tanks, no bombast canons or long range artillery. No air support nor reserve or strategy. This assault had all the hallmarks of a rapidly assembled and ill-considered assault with fast attack vehicles. It was either a probe of their defenses or just ragtag elements that had wandered from the main horde.

Even if they considered their casualties to barely be 5% after the wounded return to service. It boded very badly for future engagement and though the trio didn't oppose the official line of propaganda, they knew the worst was yet to come. As the week trudged on, De la Croix took to drinking a little too much to bolster his courage. Lipidus turned his frustration on his men, barraging their performance as abominable and working them twice as hard, and van Helger set to himself to task. He would find out what HQ was planning before judging too harshly. As usual, no one took notice of a young junior officer who had come to the same conclusion and had been brushed off by her superior officer, captain Rommer. Della would not let herself be ignored however and decided to clean house and forge her platoon for the war to come.

A runner pushed aside the flak curtain of Misfit squad's dugout and locked eyes with Sergeant Trevin. 'The lieutenant wants to see you on the double.'

Trevin groaned and slipped from his bunk to get his uniform on. Most of misfit was stripped to the waist, the claustrophobic heat of the underground living space unpleasant for people whose world was dominated by pastures. He made himself presentable and tried to get Jensen's attention. Five troopers, including Jensen and bandaged Freddy were dealing cards, the lion's share of the wins piled up in front of the sly corporal.

'I'll be back soon enough, you hold down the fort. Jensen, you listening?' he wasn't. Trevin flicked Jensen's ear painfully, getting a harsh look in return, which was softened by the pretty boy face and dangling lho-stick from his lip. 'You heard me corporal Melot?'

Jensen straightened up; recognizing the tone of voice that meant this was official business. Misfit rarely used ranks otherwise. Trevin repeated the order and the corporal smiled.

'No problem, boss. You can count on me.'

'Huh, huh,' Grumbled Trevin as he settled his beret on his head, molding it into proper order. He stepped out into the ambiguous daylight of Kursk. Its sky was a solid slate of ruddy orange light, filtering through the gas swirling around the planet. A nebula the voidsmen had called it. He jogged through the reserve trenches, those closest to the curtain wall, and knocked on Della's flak door. He heard a sound from within and took it as a permission to enter.

Della was sitting behind a small writing desk made of plastek and metal struts, cheap and lightweight. Behind her and to her right stood veteran sergeant Siggurd at parade rest with his hands behind his back. This was not going to be good, Trevin could feel it. He stood at attention and waited.

'August Trevin, squad leader for Misfit, barely into your first war and you're already been marked up for a handful warnings, misdemeanors, even some time in isolation.' Della listed a few more infraction to the military code they were all bound to. She closed the file and folded her hands on her desk.

Trevin wondered if it was worth mentioning they were all barely into their first war, except maybe her watchdog, old zigzag.

'I'll make this quick. Our first engagement was nothing special. It was less than nothing. Things are going to be much more difficult from here on out and I need dependable subordinates. Are you dependable Trevin?'

'Yes, m'am!'

'Is that so?' she didn't sound convinced. 'What do you think Siggurd, is sergeant Trevin dependable?'

The veteran sergeant snorted derisively.

'That's what I thought,' said Della. She stood up and adjusted her uniform. Her long braid dangled over her shoulder and down to her waist. Her sharp storm grey eyes drilled into him. 'Your training period was filled with negative addendums. During our first engagement you disappeared from your position. You know what that's called Trevin?'

'Initiative, m'am?' he hated himself for saying it, for baiting her.

Siggurd stepped up and was about to smash Trevin's face in for insubordination when Della stopped him with a curt hand gesture. 'No Sergeant, it's called deserting your post, punishable by execution.'

'I...assisted a commissar's charge' he lied, badly.

'Whatever the case Trevin,' she stopped face to face with him. She was threatening to execute him but all he could think of is how strange it was that she smelled proper when everyone else stank of sweat. 'I'd have you shot but someone else is looking to do it first. Reports have you fighting beside Commissar Yarl, a senior member of the Commissariat. They will be asking you questions about his suspicious demise. You're as good as shot, Trevin, it spares me the effort.

'M'am, there was nothing suspicious about it. He got cleaved by an Ork choppa. It's not like I had anything to do with it.' Trevin shifted his weight; he was starting to get nervous. Were they saying he had somehow arranged for Yarl to get cleaved in half?

Della looked him up and down, as if appraising a sub part steed, and walked back to her desk where Siggurd fumed. His snarling features were drawn even more tightly than usual. Trevin knew Siggurd hated him, for some strange reason; then again he couldn't help but bait the old war dog.

'You're going to be on special duty until the investigation is over. As of now, Misfit is no longer yours to lead, Siggurd will take over.'

'Oh come on!' Trevin forgot himself for a moment and stepped up. He got a hammer fist to the guts, courtesy of Siggurd, for stepping out of line.

'Stand to trooper!' Siggurd was screaming it into his ear as Trevin picked himself up from the dirt. 'You won't address a superior officer without the proper respect, not in the Emperor's guard you won't. Understood?' The young sergeant waved to signal his compliance and struggled to breathe, when he finally straightened up, he asked permission to speak. Della nodded.

'I was going to say that you should punish me for what I did, but not my men. Siggurd will tear them a new one, point in case,' Trevin's voice was still shaky from the wind being knocked out of him. The veteran was brimming with violence, just waiting to be unleashed on Della's command.

'Your boys are already spewing shit from both ends, what's the worst that could happen.' Della sat down and opened a new file for review. 'And it's veteran sergeant Siggurd. Didn't we just cover manners Trevin?'

'Yes, m'am,' Trevin said. It was clear he was dismissed. He barely made it to the door before Della addressed him again.

'You wouldn't be Gregor Trevin's younger brother, would you Augustus?' asked Della, eyes stilled on her files.

'One of them' he answered.

'Thought so,' she said with vehemence. Dismissed.'

When Trevin got to his dugout his day went from bad to worst. A black clad commissar was rounding up his men with the aid of a few juniors, those who had not earned the red sash that decorated their leader's waist. 'What the hell is going on here?' he said loudly.

'Ah, Sergeant Trevin, I take it?' said the commissar with the sash. He wore his peaked cap canted at such an angle the visor hid his eyes.

'Yeah, that's me. What are you doing to my men?' Trevin was letting his frustration color his tone, not a good idea with commissars. Their leader didn't seem to care.

'I'm here to take corporal Jensen Melot and trooper Frederick Lancer for questioning regarding the incident with my senior, commissar Yarl. I just happened upon a prohibited game of cards. Gambling is strictly forbidden on military installation.' The man smiled, it put Trevin in mind of a cat playing with a mouse before killing it.

'Where are they supposed to play, it's nothing _but_ military installations on this planet.'

'Regardless,' the black clad political officer replied. 'They will be spending some time in the stockade in addition to special assignment. They will be peeling spuds for the mess cooks until the investigation is closed.'

Trevin couldn't see his eyes, but he knew the man was watching him like a hawk. No doubt looking for signs of dissention, anything to put a bullet in a guardsman's head thought Trevin. Bloodthirsty bastards.

The commissar ordered his juniors to take his squad mates away. He stopped beside Trevin before leaving. 'I'll be seeing you soon, sergeant Trevin. You and I will have much to discuss. Commissar Yarl, in addition to being my mentor, was an exceptional man. I find it hard to imagine he could be slain by one lousy ork, especially supported by you and your fine men.'

'Exceptional is one way to put it,' grumbled Trevin. He was pushing his luck. No doubt the commissar had already made up his mind about him, but insubordination wouldn't help him.

'Indeed,' said the commissar, voice dripping with malice.

Half his squad was taken away. Seems Misfit was going to be picked apart with or without him. Between Della, Siggurd, and this commissar, he got the impression the greenskins would not be the ones to do him in.

Trevin cursed loudly when the party of executioners were out of ear shot and climbed into his bunk. The rest of the squad gave him space, except for Steld who came to his bedside. Why she was there he had no idea, maybe she had come to give him news about his buddies at the medicae center. Poor neurotic Freddy would never survive the commissariat's interrogations. He hoped they would see him for what he was, a well-meaning incident of blue blood breeding, and not bring down the hammer on him too much.

'You look tense,' Steld said. It wasn't a question, it was a statement. Like everything she said.

'You could say that. Ever feel like everyone is out to get you?' he asked.

'No.'

'Of course not, why would you _feel_ like that anyway?' he hadn't meant to make it sound like that. To pick on her quirk. They all had their quirks.

'Do you want me to help you relax?' she asked as she climbed over him in the small bunk. Trevin didn't know what to say, how to react, what was she proposing exactly? The boys in the dugout watched the two of them, and then found reasons to get scarce. They were alone and he still hadn't said anything to Steld as she pressed her body over his in the tight confines of his bunk space.

'I didn't know you were like that,' he blurted out stupidly.

'Like what, Trevin, a human being with needs and wants?' She stroked a hand along his face and down his neck. His pulse spiked nervously, but he wasn't about to say no. he wrapped his arms around her.

'That's a good trooper, just relax and let me take care of you,' she whispered. She let her hands run down his sides and quickly slipped something from her thigh pouch. Then, with a quick gesture as Trevin closed his eyes, she stabbed him in the neck with a hypo injector. Trevin tensed and started to struggle but his strength quickly left him.

'What...the frak...' he muttered.

'Sweet dreams, young prince.' She whispered into his ear.

Trevin work up with a start. He rolled out of his bunk as his limbs shook off the strange tingling sensation that slowly ebbed from them. Steld was sitting by the boxes of ammunition Misfit used as an improvised table. His words came in a slur but he quickly got the hang of enunciating in his altered state.

'Why did you drug me, you witch!'

'Calm down, sergeant. You were displaying signs of neurotic breakdown. Your pulse was well above two hundred beats a minute and you were having cold sweats. I just administered the proper treatment.' She walked to him and helped him up, flashing a small light in his eyes.

'Why did you trick me? I thought you wanted...me.' He blinked away the tears the light force on him.

'You men are so easily outmaneuvered.' She smiled, but it was empty, just like her eyes. 'Your pride will heal. Good, you seem responsive.'

'Why?' he asked again, more insistently.

'Prideful _and_ stubborn it seems.' She found him a cantina with water left in it and dropped two tablets in it. Trevin could hear the effervescent reaction taking place within. 'It's my duty to look out for the physical and mental health of 3rd platoon. You were showing signs of a break down. You would not have admitted to it, so I did what I had to, to get you better. Now drink this slowly and you'll be feeling right a rain in an hour.'

He sat back on his bunk, his limbs still sluggish. He couldn't believe he had been made a fool so easily. He watched Steld pick her things up and walk out like nothing had ever happened.

The next few weeks were boring as hell. The Orks hadn't come back in force but they were out there. Trevin was put on sentry duty, spending his nights tracking movement across the dead man's land with the bright stab lights along the curtain wall. He was shot at a few times, but the Greenskin were renowned for their horrible marksmanship.

He spotted a shooter once, a tiny greenskin that scurried away dressed in rags. A grot, nothing but one of those diminutive long eared greenskin slaved to their larger cousin. Vicious little buggers, he had heard plenty of stories around camp of their beady red eyes and their sharp needle like teeth. They looked like ork children, if that existed at all, three feet tall but with a disproportionately large head, and they loved to cause mischief.

It seemed uncharacteristic of the Orks, who had charged head long into the Imperial lines heedless of danger and casualties. But they hadn't come back. The guardsmen hadn't set out either. For all the world, it looked like the Guard had just set up shop and was happy just to sit there, on the only bit of land that was even remotely hospitable. It didn't seem to make sense but it wasn't Trevin's place to ask what the hell they were doing here. He hadn't forgotten his last lesson at the hands of his vindictive lieutenant and her attack dog.

Weeks passed before he received a slip of paper from a runner.

_Investigation over, charges dropped, report to your unit by 0600._

That was all. Trevin turned it around to see if he had missed something. He didn't know what the hell had happened but it looked like he was off the hook. The commissars hadn't even come to see him yet. His mother often told him he had been born under a lucky star. It didn't feel like it most of the time, but this was definitely an exception. He smiled at the thought of being reunited with Misfit, with Jensen and Freddy. Tomorrow was going to be a good day.

Then he learned why everything had been dropped. The Orks were coming.


	4. Chapter 3

3.

The Galvan scouts had spotted enemy movement a week before. At first the Orks were few and posed no threat. They kept their eyes on them anyway, just in case. Soon a whole company of the 5th was spread in the rocky steppes of the wastelands. Light vehicles added themselves to their numbers, bykes, buggies, and rocket mounted trackers. It was starting to look like more than a random gathering. By the end of the week it was clear that the Orks were organizing another assault. Patch worked tanks joined their growing horde. Different color schemes and totems seem to indicate various groups; they were divided by types of units. The tribes were gathering.

Reports had filtered through the command hierarchy all the while until finally they landed on general von Richter's desk. That's when he took notice. By then the Orks would hit the battle line in a matter of days. He ordered Colonel Maddox to take his Galvans and harass the enemy, buy them time. And the Galvan 5th did. It cost them almost a hundred men as they infiltrated the Ork camps at night and disabled machines with tube charges and other improvised explosives. They targeted fuel and ammunition depots. What would have crippled an enemy advance only slowed down the Orks. Each tribe that joined the gathering brought their own supplies and made up what the others had loss. All it took for the Ork horde to reorganize was a few bloody brawls and the greenskins were of one mind again.

The second measure to thin the enemy advance down, for it was far greater than the first one they had fought off, was to give the clearance needed for the Valkyrie assault carriers and their Vulture escorts to strafe the enemy Column. Multi las, auto canons, heavy bolters, and hellstrike missiles were all used to disable and destroy the oncoming horde. But the Orks were prepared this time. This was a serious assault. Heavy quad cannons threw flak into the air and shredded the airstrike forces. Six Valkyrie were lost, with an additional ten Vulture, which had persuaded von Richter to rescind the order for airstrikes. The navy pilots were relieved but the ground forces would suffer tenfold for the tactical decision. Machines were too precious an asset to be squandered declared the general. This war would be won by the might of the Emperor's war machines. The message was clear, lives were cheap, vehicles not.

The scouts kept up with the enemy horde, keeping their distances and traveling day and night, they managed to keep the reports coming in at a fluid pace. Thankfully colonel Maddox was experienced enough to stagger his scout units so that when one was left far behind the enemy, another was right there to keep up the intel. The Orks were equipped for a party. War trukks carried seemingly endless numbers of boyz. Hybrid ornicopter/bykes carrier their riders far above the advancing force and kept over watch. Goggle wearing Orks with oversized fuel tanks smoked thick cheroots on the back of flatbed transports, a few blowing up in transit. Spread through the force were large metal walkers, they looked like barrel shaped armored compartment with stumpy ill synchronized legs and a slew of mounted Dakka guns or whirling circular blades. The ingenuity of the greenskins knew no bound. It was a circus of freakish display straight from the demented minds of the Xeno.

The mines fields were reseeded as packed as they could be without setting each other off. Tank traps were poured, large rockrete blocks with tapered tops that could jam a tank if it tried to run over the patterned spread. The artillery hillocks that were outside the curtain wall were reinforced with trenches and flak board firing pits. Manticore missile batteries were set atop them. Although command loathed losing these engines, they would be invaluable during the next attack. They were mounted on the same chassis as their cousins, the Basilisk, but instead of a massive canon, missile slides adorn its top. Four missiles could be launched at a time, both with direct and indirect fire capabilities. Many types of payloads could be launched from them, but for the assault they had been mounted with hellfire missiles. The ordinance was design as an airburst delivery system. They would explode meters above their target and shower a wide radius in persistent chemical fire thousands of degree hot. Held back at the right moment they could decimate the greenskin horde, which had no protection against a substance so liquid it could pore into any crack, and hot enough to cook anything inside what it outright flood.

All the elements of the imperial forces were in play for the assault. The Ranok battalions lined the trenches, manned their devastating Basilisks, and its armored battalion rode out in wait to the north, these Leman Russ variants would strike the flanks of the enemy formations in hope of crushing it. Vanquisher patterns with their tank killing Plasma canons, Demolisher's with their wide bore siege canons which could level entire swats of terrain with their high explosive shells, and the standard Leman pattern which could do everything in between. These work horse of the imperial army were festooned with bolters, las cannons, melta guns or heavy flame throwers. What could not be mounted on its hull was lodged within side mounted sponsors and manned by gunners protected by its armored casing. They were sturdier than the Ork's ramshackle monstrosities, but estimates put the enemy numbers to three times those of the Ranok armored battalions.

But the Ranok element was far from alone. The Pangean 364th hunter killer regiment would sally forth from the curtain wall and use their much more maneuverable machines to hit the enemy armor's rear. Sentinel walkers, with their bird like legs topped with reinforced compartment, boasted under slung heavy weapons. They could dance across the field of battle and terminate the enemy vehicles with extreme prejudice. The Pangean walkers were also supported by the regiments' hellhounds, Chimera's modified to carry not personnel but a large amount of promethium jelly, which could shoot streams of fire up for 50 meters away and burn through all but the thickest armor. They could, and would, cut a line through the thick of the enemy assaulting the trenches and aid their allies. Nothing stopped the Pangeans when they were set to task. Their home world was one which was inimical to life and these short swarthy people were daredevils and death mongers without fear or sense of defeat.

The Galvan 5th would harass the rear echelon of the enemy and the Persephonians would be relegated to the role of reserve again, riding in to help support and cover retreating Ranok troopers in the event a strategic withdrawal was ordered. There was an added detail however, once which Misfit, amongst other less popular squads, were saddled with. Captain Rommer had volunteered his company to defend the Manticore positions. He was not one who enjoyed the thick of battle. His idea of a proper aristocratic officer was one without the need to draw a sword or fire a pistol. It would keep him away from the worst of the assault. So Della and her handpicked squads were spread across the line, without the support of their Chimeras. Misfit was assigned Manticore hill 6.

Trevin stood atop his hillock with trooper Corvin and Lancer. He thought it was better for the recently recovered Freddy to stay out of the line of fire, which the nervous trooper only happily agreed to. Jensen and the rest of their squad were further downhill with Derrick and Reiner manning a firing pit half way up to offer heavy support. Behind him, the Manticore crew was fussing over last minute targeting ritual with the help of an enginseer. The priest was accompanied by a loader servitor, his arms and legs augmented to industrial proportion. It allowed the servitor to carry the weight of the missiles loaded onto the Manticore. Its back hatch was lowered and the mindless drone simply waited for instructions, its caliper clamp hands twitching from time to time.

The battle was starting without them. Already a swarm of gretchin could be seen advancing through the mine fields. They blew up, throwing spindly limbs in the air. Those gretchin that turn back were systematically beaten by their tenders, the runt herders, whose long cruely spiked poles proved ample motivation. It reminded Trevin of the commissars. The similarity did nothing to warm him to the black clad discipline officers. The sight ignited a deep hatred and loathing in his breast. It warred within him with a nagging suspicion. He couldn't say for certain if the source was the natural disdain he held for the Xeno, or the treatment of the gretchin at the hands of their handlers.

The Manticores unleashed their payloads with painfully loud shrieks. Farther behind the gretchin suicide troopers, Trevin could see a billowing cloud of dust, reddish and thick, being thrown up by the heavy enemy tanks swerving to head north as the Imperial armored battalion made its presence known. A duel of between twenty ton engines of destruction was taking form there.

'This is horse shit,' swore Corvin.

Trevin turned to him, Freddy nervously glancing at the carnage not five hundred meters away from them. 'Which part exactly trooper?'

'Everything. We should be down there, not babysitting a bucket 'o' bolts and his god in the machine.' Corvin spat on the wall and glared hatefully at the techpriest which was anointing each and every missile for maximum accuracy. Clearly the lower rung persephonian menial-turned-trooper had a blunted sense of profanity.

'Yeah well, take it up with Della, she's the one that put us here,' grumbled Trevin.

'Were gonna die here and I ain't even gonna get to take a few greenskins with me,' Corvus added. That got Freddy's attention.

'We won't perish here, will we Gus?' he asked hopefully. It was easy to forget Freddy was an aristo too, just like Trevin, except for a little too much inbreeding. It's why he wasn't given command. That and the fact he was utterly unassuming, if not a gentle soul once you got to know him. He was shunned from both worlds, not a noble, not a grunt. Trevin felt sorry for him, and not a little empathetic at his twilight status. They were alike in that way, if none other.

'Nah Freddy, we'll be alright, Misfit is the best around here. We'll always survive,' reassured the sergeant.

'Throne's sake, boss. Mally and Doreono didn't survive the last fight. Don't lie to the numbskull.'

'Stow it Trooper, or ill put you out of your misery myself,' barked Trevin angrily. Corvin backed off and put his hands in the air in mock surrender. That kid had a cruel streak in him. He wondered what Corvin used to do back home, for him to enjoy other's pain so much.

Freddy looked grateful for Trevin's support and turned back to the fight, stepping to the ledge of the hill's improvised battlement of packed earth. The order for the Manticores to roll back was given over the general vox channel and Trevin squared his shoulders. It was time to cover their relocation. Just then, a loud cacophony of grinding gear and metal screeching sounded from the Manticore. The operators got out and started to look at the black oil smoke pouring out from under it. Trevin didn't like the looks of it.

The sergeant jogged to the Manticore. 'What's happening?'

The half man-half machine priest in his red robes blurted out an incomprehensible string of sounds, the sacred techna lingua. He walked to the multi ton machine and knelt. Mechadendrites slipped from his robes while a powered servo arm unfolded from the priest's back armature. It gripped the bottom of the chassis and lifted the entire thing three feet in the air, letting the other track bear the brunt of the machines weight. The mechadendrites darted underneath and a light flashed while the priest leaned against his cog toothed pole ax.

'Motive damage incurred,' it droned in a synthesized voice. It was devoid of all human emotion. 'The machine spirit is angered, rites of proper maintenance and respect have not been duly observed.

The operators of the Manticore looked to each other for someone to blame but the priest, obviously angry, continued his examination despite never needing to look down with his one flesh and blood eye. The clicks and whirls of shifting lenses could clearly be heard.

The battle was reaching the lower slopes of the hill; Jensen was opening fire and calling the contacts over the squad comm bead. Great, thought Trevin. Just in time.

'Can you fix it?

'Perhaps, these engines' machine spirits are, stubborn, at times.' The false voice of the tech priest responded.

Trevin cursed as he ran back at the ledge of the battlement. Misfit's first fire team was engaging the surviving swarm of gretchin that were running for their trenches. From his vantage point he could see the well drilled Ranok falling back like before, drawing in enemies to kill zones and forcing the impulsive Orks to run across the razor wire in the open field up above. Unfortunately it allowed for the Orks to spread out to the hillocks.

'We need to buy the enginseer some time,' Trevin was speaking to himself but Corvin and Freddy took it as an order. They both started picking targets and firing over the battlement ledge. He brought his hand to his helmet and pressed the transmission rune of his comm bead.

'Misfit to Della, our Manticore is immobile and we are being pressed by gretchin body shields and Ork forces.' The loud staccato of his gunner's heavy stubber swallowed all sound as it let lose a long burst of fire to discourage the gretchin from jumping in Misfit's trenches.

'Charger here, orders are clear, those Manticores must make their retreat at all cost. Stand your ground,' came Della's commanding voice, cold and business like.

'M'am, that's suicide, if the enginseer can't fix it in the next few minutes we will be over run.'

'Order's come straight from the general Trevin, stand and fight, die if you have to but protect those machines!' she ordered, her position was also under attack, Trevin could hear it through the bead.

'Frak it.' Trevin jumped over the escapade and slid down haphazardly. He could hear Corvin whooping up above. He landed in the gunner's gun pit, kicking up a cloud of dust and startling the troopers. Reiner let lose a cry, pulled out the side arm, and started shooting at the shadow in the dusk.

'Hold your fire, hold fire!' yelled Trevin.

Reiner hesitated, and saw Trevin in a fetal position when the dust cleared enough to allow for visibility. 'Strider's balls, boss, don't ever do that again. You nearly gave me a heart attack!'

'That's the least of your worries, believe me,' Trevin said as he dusted himself and got into cover beside the gunners, Derrick renewing his suppressive fire, which pinned down the scampering gretchin long enough for Jensen to order a grenade volley. When the bang sent shrapnel flying, it rained green and red bits of Greenskin all over his trench.

'How's your ammo?' Trevin asked when his ears stopped ringing. Above them, more missiles sailed into the air to deliver fiery death to the Xeno scum. If they couldn't move, the operators were bent on killing as many as they could with the time they had, apparently.

Reiner started blowing the dust from the box ammo cartridges so they wouldn't jam. 'About three hundred rounds, a little under a minute of continues fire.' A mountain of brass shells had accumulated in the gun pit. They had been busy.

'Alright, we need to pull back up the hill otherwise Jensen and his fire team are going to get overwhelmed without your fire support.' Trevin patched in to the vox and told Jensen about their little situation, who laughed at his sergeant's choice of words. He ordered them to run the trenches to the top of the hill and signaled the squads automatic weapon to lay down covering fire on his mark. Jensen confirmed and sent a few more grenades flying over the ledge before they started to run back up the line, bend over to minimize their outlines.

The gretchin dispersed at the heavy stubber's insistence, kicking up a cloud of ruddy dust that obscured their cowardly retreat. Jensen and his boys ran behind Trevin and the gunners on their way up, strung high on adrenaline and nerves. The opening part of the attack was over now, which meant the Ork Boyz were ready to play. Out of the dust cloud came a thunderous call, _Waaaaaaagh_! They roared as they ran across the trenches, dropping in and jumping over them on their charge up the hill. The clattering of an empty box cartridge signaled the end of Misfit's rear action. Derrick threw the sizzling barrel of the stubber over his shoulder, heat waves warping the air around it, and was pushed up the hill with Reiner by Trevin. They never made it.

Accompanying the Boyz were Orks with what appeared to be large spears, they were rockets mounted on long poles. They unleashed a barrage of explosive rockets over the face of the hill, ravaging the earthworks and causing the top battlements to crumble and slide down the slope like an avalanche. Dirt and rocks careened down onto the gun pit and swallowed up Trevin and the gunners. Blinding and suffocating them in a cloud of red tinged dirt.

Misfit squad watched in horror as their sergeant and their squads mate disappear under the avalanche. Then, against all hope, Augustus "lucky" Trevin clawed his way out of the soil. He rolled onto his side, gasping for air, and then quickly turned to pull trooper Derrick and Reiner out of the scree. The avalanche hadn't been heavy enough to trap them.

'What are you waiting for Misfit, covering fire!' ordered Jensen at the sight of their sergeant. The entire squad dropped to their bellies along the now sloping hillside and fired with abandon. Their squad mates were crawling up the scree on hands and feet but the Orks were shooting wildly at them and closing in fast.

Again, Trevin turned and unhooked a fragmentation grenade, throwing it down the slope to buy his men more time at his expense. Heavy caliber dakka shells smattered all around him and clipped his shoulder guard. He was turned around by the impact, hitting the ground hard. Pain flared up his shoulder and his limb wouldn't answer him, it was numb. Desperately he crawling, climbing again, albeit with only one good arm.

Corvin cried havok and poured las bolts into every Ork spurred on at the chance to go in for a close quarter kill. The boy had a knack for killing, for good or ill, he gave Trevin the time he needed to make the climb.

The squad pulled back and assumed firing positions as Trevin stumbled past them, Freddy quickly coming to his help. Then the Orks showed the first sign of tactical acumen, and instead of running over the lip of the scree slope, threw dozens of stikkbombs over it. They fell in a spread that burst shrapnel in every corner of the Manticore pit. Trooper glasswig had her face blown off, and Fernheist dropped to the ground screaming as blood pumped out of what use to be his leg.

'Enginseer,' called Trevin, out of breath but regaining the use of his arm. The nerves had only been concussed, numbed by the shock.

'Sergeant Trevin,' the techpriest replied. He was holding a disassembled hellstrike warhead, his many snake-like mechadendrites performing minute adjustments.

'Can the Manticore roll out? We're about to get our asses handed to us.'

'Negative,' the emotionless techpriest replied. 'The machine spirit's ire was so great that it lost the function of its primary motive system, the tracks won't move.'

'So, what now?' asked Trevin. Behind them, Jensen was coordinating the squad's fire as the Ork Boyz crested the hill, massed las barrage killing one at a time. For now it was enough, no doubt these were the overzealous Orks who had outpaced their kin, so they were manageable. But as soon as they would come in mass... then whatever resistance the guardsmen could muster would be useless.

'I am adjusting this warhead to detonate and destroy the Manticore. It cannot be allowed to be desecrated by the heretical tinkering of the Xeno. Omnissiah forgive me for what must be done.'

'Great, well I'm not dying for nothing. How many of those hellstrike missiles do we have left?'

'None,' stated the enginseer flatly. 'We received orders from your lieutenant to divert the last missiles to cover another sector grid. Her own I believe.

So that was it. Della had stuck them there. Denied them the order to retreat, and took the last of the ordinance they might have been able to use to get out of this mess. She had killed them, and she had heaped insult onto sacrifice by diverting the missiles to cover her own, no doubt, overwhelmed position. The bitch.

'They're coming up again!' yelled Jensen as he slammed a new energy cell in his standard M-35 and tucked the spent one in his combat webbing. Misfit was firing was they walked backwards from the lip, more stikkbombs bouncing along the ground. They threw themselves flat, forewarned as trooper Corvin shouted '_incoming_!'

When the bombs blew, the grunts of pain were muffled by massive ringing, troopers laid haphazardly where they had landed and started returning fire at the massing greenskins. They hadn't suffered a casualty but they all were wounded one way or another. Blood seeped from chin guards and helmets. Flak vest stained with red of wounds turning blue uniforms dark purple.

'Give me that,' Freddy said as he plucked the dismantled warhead from the techpriest's hands, which had continued their work through the hailstorm of shrapnel. A loud string of binary code protested loudly but Freddy was already on the move. He ran pass his squad mates with the warhead swaddled to his chest like a new born infant.

'I am a proud son of Persephony!' screeched the suddenly stoic Frederick. He hefted the warhead above his head and flung it at the first of the oncoming Orks. It hit its head and thudded to the floor. Both sides had stopped firing for a long second. Nothing happened. It was all very underwhelming. The Orks began to guffaw but before they could recover, Freddy under slung his lasgun and aimed it at the warhead.

'And I will not go quietly into the night.'

The warhead was a shaped charge. Designed to explode in an expanding cone, it detonated facing the Orks, mostly. A seething wall of combusting high octane jelly turned into a flaming inferno and swept over the greenskins. The fiery semi-liquid concoction cascaded over the lip of the scree slope and spread down consuming a hundred bellowing Ork Boyz. The explosion was dazzling and blinded the Guardsmen who stood mouth gaping at trooper Lancer's sacrificial blaze. His outline was haloed by the wrathful red of the Emperor's vengeance. Then, the shockwave hit Freddy and flung his body back like a rag doll. The blast was so fierce that displaced air ripped the breath out of the lungs of those unfortunate to be close to it. Combined with the concussive blast of such a close proximity, most of the guardsmen of Misfit squad blacked out before realizing what had happened.

Trevin opened his eyes slowly. He ached, everything ached. He could smell the powerful mix of burning flesh and fuel in the air. Flames licked the ground and walls of the artillery pit. He rolled onto his stomach, couching. It pained his bruised lungs to breathe. Standing stock still where he had been before, the techpriest, robes scorched, was taking in his surroundings through arcane surveying auguries. Behind him, slumped against the Manticore's trackguards was the broken and smoking form of Freddy. He had no hair, and one of his boots was fueling a timid flame.

Trevin heard groans all round him; no one had escaped the blast, even if it hadn't been aimed at them. He crawled towards Freddy. The enginseer, now realizing that others were indeed alive, bent low and helped Trevin get to his feet and to his friend. 'Is he, is he dead?'

'I detect a heartbeat,' the enginseer said matter of factly. He and Steld would no doubt get along.

Trevin checked for a pulse, sure enough, there it was. Freddy was surprisingly well off. Trevin tapped the flames from his uniform, which was still smoking from the instant atomization of the humidity that had turn sweat into steam. No doubt his body was in shock, and Trevin could see the beginning of swelling from tussled and bruised organs, but he was alive. For now. They needed a medic, hell they needed a whole company to reinforce them while they were at it.

'Crazy bastard,' laughed a trooper. It was Corvin dusting himself off, 'didn't think the runt had it in him.'

Around him, troopers were getting up, no worse for wear, considering. Jensen walked to the edge, confident that Trevin was taking care of their martyr's remains and ignorant of Freddy's survival. He looked choked up, his eyes reddened and raw. It that had nothing to do with the dust. He was holding it back and focusing on the situation at hand.

'Shut up,' spat Reiner. 'He saved us, Corvin. You owe him some respect.' Derrick stepped behind his smaller partner and emphasized his point with an unhappy glare. Corvin just shrugged.

'He's alive,' said the sergeant. 'And if we want to stay that way, we need to get in gear!' Trevin looked up at the tech priest. 'No offense intended.'

The enginseer simply nodded. The Manticore crew, which had been safe within its armored hull, ventured out to see what had happened.

'You! That Manticore has a mounted bolter in it, right?'

'y-yeah,' stuttered the operator, his companions taking in the burning landscape.

'Get your ass in there and point it to that gap. Any Orks climb up again, waste them.'

The Ranok sergeant, a burly man with sergeant's stripes on his shoulder hopped to it like a virgin guardsman. Misfit had made an impression. Those that could walk without help gathered by the flaming edge of the hill to watch the destruction Freddy had unleashed. Their hearts sank. For the moment the flames were keeping the Orks at bay, but another considerable group was massing again. They had thick ugly jaws jutting with overgrown tusk, and tiny eyes in receding sockets, which with their broad brutish features, made them look utterly primal. They howled for blood, infuriated by their inability to reach their foe more than the death of their kin.

They weren't out of this yet.

Jensen and Trevin huddled in discussion as the survivors of Misfit tried to set a perimeter. The enginseer joined them, his servitor walking in an awkward gait behind him.

'That device was meant for the Manticore sergeant. Now nothing will spare it the indignity that those mechanical cannibals will make it suffer.' He almost sounded upset, but it was more in his body language than in the false voice he used.

'I'm sorry, techpriest. But I didn't know trooper Lancer was going to do that. Be thankful he did, were still alive, for now.' The enginseer did not seem convinced that it was much of an improvement. In each sacred standard template construct, such as the Manticore, a glimpse of the divine resided. It was worth more to the cult Mechanicus than any biological imperative to survive.

'We won't hold against another push, Gus,' said Jensen with resignation.

'I know, let's just sell our lives dearly. Okay?' It wasn't much but it was all Trevin had. He was about to break the news when his comm bead crackled into life. It was Della.

'Della to Misfit, report, there was an explosion in your sector, is the Manticore still secure?' Trevin wanted to send her to hell, and why not? It's not like a court martial seemed likely in their near future. Corpse made for bad penitants.

'This is Misfit. The damn thing is fine. Were surrounded, outgunned, outnumbered and out of ordinance. It won't be in one piece for long.

'Then it's your lucky day Trevin,' she said.

He sighed, Jensen listening in on the one way conversation. 'Please tell me how any of this makes for a lucky day?' he added,' m'am.'

'Go take a look,' she offered. Trevin walked to the edge of the slope. Coming down from the north, a healthy looking column of Ranok armor was pushing into the enemy flank, running over Ork Boyz and unleashing barrages of battle and plasma canons. The devastator pattern Leman Russ tanks added their bark to the fight, tall plumes of dirt and fire rising into the air. They looked unstoppable, a force of retribution and righteous indignation laying into the offending specie with zealous hatred. All along the Kursk battle line, the Orks folded onto themselves to try and counter the armored charge. Even the Orks at the bottom of the hill turned to join the fray, a much more tempting promise of boisterous fighting than waiting for flames to die down to stomp a few humies.

Trevin couldn't believe it. The tides of the battle was diverting their would-be killers away from them. They were saved. 'No thanks to you.' He caught himself saying into the vox as his squad mates were cheering this turn of events.

'Is there anything I can do for you?' something was odd about the way Della asked. As if she somehow felt bad about leaving them here to die. But it couldn't be that, she hated his guts.

'Yeah, we have casualties and critical cases, send a medic.'

'They're on their way, Trevin.' Yeah, something was up, she wasn't biting his head off for his lack of decorum. He didn't care. She had cost him the lives of his quad mates, maybe even that of his friend Freddy.

The medicae Chimera rolled up the hill twenty minutes later. The Ork horde had been broken and beaten back. Even as they loaded their wounded onto the Chimera and into Steld's waiting hands, elements of the Ranok armored battalion and Pangean hunter killers were hunting stragglers down. Killing every single Ork bastard they could find. Reports on the vox claimed that Colonel Ma'Tang of the 364th had located and engage the Ork warboss of the assault. She and her squadron had tracked it down and Ma'Tang had ground it under her sentinel's metal shod foot. Not an easy thing considering it had been large enough to wrestle the nimble machine.

Lieutenant Della had come with the Medivac. She and Trevin had not talk beyond the necessary required for triage detail and a debriefing. They exchanged salutes and unspoken sentiments along with them. Della didn't ask for forgiveness and Trevin didn't take the deaths of his squad mates out on her. She had been prepared to allow it. Duty had demanded their sacrifice, but guilt plagued Della that she had been only too willing to accommodate it. She had even accepted the inevitability of their fate and redirected their Manticore's fire to ease the pressure on her position. Honor would not let her live that down either. Misfit was a difficult mob of troopers to deal with, but they had proved their mettle and earned her respect. Whatever their short comings, they were Guard through and through. She swore she'd remember that next time. She owed them a debt.

Augustus knew Della had been genuine. He knew she had tried to mend fences. He just couldn't let himself forgive how quickly she had abandoned them. When they parted ways to attend to their respective duties she hesitated and turned back to him. She had joked embarrassedly.

'Call me Josephine; even officers get to be off-duty.'


	5. Interstice

Interstitial

The crystal goblet of darkened bourbon still rested on the table beside Lord General Augustus Trevin, barely touched. As if remembering it was there, the old man reached for it and downed the content in one swift quaff. It was unclear to Serenity if the officer had simply been parched or if the memories he had shared were too painful to recall. Setting the drained goblet down again, Augustus sighed softly, and then set his darkened eyes against hers.

'It had been a difficult period in my life,' he continued. 'We were young men blooded for the first time and deprived of the illusions we had harbored about war. I now know that it was foolish to believe that a life in the Guard could be surmised in songs, statues, and paintings. Which was the only reference we had. Those heroic deeds immortalized for future generations were not the bread and butter of the Guard. How else can you convince millions of young boys to throw themselves into the fires of hell? No, I do not spite their existence because I understand the nature of their purpose. If the common man knew what we had discovered for ourselves, the Imperium would fall apart over night. Who, I ask you, would face the horrors of the galaxy so that other may be spared its cruel attention?'

Augustus waved the burgeoning answer from Serenity's lips. It had been rhetorical. 'I'm not here to argue the validity of the thought. I'm here to tell you why we fought and why we died. That we were tricked into fighting does not rob the act of its necessity or the nobility of its sacrifice.' He rubbed his artificial fingers over the liver spotted flesh of his arching hand. Without pausing in his story, Augustus fetched the bottles from his cooling cabinet and poured each of them another draught of their respective intoxicants. His voice carried well in the room's acoustics and his authoritative voice was powerful, used to being projected for all to hear.

'Those early days along the Kursk battle line were a sort of selection process. The strong were weeded from the chaff. Those, whose convictions were strong, were forged by the fire of battle. Those who could not understand that they fought for others and not themselves quickly perished. The Emperor asked no less from us than he has given himself. Never doubt that. I will not be lauded for what I tell you this night. My peers would scoff at the notion of elevating the common rank and file to the station they rightly deserve. Let the fools wallow in ignorance and syncophantry. To ignore the cost of our sacrifice is to belittle its purity. The human race is not as mighty and as powerful as the Ecclesiarchy and the scriveners of the Administratum will have you believe.'

Serenity watch as his smoldering anger quieted with the help of another generous swallow of his bold drink. To Serenity, he looked like a man waiting to be struck down by the wrath of the Emperor for uttering such blasphemous thoughts. As the general loosened his stiff collar, studded with numerous marks of distinguished membership and honor. Were the Imperial Commissars not renowned for just that, or even the dreaded Inquisition? She wondered if a man of such political and military power was still vulnerable to the judgment of his peers. Surely he was. He risked much by simply telling his tale then.

The fire place beside them crackled its last and Augustus made to renew its vigor when Serenity gestured him to stay seated. That drew a smile from the old warlord. He watched as she picked up a poker from the brass holder and started to churn the ash and charred remains of the logs to breathe life into the flame. She added another log, possibly ruining her lengthy opera glove in the process. She didn't seem to care.

'Very kind of you, young lady,' Augustus said, his eyes glimmering with humor.

She noticed the lite blanket of ash that had settled on her dress, its delicate frilled lace deformed from the heat, which her billowing bell bottomed couldn't help but caress for all its ample airiness. As she dusted herself off, the consternation on her pretty face was precious. She now inspected her gloved hands with a sideways curl of her soft lips, noting that the purple was now streaked with grey that simply wouldn't come off.

'I was never afraid to get dirty Lord General. I'm starting to believe that's one of the reasons you asked for me personally and offered such promising payment.' She stripped her gloves and seated herself to sample her fruity liquor. Her flesh was as pale and flawless as the rest of her. The skillful shadow writer had adopted a certain mannish demeanor, adapting to the tone of his tale subconsciously no doubt, and looked every bit like a woman on a mission. She was spectacularly good at reading her subjects and making them feel at ease. First as the socialite lady and now the dutiful adjutant, she glided from one scene to the next with such apparent ease that she showed no sign of it being a calculated ploy. Talent like that wasn't learned.

'Quite so, they may have my head and your career for what I'm about to tell you. It would not suit the image they have crafted of me as a loyal son of the Imperium. But they don't understand that the Imperium is its citizenry, and that the Emperor himself gave his corporal life for them. They misunderstand my stalwart defense of Imperial institutions. They are not only extension of mankind you see, but its only source of protection against the deep dark void and what lies beyond.'

Serenity shrugged, a strangely childish gesture from such a professional woman.' I wouldn't worry too much about my career. You've already given me something that will assure me a comfortable lifestyle until my dying days. Now back to the business at hand General.'

'Why do you think Lieutenant Della deprived you and your squad of your Manticore support?' she asked, watching for the general's body language and anything else that could help shed light on how he felt at the time. It was not only her duty to record the events, but to understand the man whose memoirs she would compose, that they might be true to his spirit and the cause he championed. Augustus pondered the question at length, something he had most likely given much thought over the ensuing century.

'Tactically speaking,' he began softly, weighing all the factors years of insight into warfare afforded him. 'It was the right call. No flanking force would hold once the center of a formation buckled. We would have died, surrounded by the Greenskin horde and severed from support and reinforcement anyway. It was a question of saving those who could be saved. The fact that she was condemning a man whose family she despised while saving her own life surely played into it. It's a matter Josephine and I have argued about quite a few times during the ensuing years. We have come to a standstill regarding the issue. She admits it was her misgivings that had made the decision to leave us to die so easy. But insist the fault was mine for being born the sibling of her scorned lover.'

The general chuckled at the unassailable logic of such a strong minded woman. 'It has been the single, lengthiest, most insurmountable deadlock of my military career.'

The young lady smiled at her subject's humor, convinced this Josephine Della would be a strong presence in the old general's account. She leaned back into her thickly upholstered chair to continue what had already been hours of intense mental focus. After all, a memory revisited was worthless if she did not pay very close attention to its making.

Outside the Lord's chambers, the party was finally dying down.


	6. Chapter 4

_**Green Claw Marsh**_

4.

The incessant buzzing was driving the men mad. It was bad enough they had walked here all the way from the main battle line on account of chimera's maintenance back log, but to do so only to be in a stinking insect filled marsh was beyond Corvin. Not for the first time, he looked around himself to the muck covered troopers of his unit and wondered what the point was. Swatting at the blood sucking insect swarming around him was a constant reminder of how much he hated this place and how much more he hated being stuck with Corporal Melot, instead of sergeant Trevin, on this end of the line.

'Keep your eyes ahead Corvin!' grumbled the fair haired squad leader. Lasgun gripped tightly in his hands the corporal was sweeping it along his sight line.

'Yeah yeah Jensen, don't be such an ass about it. It's not like we can see anything in this darkness. The canopy is blocking out the moon and everything here is so frakking dense.' The trooper could barely see the light blue of his uniform under his flak vest. In fact, the unit looked more like some overly armed party of gardeners culling an aristo's exotic fauna. All frakking muddy and smelling like dung.

'That's the point you idiot, so look ahead and pay attention before we get bummed rushed by the enemy. Oh and stop lifting your damn feet so much, your causing suction in the mud.'

''But if I drag my feet the mud gets into my boots' complained the trooper petulantly, not unlike a spoiled child being forced to endure the unpleasantness of his situation.

'I don't care Corvin, Just don't made so much noise' grumbled Jensen in his effort to keep his frustration as quiet as possible. 'You want them to find us you frakwit?'

'No, but aren't we here just to find the Long Cloaks and get a sitrep?' persisted Corvin. A glare from his team leader made him reconsider the issue. They had been dragged fifty kilometers from their relatively safe trenches to go chasing after another regiment's boys. All because they hadn't called HQ yet. It wasn't like the march here had been easy either, they called it a no man's land for a reason and although nothing had happened per say, they all had felt the nerve racking stress of crossing so much hostile territory.

With a few curt gestures the Corporal sent troopers to scope out some rather large tree stumps. The carcasses were probably filled with all sorts of nasty crawlers but the way the vines dangled over the local vegetation also made it a prime ambush spot. The men of the Persephonian 1st fanned out in a text book seize and capture formation around the target and eased down into combat crouches.

'Alright smart ass' the corporal said turning to trooper Corvin 'how about you show me what you can do, besides whine like a new born foal.' Corvin turned to Jensen with an air of surprise and pointed to himself with a puzzled expression. With a nod and a nonchalant swing of his lasgun the corporal sent him on his way.

'Right!' grumbled Corvin as he lifted his own weapon into position and dropped into a crouch. 'I really have got to stop saying my piece.' slowly and humorlessly, the trooper trudged in the sloshing marsh until the reeking water was well above his waist line. 'For the emperor' he muttered to himself.

...

The lamp pack filtered through the darkened marsh briefly. A small hazy globe of dulled light in a messy moonless swamp filled with biting insects, scurrying predators, and choking vines numerous enough to actually live up to their name. One flick, two flicks, three rapid flicks. That was the signal.

The scarred tissue of the veteran's face twisted in what would no doubt have been a vicious smile if there had been enough light to make it visible. He put his own lamp pack away and tightened his combat webbing for the thousandth time. The only thing keeping a soldier alive in an environment like this was detecting an enemy before he detected you. Again and again the veteran sergeant had drilled it into the thick skulls of the men and women of his platoon. No doubt half of them would be complaining about their assignment, smoking, or maybe, Emperor forbids, calling out to each other as they tried to navigate the swamp.

Right now though, it didn't matter. Making sure his vox was turned to its lowest setting he spoke into his collar where the device's voice thief was placed and called in his position. ''Seeker to Charger, contact confirmed with elements of the 5th.'' Patiently the veteran sergeant paused knowing full well that he would have to wait for a unit to be moved up to him before openly contacting their target. It was purely a matter of procedures.

No one in the regiment was more capable than the sergeant in close combat. It was a skill he had acquired at the cost of painful wounds across most of his body. In the tight confines of this dense marshland any encounter would come down to blows dealt with bayonet and sheer savagery. Besides, no Ork had ever been known to possess the finesse required to do anything else.

'Charger to Seeker' came Lieutenant Della's voice, "Wait for reinforcement from Misfit. I am moving them to your position. It should only take them a few minutes so hang tight and keep your head down.' The senior NCO acknowledged the transmission quietly then cursed under his breath. Trevin's mob, that useless excuse for a soldier. How that boy had ever made it to sergeant despite his fervent recommendations against it, above and beyond the mysterious circumstance of the death of Commissar Jarl, was an infuriating prospect. Augustus 'Lucky Gus' Trevin, that soft, self-important, aristocratic born waste of a lasbolt. Siggurd just hoped he would not frak it all up on his way here.

Of all the guardsmen he had trained from Persephony, which was largely a noble's excuse for an off season vacationing planet, few men had infuriated him as much as trooper Trevin. Persephony's defense forces were largely house guards of various noble lines born and bred to protect their aristocratic masters' holdings, or servants used to toil and hardship. These men, although a far cry from the guard's standards had raw enough potential to be turned into the hammer of the emperor. Many of these aristocratic families also sent their sons and daughters to learn the time honored tradition of ordering good men to their deaths. Trevin had been one of these upstart pups and it had taken Siggurd every bit of his much respected position to convince the Departmento Munitorum bureaucrats that Trevin should be made and remain thereafter a simple trooper, for the good of them all. Somehow that worm had managed to wiggle his way into a non-commission officer position none the less, and this despite lieutenant Della's ardent dislike of the Trevin family line.

'Every dog has his day,' the scarred sergeant muttered angrily to himself 'every dog'.

...

Cradling his lasgun under his arm, sergeant Trevin wadded through the filthy marsh water to the large dead tree trunk where a cluster of his comrades awaited. The moist hot air stank of endless dead things and his helmet kept finding a way to slip down and cover his eyesight. Despite the night's relative coolness, it was not powerful enough to banish the humidity that burdened his breathing and fed the voracious swarms of flying insects seeking to gorge themselves on his blood.

With a sullen oath, Trevin battled his way onto firmer ground and nearly fell over twice by the time he got to corporal Melot, who only stood there chuckling unabashedly at his friend's disposition. Jensen Melot lit himself a lho stick while his sergeant shook something wet and slimy from his trouser leg and tying his boot laces tighter.

'You know Ziggy is going to chew you out if he sees you with a lit lho on a night ops, right?' offered Trevin as he tried to regain some sort of dignity. Amongst his unit, which the rest of the platoon correctly called the 'Misfits,' Jensen was the good humored joker with the lady killer looks and the deft card hands. No matter how hard you tried, you could never really blame him for anything because he was such a poster boy for the Persephonian 1st. Not that it would avail him much when confronted with veteran sergeant Siggurd's biased wrath. Even then, Jensen usually took it in strides and only came out more popular. With that in mind, Augustus stopped trying to look like he belongs here half as much as Jensen and stared at him intently.

The corporal shrugged, 'I'd have time to ditch it before old zig zag caught on anyway. He'd be too busy chewing you out first. He _always _chews you out first.'

'Still Jensen, you shouldn't, makes things complicated for the rest of us when everyone wants to be just like the cool kid.' From behind the two men, Corvin muttered ' I told you so.' The corporal, without taking his eyes off of Trevin, gestured rudely at the bitter trooper and moved on without missing a beat.

'Anyway, this is where we found him.' Jensen pulled at a curtain of vines and flashed his lamp pack into the rotting core of the trunk. Its wet surface had created the perfect environment for fungi and prolific insects to nest and feed off each other. It all would have looked perfectly normal if not for the pair of guard issue boots sticking out of the lichen bed.

'Emperor preserves his soul,' Augustus peered in closer and used the barrel of his rifle to clear the corpse of the vegetation.' Looks like he hasn't been there all that long, which means the plant life was used to cover him up'. The realization chilled him to the core. The trooper clearly belonged to the Galvan 5th, also known as the Long Cloaks for their trademark camouflage coats. He had been cleaved from his neck down through his sternum. A wound like that wasn't dealt with an especially sharp tool and certainly not against a battle ready soldier.

'I hate to say it Gus but I think this Long Cloak got snuck up on. Lancer and I agree. From the angle of the wound it looks like some huge knife plunged in through the collarbone. Then the greenskin must have forced the blade from side to sides to get it out of the wedge and cracked the chest bone apart while he was at it.'

'Sternum,' Augustus corrected.

'What did you just call me?' Jensen retorted raising an eyebrow as he tried to figure out what he had just heard. Granted, house guards were not educated in the same way than the sons of the imperial nobility, but still.

'The chest bone, it's called the sternum. Anyway...' the sergeant knelt down to inspect the angle Jensen had mentioned. It looked as if the Long Cloak had turned into it, perhaps realizing too late an assailant was coming from behind him. The Galvan were sneaky buggers and if this one had been caught by surprise then it meant trouble.

'Maybe he wasn't paying attention; maybe he was too busy enjoying a lho stick or something' Trevin warned emphatically.

The corporal got the hint and flicked the glowing amber from its paper wrap and grumbled a little more. 'You and I both know that was a Green skin choppa. Just look at that gash.' Jensen knelt down by his sergeant and traced his finger over the body. 'That's as blunt an instrument as you can get while still calling it a knife. The flesh is ripped at places but shorn at others. You need weight behind a weapon to crack bone like that.'

'Or the feeble muscle density of an orkoid assailant,' answered Augustus, referencing _The Infantry Man's Uplifting Primer_ mockingly.

'Fine. This isn't a bet you got going with Lancer is it? Trying to see if I would believe that a stealth specialist was killed by a supposedly stealthier enemy, and an Ork of all things?'

Jensen shook his head and looked at Augustus with a solemn air. ''I never make bets over a dead man's fate. He's with the Emperor now.'' Gus couldn't agree more. Both men got back up on their feet and walked away from the Galvan's impromptu resting place. The squad was still hunkered down looking out for trouble. They were doing a damn fine job at it, thought Augustus. One trooper in particular was trying his utmost to please. Augustus nodded in the direction of their friend, trooper Lancer. 'How is he doing?'

Jensen shrugged nonchalantly. 'You mean after spending 3 months wrapped up in a body cast in the medicae tents? He's fine, his left eye keeps wandering off though but he assures me he still sees plenty straight. His aim's as bad as it ever was so I guess it's true.' The last time the three of them had been together they had been back at the Kursk battle line defending a reinforced Manticore position. The artillery vehicles were essential in keeping the hordes of greenskin at bay. Unfortunately, they had almost lost the one they were charged with defending. When everyone had given up, it had been Lancer that had gotten the guts to make a last stand worth its weight in medals. Grabbing the last of the Manticore's disassembled warhead he had flung it down the hill they had retreated to and blew the entire trench work to hell. Which incidentally had been filled with battle crazed Orks intent on killing them all. Miraculously, everyone but Lancer had been spared the worst of the explosion. He on the other hand, hadn't been his old self since, and that was saying something. There had been a lot of selective breeding in the Lancer family line and Freddy had inherited the worst of it.

A trooper got up to his feet from his firing position and made his way to Augustus. 'Sergeant! Lieutenant Della has ordered us to move to a position north of here. She says veteran sergeant Siggurd's advanced recon paid off and we are to support him in making contact with elements of the 5th.'

Jensen chuckled. 'Advance recon huh? I thought old zig zag just couldn't stand to be near you Gus.' The sergeant patted vox trooper Kemel on the shoulder and sent him off. 'It's not that bad, he and I just don't always see eye to eye.' Augustus signaled his men to form up and start sweeping north as quietly as possible.

'Who can blame you Gus, with a face like his, no one wants to stare too long.'

Augustus sighed, settling his lasgun in the crook of his shoulder he started to move forward slowly. Jensen was right about one thing though, despite all his clowning around, it was going to be a real treat staring into those cold flinty eyes and telling Ziggy that they had found one of their targets butchered by Orks, stealthy Orks to boot. Yeah, it was going to be a fun night.

...

The going was slow but at least it was safe. Inside the amphibious armored vehicle, Lieutenant Della reviewed the reports in the dim red light. Her adjutant copiously entreated the machine spirit of the vox caster to continue its service all the while handing her short hand accounts of the platoon's progress. Slow, but safe. During the last few weeks the Ork horde had been busy sending wave after wave of their kind at the Kursk battle line. Every attempt had ended in their defeat, despite occasionally reaching the trenches and making a mess of things. Any other foe would have given up by now but the Ork was a fiercely stupid creature. With the simple minded joy of combat always on their mind they had simply kept coming and that was the problem.

The combined forces of the Imperium could keep killing them until the Emperor stepped off his golden throne and still they would be waist deep in greenskins. There was simply no end to them. General HQ had sent elements of the Galvan 5th light infantry regiment into the marshlands south west of Kursk to find a way behind the enemy and hopefully locate their bases of operations. At first the Galvan had encountered soft resistance in the marshes but that was to be expected. Ork hordes had a tendency to splinter and wander around the areas they had been defeated. With the fury that had dropped on their heads in the past weeks, it would have been suspicious if no war bands had been found in the marshlands. Shortly after, the reports had mentioned the presence of a large Ork identified as Green Klaw within the marshes. Since then, the Galvan's progress had slowed considerably until eventually all communication had suddenly stopped.

Because the closest regiments at the front were the Ranok 568th siege engineers and the Persephonian 1st, it had naturally fallen to the mechanized infantry regiment to charge in to the rescue. Her direct superior, captain Rommer, had instructed to take her platoon and make contact with elements of the Galvan 5th and reestablish communication with General HQ. Easier said than done, she thought.

The chimera suddenly lurched and groaned menacingly. Della barely had time to grab onto the safety rail that most of her field reports tumbled to the compartment floor. 'What the frak is going on?' the lieutenant asked angrily. She banged loudly on the driver's compartment with her fist. 'Ramsey? Report damn you!'

She heard the chimera struggle loudly as the vehicle lurched again. 'Sinkhole ma'am! Too soft for the tracks to do much more then churn it up but solid enough to make the amphibious system useless' bellowed the driver back. Della fumed 'you call yourself a rider? Get us out of here before I toss you out there with a bucket!'

'Yes ma'am!' Ramsey called back, bending over his controls to sweet talk the old beast. 'Common now Charger, let's make the lady happy before she makes us miserable.' Persephonians had a love of horses that permeated their entire way of life. It wasn't like those nomadic people you often heard about on the savage plain worlds of the Imperium. No, Persephony was a noble's playground. Mighty steed raced and carried their riders aloft as they jumped hurdles or pranced majestically along the boulevards. Many servants and horse tenders had been offered to the guard when a founding had been called. Ramsey had been one of them. Sometimes he treated the command chimera more like an animal then a machine.

Della turned to her adjutant Honig, intent on telling her to extend her apologies to veteran sergeant Siggurd and to inform him that they would be late to link up. That, however, was going to be problematic in itself. Honig was sprawled in the corner next to her vox station with an overwhelming look of unconsciousness. 'Useless' Muttered Della as she bent over to check the lithe girl's pulse. She was alive at least, if a little banged up. A smudge of dark blood started to show under the girl's beret. With a long sigh the lieutenant pick up the transmitter and pressed the transmission rune.

'Charger to Seeker, come in.' Della waiting for the acknowledgement. 'Charger hit a snag, we will be a little late to the reunion. Play nice,'

The veteran sergeant answered tersely as she cut the link. Great! Della thought, Siggurd and Trevin in one place and her in another. It would be a miracle if the sergeants didn't resort to shooting one another for some perceived slight. Imagined or otherwise. Well, it was in the Emperor's hand now, 'His will be done' she intoned in quiet prayer.

...

Siggurd adjusted his vox back down to a quiet level and sneered angrily as he watched Trevin and his mob of misfits pour out of the woodwork. He would have to see that they tighten up their formations. Another 10 laps around the trench line at Kursk would do them good as a reminder. The scarred veteran turned back to the Galvan captain and noticed the man's discomfort so he dropped the sneer. 'Apologies captain, the lieutenant ran into some trouble so it's just us for the moments.'

'Not a problem Sergeant, these marshes can be a pain to navigate.' The two soldiers stood worlds apart. Even covered in mud and swamp detritus the sergeant was shorter and squatter, with an unusually decorated uniform sporting braids and a multitude of small alteration denoting his home world origins and social class. The officer on the other hand look like a thick patch of creeping moss with a net covered long coat, which incorporated an incongruous amount of vegetation and dangling vines. The Galvan even sported a meshed cowl that hid most of his features and complement his short twig laced beard. I could learn a thing or two from these Galvan thought Siggurd.

'As I was saying, we are not sure what we are dealing with. It's Orks alright but they don't act like anything I have seen before. Green Klaw's boys are sneaky gits, they use tricks, camouflage, terrain, they even went as far as to snipe our vox equipment. The last thing we want is to head back to base and leave a trail for these xenos to follow. They'd only start hitting us like a bunch of Catachans.' The captain, Biligius, had a good point. He also looked like he had learned it the hard way. His men were stretched far and wide in seek and destroy assignments with only a small working knowledge of each other's movements to minimize the risk of ambushes. Standing orders were to fight as long as they could and fall back to a somewhat solid patch of ground close to the edge of what they had started calling Green Claw Marsh.

Siggurd was going through a whole list of scenarios and could not come up with a better or safer way of tackling the problem. Given the Galvan's strength and disposition. 'I believe you have the right of it, captain' agreed the veteran. 'Maybe we can turn the tables on these Ork...Kommandos. If anything, now that we have linked up with your forces and have the command chimera's vox capabilities, we will be able to inform HQ and get your boys some support or relief.'

Biligius shook his head tersely 'no offense sergeant but we won't be lifted out of here. My boys are used to field craft so this here swamp is a 5 star resort. Besides, we have a score to settle with these Orks, but we won't say no to more boots on the ground. No one will say the 5th was out played by Orks at our own game.' Siggurd couldn't help but smile, which was as unflattering as any other expression on his torn face.

'Glad to hear it sir. I would be proud to serve along your men any day of week.' The two men shook hands in mutual respect as Trevin walked up to the pair. 'What did I miss?' he asked, as if someone had told a good jest. Siggurd's eyes positively dripped contempt. It was the same expression he had worn all those months as Trevin's drill sergeant aboard the bulky transport ship that had brought them here, to their first engagement. 'A shining example of leadership Trevin. Had you been here in time, as ordered, you would have learned something. Now try not to stumble on your boot laces while I go remind your men that they are in His most divine majesty's Imperial Guard and not on some hunting trip!''

Trevin tried his best to ignore Siggurd as he stomped away. He was left with the Galvan captain and his small unit of walking blinds. 'Hard man, your platoon sergeant.' offered the officer in comfort.

'Yeah, you're telling me.' Trevin looked up at the man and added 'sir' as an afterthought.

'If you don't mind me asking sergeant, Trevin, was it? What happened to his face?' Everyone wondered that after meeting old Ziggy but few ever dared ask the man themselves. Those who tried were often offered a lesson in close quarter combat, which promptly killed any thought of pursuing the matter.

Trevin thought for a moment and took a deep breath. 'My guess is, pretty much everything, sir.'

...

Sergeant Madison's squad was double timing it to the lieutenant's position. Between the obscurity of the night, the tangling brush, and the watery sink holes of the marsh, they were going no faster than walking speed despite their efforts. Madison didn't like the fact they needed to keep their weapons at ease, but if he ever expected to secure the trapped chimera anytime soon, it simply wouldn't do to scan every inch of the swamp through a rifle scope.

The squad leader called for a halt by holding a fist at head level for those behind him to see. What had he just seen there? Had a fern really just sunk under the water line? He raised his weapon and scanned the shadowy vista. His quad instinctively dropped low and brought their weapons at the ready. This damnable swamp was going be the death of him, Madison thought. He could barely navigate it with what little moonlight peered through the damp canopy.

'Birk, Hanover, Tillis, move up and spread,' the sergeant worded very quietly. The fat bugs buzzed louder than his whisper but still the regal mud splattered troopers understood his intent and started to fan out forward carefully. The others kept their eyes on the flanks and rear but their silent tension could be felt as easily as the sweat running down Madison's back. No wonder he thought, this smelled like an ambush and although it was unlikely that this would be an Ork's doing, there were plenty of other man eating predators that could as easily do them in. It would be more then cruel irony to have survived a trek across the thrice cursed warp, fight against hulking brutes like the Orks, and die at the hands of the local apex predator.

The troopers were now a few meters ahead and spreading further. They swept their barrels looking for a target just like they had been taught by their drill sergeant. No one liked the jig saw puzzle faced man but not a man in the regiment would question the skills Siggurd had passed on. Suddenly Tillis stopped and signaled to wait. The squad collectively held their breath as the trooper pulled out his knife and started to part the floating lichen bed he was standing in. 'well, what is it soldier?' pressed Madison. The suspense was killing him.

Trooper Tillis never had a chance to answer. A great gout of fetid water erupted at his feet and he was hefted upwards at the end of a wickedly jagged and oversized machete. The man's gurgling screams of pain died as the massive shape of an Ork emerged from the floundering water spray.

'Git'em boyz, it's fightin'time!' bellowed the monstrous Ork. It was clad in miss matched body armor interweaved with local flora and smattered with what could only be described as an odd camouflage scheme of war paint. With cries of Waaaaagh! That rattled the troopers' helmets, other massive shapes fell upon them from their hiding places amongst the bushes and trees. Madison froze unable to comprehend what was happening. All around, his squad was either shooting blindly or trying unsuccessfully to run away in the sucking muck and chest deep water. Falling to massive cleavers or seemingly random shots, the squad was in disarray and their leader was unable to get his wits about him. Before he ever managed, Madison was hauled off the wet spongy ground and brought within inches of a terrifyingly large bulging eye. It belonged to the Ork that had skewered Tillis.

'You'z smell different humie! Nut like'em Hidey ones.' It wasn't a question, it was a statement. This Beast was nearly half again the height of an average man and possessed arms thick enough to rip Madison in two. The guardsman was little more than a twig in comparison. The sergeant whimpered powerlessly and felt warmth spread down his leg, contrasting the cooler brackish water that soaked his fatigues.

'OYE! Dis'one sprung a leak!' said the Ork boss. His boyz had just finished killing the last of the troopers. In a few short terrifying moments, nine good men of the Imperium under Madison's charge had been slain.

''Dey'all did!'' chuckled one of the Orks behind Madison. The boss's laughter was like booming thunder and the stench of his breath nearly incapacitated his prisoner. 'Right'nuff! So, humie, where d'ya come from heh? Me boyz are gettin' abit tired of playin' hide and seek with dem other humies.' The sergeant tried to breathe despite the creatures grasp and decided at that moment that he would heap no more shame on his regiment's name. He spat in the ugly thing's bulging eyes.

'The emperor takes you and your kind Ork! Every last one of you will fall to his armies.' The group of kommandos tightened the circle around the sergeant excitedly. They seemed positively thrilled at the thought of taking an entire army on by themselves. They hooted and chanted, some banging their chest, others firing wildly into the air. As one, they howled their boss' name.


	7. Chapter 5

5.

'What was that?' Della asked as she half hanged out the chimera side hatch. Ramsey straightened up and flung another bucket full of muck onto more solid purchase. He was stripped down to his waist and sweating profusely. Since he couldn't dislodge the chimera and he couldn't stop the water slipping back around the vehicle, he had desperately tried to loosen up the ground around the amphibious rotary module.

At her question he craned his neck and slapped another insect that had latched on to his shoulder. 'What was what ma'am?' he regretted saying it as soon as he heard it. Della fixed him with a scalding look that was all reprimands and extra duties. He quickly decided he would pay more attention to his surrounding despite having to hopelessly bail the chimera out. Then he heard it, gunshots, burst fire and lots of it. He dropped low and cursed. Della simply nodded to herself and went back in the command vehicle. How had she even heard it from inside?

The somewhat concussed Honig was back at her vox with a bandaged head and dutifully scribbled the lieutenant's orders on a note pad. 'Keep trying to reach the battle line HQ and tell them of the Galvan situation as forwarded by sergeant Siggurd. Then if you can, find out where Madison is and maybe even get Duran, Hobs, or Trevin to support if Madison is a no go.' As soon as Honig confirmed her orders Della stuck her head out of the hatch again and looked for Ramsey. He was looking out into the inky darkness of the swamp with a strange look.

'Ramsey! Get your ass in here and man the las turret. What are you gawking at?' the soldier turned to her and started to make his way into the chimera. 'I think I heard something out there after the gun shots lieutenant. It sounded like "Green claw" or something'.

Della cussed. 'Frakking great, that's the Ork mob's boss in these parts, or so intel says.' She slammed the hatch closed and locked it. Leaning her back against it she watched Ramsey climb into the turret's gunner seat and check the systems. Arms crossed she wrapped a hand around her long golden braid and rubbed it with her thumb. All persephonian female officers were allowed to keep their hair long if it was bound. Another tradition adopted from their aristocratic habits. She breathed deeply, unconsciously showing her tell, as she rubbed the knotted strand of hair.

'Honig, did you reach Kursk HQ yet?' Della hoped she had. The quicker they could communicate their mission objective the quicker they could call in support. Not that anyone had much of a chance of getting here in time if the Orks had found them. 'Sorry ma'am, the vox net seems rather busy at the moment and we are not on their priority listing,' came Honig's voice from the echoing compartment. 'Well, try harder!' rumbled Della. 'Otherwise they will have to send a third force to figure out what happened to the last two!' Emperor forbid, Della didn't feel like ending her career on a greenskin's trophy rack.

...

He held his knife in a reverse grip and parted the foliage with his grime caked hand. Keeping low, the water he had sunk into was now at chest height and the stink was appalling potent. Still, he kept his breathing slow and shallow as he slid along the water silently. Siggurd had never been a subtle man, he wasn't prone to sly stratagems or the masterful art of stealth. But what he excelled at was learning, sometimes at break neck speeds, how to beat the ever rising bell curve of mortality rates in the guard life. Right now, right here, Siggurd did everything the Galvan 5th had told him to do to better his odds. He was going to need it, because he was the bait.

One thing was for sure. As odd as these Orks were, they were still Orks. They could hide pretty well but they weren't given to the long lasting focus required to spot a capable foe. As Siggurd moved closer to the overly decorated bush, he was under no illusion that one mistake would cost him his life, just as it had no doubt cost the scout Trevin's misfits had found. The foliage was all wrong. Creeper vines and ground moss were mixed with broken twigs in addition to the carcass of some swamp rodent. Points for trying Siggurd thought. He could see the bulge within the foliage breathe with the steady rhythm of a sleeping giant. He had also been assured that where there was one, there were others. It was time to get the greenskins riled up and encourage them to show themselves.

Siggurd quickly lashed out and grabbed a handful of the foliage to help himself up. Immediately, the hidden Ork bellowed in surprised and swung around to see what was going on, which only spun Siggurd onto its back. With a war cry worthy of any Ork, the veteran stabbed down into the creature's neck and shoulder for a quick and bloody kill. The great brute flayed its arms trying to swat the sergeant off its back but Siggurd wouldn't have it. He brought his knife down on the creature again and again trying to deal a mortal blow. The Ork was all muscles and tendons, which meant every stab was turned into just another flesh wound. Finally the Ork succeeded at getting to grips with the sergeant just as more of its fellows join the fray.

Then the night exploded with searing bolts of las fire and the sound of surprised Orks. Siggurd sailed through the air and disappeared under the brackish waters as the Ork flung him from its back. Seconds after, a loud detonation made minced meat of the brute the veteran had been riding. Surfacing with blade and pistol ready, Siggurd took stock of the situation. When in doubt, krak grenades usually settled matters. Just another thing the veteran had learned skimming the knife's edge. All around, high powered las bolts pelted the confused Orks who just roared louder. Siggurd snapped off a few shots himself, drawing the attention of a slightly sizzling Ork who left a sizable wake behind him. No sooner was the sergeant noticed that the Ork charged him.

He only had moments to react before the Ork got to him. It took mass fire to kill a greenskin that size and all he had was a pistol. The veteran knew he needed to buy the Galvans more time to take the greenskins down. As the xeno charged him, Siggurd dropped back into the swamp water and gripped at the deep soil for roots in an attempt to move away from the rampaging brute. He was delaying the inevitable and he knew it, his life was in captain Biligius's hands and that of his men now, theirs and the Emperor's of course. Resurfacing by a clumpy fern, he shook the film of muck from his face and saw the charging Ork trashing the water where he had been only moments ago. It finally caught on and looked about, all glowering eyes and yellowed tusks. Their eyes met, and in that instant, they both knew that one of them would be dead seconds from now. The Ork seemed rather confident.

The kommando leapt forward clearing the water pit he had stood in and smashed his jagged cleaver into the tree Siggurd had just rolled away from. The sergeant threw a hook into the brute's armored side, to little effect. Adapting quickly, he followed through with a carefully aimed stroke of his knife, which he still held in a reverse grip. The mono edged blade parted the grox hide of the towering xeno and sliced into the meat between its massive ribs. Before the Ork could dislodge his choppa, the veteran leapt back and dove behind the cover of the half cloven tree. Howling, the Kommando smashed its blade into the sides of the tree trunk as it scrambled after its faster opponent. The veteran used the obstacle to his advantage, always keeping one step ahead of the Ork's attack and denying him an easy victory. Siggurd couldn't keep it up indefinitely, he was running out of breath. He could move faster than the Ork alright but the creature's long strides and massive bulk meant it simply wadded or stepped over most of the terrain which he had to contend with. One wrong move, one misstep, and it would be over. Ripping another grenade from his webbing he flicked the safety pin with a deft move and held on. The fuse was set for 10 seconds. This was called cooking ordinance and it was highly dangerous. Never to be attempted for any reason. Unfortunately for the veteran sergeant, neither was taking on an Ork in hand to hand combat. So the risks evened themselves out.

Ducking the latest of the Ork's long winded attacks he darted under the creatures reach and slashed at the xeno's vest lining creating a large gap. 6 seconds left.

He stepped behind his foe and kept into its shadow to force it to turn about, confusing its angle of sight to buy precious seconds. Then he deftly ducked under his attacker's manic swipes to slip the powerful anti-vehicle krak grenade in the slit he had made. 3 seconds left.

Throwing caution to the wind, Siggurd sprinted for his life but caught the Ork's return swing behind the head. His vision faded as a bright explosions of light was followed by numbing silence. The last thing he felt was a tremendous shockwave blanketing the swamp water above him as the thick fetid substance filled his lungs.

Trevin and his misfits formed a circle around Kemel and his vox set. Jensen smoked while Lancer nervously brought fidgeting fingers to his left ear and back down again, barely touching it before doing it again moments later. Trooper Derrik and Reiner, the squad's heavy weapon specialists, had stopped inspecting the squad's heavy stubber and its ammo drums to better listen to the transmission. Opposite to them were trooper Corvin and the unit's field medic Laura "dead eyes" Steld. Even the infamously cold medic seemed concerned as the choppy vox signal carried Honig's nervous voice.

'Any units in the vicinity of grid gamma-8 please respond. We are in need of priority support. Sergeant Madison and his unit are M.I.A and Charger is under Ork assault. Anyone? Please respond!' The soldiers looked to Trevin who simply bit his lip. Months before, Lieutenant Della had redirected the Manticore support that kept the greenskins off of misfit's trenches, which had promptly been overrun. Lancer had been wounded then, in what he assumed was his last stand. Everyone knew there would be a reckoning one day, although Trevin never talked about it for some reason. Again, everyone assumed he was waiting for his chance to pay her back. A chance like this.

After a tense moment Augustus spoke 'Kemel, have you been able to reach Ziggy?' The vox operator shook his head. 'Right then, form up, we have a chimera to save.' Jensen raised an eye brow and hesitated in asking. 'And our commanding officer, right Gus?'

The question was on everyone's face. The unit would have to draw some very nasty lines between itself if foul play was being planned. Mutiny was punishable by death. In fact, commissars had shot entire units for lesser crimes perpetrated by only one of their member. This was no laughing matter. 'Della? Sure, why not,' the sergeant smiled disarmingly and the palpable tension in the air drained from everyone present. Even Lancer stopped fidgeting, although his left eye was still horribly askew.

Corporal Jensen nodded and got to work. 'Well, what are you waiting for? You heard the Sergeant, or are you waiting for old zig zag to suddenly burst out of his rear end and threaten you with a bloody cuffing? Let's go, go, go!''

...

Shots ran loudly against the armored flanks of the command chimera. Small arms couldn't penetrate it but that didn't mean it was any less nerve racking. Ramsey had bled the turret dry minutes ago trying to chase the lumbering shapes out of their cover to mow them down. The Orks had had a different idea. They had purposely attracted the fire of the turret to get close enough to throw stick bombs on and around the chimera. After having sunk the vehicle even deeper into the marsh ground, beyond any hope of getting it out, the Orks had tried to close in for the kill and it had taken a liberal amount of las fire to keep them dissuaded. The smart ones, Green Klaw included, had circled around while their brethren soaked up the fire. It was only a matter of time now.

Honig had transmitted their mission objective just as the Orks had started testing their defenses. Barely able to send out their cry for support in time, she had nervously broadcasted at full power until the Orks had loudly sacked the vox mast on top of the vehicle. Now the riled up greenskins where hooting and grunting as they struck at the hatches and shot at the less armored parts of the chimera in hopes of no doubt creating some kind of explosion. The young vox operator was jumping at the loud clanking sounds made by their weapons. Honig was clearly in shock and her eyes were red brimming with unshed tears as her mind struggled to deal with its rapidly disintegrating state.

Despite her training, Della could not bring herself to snap Honig out of her fugue. It would serve no purpose to have her in a lucid state to experience the last moments of her life anyway. Better the girl spend it this way, taking refuge within herself or some comforting mindscape. Della herself calmed her skipping heart and offered a prayer to the immortal Emperor to guide her to his side. She pictured the fabulous estates of the Della family and the wonderfully golden sunsets of the summer seasons on far away Persephony. A lonely tear slipped from her shimmering eyes. She could almost feel its sun's warmth on her skin. That last summer had been magical. She remembered the soft touch of Gregor Trevin's lips on her body, his boyish good looks, and his infuriatingly smug self-confidence. Without a doubt, Gregor and Augustus shared those traits. He was probably just as much a bastard as his older brother, that filthy foal frakking...

'That's it, I am not dying as a star struck damsel in distress. I am a proud daughter of the Della family line and a commissioned officer of His most holy army! Ramsey, Honig, get up!'

Her two subordinates looked at her in a daze, Ramsey because he wondered what she was talking about, and Honig because she was probably sipping some drink on a white sandy beach somewhere in her mind's eye. Della drew her beautifully crafted laspistol and smacked the emergency ramp hatch release. The operator, panicking at this, bolted to his feet and briskly picked up his lasgun while Honig just stared on in absolute horror. The explosive bolts fired and projected the dismount ramp outwards, crushing a few Greenskins on its way, there simply was no way to deny reality anymore. Honig mewled pathetically.

...

Trevin's misfits made record time back to the downed chimera. Having taken the opportunity to compare their maps with the Galvans had paid off. The scout regiment had clearly marked the most expedient ways around this emperor forsaken marsh. The humidity still took its toll and the guardsmen were drenched through and through, but at least they manage a decent jogging pace.

Trevin could start hearing the commotion ahead. The ruckus was a dead giveaway but even without it, the Orks had actually managed to out stink a marsh full of dead and decaying matter. At least they were down wind. He signaled a change of pace and saw Jensen echo his gestures to the others out of his sight. Dropping to the wet ground he crawled closer to a small vine infested hillock overlooking the sunken chimera and the hooting mob of gun blazing Orks.

The foe was all over the place. They wore garish war paint that manage to contrast their haphazard collection of armored bits. Some had large caliber guns that coughed black smoke and clanked horridly while others were festooned with stikk bombs or crude but wicked looking melee weapons. One of them stood apart from his comrades and wore what looked like some kind of night vision goggles. He was excitedly distracted but clearly, he was some kind of sentry. These Orks were a whole different breed from those assaulting the Kursk battle line.

With curt waves of his hand, he indicated where he wanted Derrik and Reiner to set up their heavy weapon. The two crouched low and moved into position. Trevin then split the rest of the squad in two fire team. He hoped that if they attacked from two different directions they might fool the Orks into thinking they were a bigger force then they actually were. If they could manage to drag them into the firing arc of the heavy stubber they stood a real chance at actually hurting the Orks. By the Emperor, but they were big. Even bigger than the ones he had fought in the trenches. Ziggy always said the bigger the Ork was, the meaner it got. If it was actually true, then these ones looked mean enough to take a bite out of a Leman Russ tank.

As the squad began to move into their assigned position, the telltale sound of the chimera's emergency ramp release mechanism barked into the night.

'Emperor's ball, no!'

As Trevin watched, the ramp exploded outwards and clipped a few of the brutes, sending them tumbling into the wet muck and shredding one Ork's face clear off. His heart sank as he saw the dim red light surrounding Lieutenant Della, her pistol up and blazing away at the sprawling Orks.

He heard Jensen curse too 'What the hell is she thinking? What the bloody hell!' Trevin shook his head as dumbstruck as his friend. There was nothing to it. It was going to be an all-out assault now.

'All troopers, weapons hot, I repeat, Frak those ugly gakkers! In the name of the Emperor, for Persephony, attack, attack!' At his command the entire unit opened up. The amount of fire laid down was suddenly blinding.

From the Ork's flank the heavy weapon gushed out a torrent of led, first shredding the half aware sentry and then slamming into the sides of the bewildered Ork gunners. Adding to the fire, half a dozen troopers systematically shot bursts after bursts of las bolts in concentrated volleys. The large Ork kommandos bellowed their rage as they were slowly brought low one after the other. Even so, what would have charred an entire unit of guardsmen many times over had simply managed to cull the Ork's numbers by a pitiful measure.

'This isn't going to work, not by a long shot,' complained the sergeant. He stopped firing and forcibly shouted into his vox thief to be heard over the whip-cracking sound of the discharging ions that accompanied las flurries. 'Lieutenant, do you copy? This is misfit actual.'

'I am a bit busy at the moment Trevin, make it quick' came Della's terse voice between the sound of her pistol discharging furiously.

'My apologies Della, I'll get back to you whenever you have some free time on your hands' spat Trevin. Not far off, he heard the barking staccato of the heavy stubber fall silent. Derrik yelled loudly at his deafened partner to reload him. They would need some cover while they switched drums. Trevin turned to Corvin and signaled for a grenade barrage. Immediately the youth passed on the message along to his neighbors and a few moments after, four fragmentation grenades flew through the air to burst amongst the Kommandos. They looked more annoyed then hurt as sizzling fragments of steel lodged into their though hide but it had confused the battle field long enough for the heavy gun to start barking again.

It was then that Trevin noticed Della calling his name impatiently. 'Trevin you lousy bastard, this is no time to make a mockery of the hierarchy of command.' Augustus couldn't help but have a spiteful tone in his voice.

'I am sorry lieutenant, I was a little busy' he remarked.

'Sergeant Trevin!' scolded the lieutenant 'is there a reason for this transmission or are you simply wasting my time?'

'Oh yes, the reason, right. I got distracted trying to clear a path for you. If you would be so kind,' he yelled in his vox thief over the din of the battle, 'please exit your transport and take an immediate left, keeping low to the ground, we will lay down covering fire.' abandoning the transmission rune at his collar, Trevin took up arms again and kneeled up.

'On your knees guardsmen, it's time to save our beloved leader's heart shaped ass! On my mark, covering fire. Mark!' As one the unit moved from their prone position to a kneeling one, allowing for better clearance to fire. Their weapons fired in volleys a second after their sergeant's. Systematically marking targets and then taking them down. Discipline and controlled fire created a corridor around Della and her subordinates as they hurried towards Trevin's unit. Las bolts flew above their heads and the Orks, who were shooting wildly into the foliage where the heavy gun was blazing, barely noticed as their prey slipped away.

The kommando's stubborn reluctance to give up proved problematic and Trevin's distraction had worked only too well. Dozens of lit stikk bombs arched towards Derrik and Reiner's position. After a thunderous series of explosion, which manage to set the drenched vegetation ablaze, the heavy stubber fell silent. Della dropped into a crawl beside Trevin and brushed mud from her face. 'Where is Siggurd?' asked the frazzled officer.

'I don't know,' Trevin answered. His mind was racing as he tried to figure out how to get his heavy weapon specialist out of this mess, if they still lived. 'You don't know?' Della answered petulantly.

'Yeah, I don't frakking know. Maybe he's taking tea with the captain from the 5th, what do you want from me? He isn't answering his vox' growled the sergeant. 'Jensen, draw them to you. I'll circle around to where the heavies should be, let's hope their still breathing'

'Sure boss, no problem. You go have your fun, we'll just be here, you know, dying' Jensen yelled back sardonically. Despite his complaints, Trevin knew he could count on the corporal. As he got up, Della meant to follow him but he stopped her in her tracks. 'No offense ma'am but we just got you out of the fire. I think you have plenty to do here anyway'. Della's smooth grey eyes flickered to his briefly and for a moment her stoic mask fell. Trevin though he saw a little concern there, gratitude even.

'Just keep them alive would you? I kind of like them,' pressed the misfit's sergeant.

With that Della's statuesque visage returned. 'You concern yourself with what is ahead sergeant. Emperor knows you are as likely to trip on your own boot laces as you are to aim down the correct end of your lasgun.' Della crept back towards the rest of his squad as the greenskins reorganized their front to face their enemy. From the corner of his eye Trevin spotted one of the Orks who was a good head and shoulders above the others. 'There you, I'm coming back for you greenie, just you watch.' Switching his laspack for a fresh one, he tucked the spend cell into his webbing and set off into the dark towards the glowing ambers left behind by the stick bombs. The orks would pay dearly if they had killed two of the best men he had ever trained with.

...

Frederick Lancer stumbled onto his knees again. In one hand he held his lasgun, trying to keep it clear of the marshland muck, the other gripped tenaciously at the shell shocked vox operator's combat webbing. The lieutenant had ordered a fighting retreat. That meant the squad needed to peel back in layers, one team covering the other while they retreated to deny the enemy an opportunity to mow them down. These Orks weren't making it easy though. They plowed through the underbrush in great lopping strides, howling for blood, inured to their wounds.

Lancer knew very well why he had been chosen to run off with Honig. It was because he was useless. With the two far out of the way, they didn't risk slowing down the tactical retreat. He couldn't blame his friends. Lancer forced himself to press on and physically dragged his whimpering charge up to her feet to carry on. What would a half deaf, quivering runt, and a shell shocked dial twister be good for anyway.

'Come on girl, we need to move.' Honig's unsure whine demurely. Fine then, he would carry her if he had to. At least for now she was still able to walk, if barely. This damnable darkness was not helping one bit either. Lancer could barely make out where he was going or what pitfall to evade. He didn't dare open his lamp pack in fear of drawing the pursuing Orks to them. Another ill placed step sent him and Honig sprawling into the mud. Lancer spat out fetid water and reached around him, searching for his lasgun.

The soldier's hands started to shake. 'No, no no no...Not now. Where is it? My gun, where is my gun?' Panic threatened to consume him. His mouth went try and his vision blurred. The girl beside him started to whimper, picking up on his distress and somehow voicing her own. Not far away, the sound of Ork's cheering and las bolts flying could be heard. Then his hands hit something solid, a branch maybe, no, it was far sturdier then a wet log. With those, you could feel your fingers sink in, this was much more solid, by far, and it had hard angles. Blinking sweat from his eyes Lancer froze. It was a lasgun alright but it wasn't his.

In the gloom of the marsh's moonless night, he hadn't been able to make it out, but this close up it was no longer an issue. The gun had an owner and it was pointed at him. Lancer lifted his arms up slowly and leaned his weight back onto his heels, kneeling a little too much like a man waiting for his execution. Slowly the muddy ground shifted and quivered as air was displaced and the shaggy moss covered lump rose from a prone to a kneeling position. Its weapon never wavering in its aim, which pointed at the twitching mud splattered trooper. 'What is a guardsman's lot,' growled the shadowed man, 'death or glory?'

Frederick Lancer swallowed hard and stared at the lasgun's focal lens knowing full well this could be the last thing he ever saw. Puzzled, he answered the first thing that came to mind.

'Both?' An eternity seemed to pass for the twitching trooper until he let out the breath he was holding. 'Look to your left, trooper. Pick up your weapon and your friend then stand behind us'. Swallowing hard and feeling his entire body shivering with cold sweat, Lancer asked with the same puzzled expression he had used to answer a moment ago 'us?'

Without a forthcoming answer, Lancer reached out for both his weapon and his charge. By the time he had both he finally noticed the men crouching into a firing line. Dozens of great coat wearing guardsmen with camouflage nettings slunk out of the darkness and blended in perfectly. It was as if they had simply materialized, armed with their powerful long las variants, like the one that Lancer had stared down the barrel of moments ago. It was the 5th, the Galvans had somehow found them. A familiar voice snapped him back out of his awe struck reverie.

'You expect them to shoot through you Lancer? Get behind the line your sorry excuse for a trooper, now!'

'Yes sir, veteran sergeant sir!' It was all Lancer manage to say as he immediately obeyed.

...

The Orks would not abandon their chase. With Green Klaw in tow, the now much smaller mob of brutish xenos was undeterrable. If ever one of his smaller subordinates hesitated in its pursuit, Green Klaw would use his massive cleaver on them to make example of them. Not one of the soldiers Protecting Della during the retreat was left unharmed. The worst of which was Corvin who had received a piece of scrap from an exploding stikk bomb in the face. Despite his ruined right eye and severe blood lost, the trooper fought on but he was rapidly blanching.

Della turned to add her pistol to the covering fire. Large caliber shells shredded the vegetation and the paltry cover offered by the drenched and gnarled trees. She gave thanks to the Emperor that the green skins were such horrid shots. Otherwise her walking wounded would simply had been dead. Her vox crackled to life 'Seeker to Charger, be advised, spear wall at your six. Permission to engage?'

'Siggurd? Spear wall acknowledged, on my mark.' The lieutenant screamed the order to take cover. As well drilled as sergeant Siggurd had trained them, every member of the squad immediately dropped to the ground or dove for cover in reflex. 'Mark!' voxed Della as she hit the ground.

The night turn to day for one very short moment as well placed high power shots bore into the Ork Kommandos. To say the Orks dropped like flies would have been mocking their incredible resilience but they faltered. It took repeated and rapid fire from weapons designed to char a man's insides instantly to make their charge lose its momentum. Then, with the added fire of the recovering squad, the Orks began to fall. They never stopped bellowing their cries of _waaaagh_ and of mindless killing rage. Not until the very last of them had died. In the end it had taken an entire platoon of the 5th's marksmen and most of Della and the misfits' ammunition to lay low a relatively small group of Ork Kommandos. Unfortunately, of the three dozen charred bodies floating face down in the marsh's pungent water, Green Klaw wasn't one of them.

Galvan soldiers swept the battle field while the Persephonians gathered their wits. Field medic Steld dressed the squad's wounds without a spare word of comfort, as usual. Corvin took the news about his eye rather well, he was also highly sedated and most likely suffering from hypovolemic shock. Steld had to transfuse her own blood to keep his heart pumping. She didn't complain though and had told Della it was why she had been chosen to be medic anyway; she was a universal donor.

While the men checked their ammo count, lit lho sticks, and generally came to grasp with the realization that they had survived, Siggurd informed the lieutenant of his assistance of the 5th and theirs in return. Keep ties between regiments strong he always said. It sure paid off. 'I don't see sergeant Trevin, wouldn't be dead by any chance, would he?' The veteran sergeant grumbled.

Della shrugged 'I don't know really. We got separated during the firefight.' She wrung out her braid as much as she could, she didn't dare sample the odor that had no doubt seeped into her hair.

'Shame,' added the veteran after a silent pause. Della was not sure if the veteran meant it was a shame Trevin was not dead or that they had gotten separated. 'He went after his heavies after their position got ran over.'

The platoon sergeant grunted ambiguously. 'You don't abandon eight troopers to save two' was all he said.

'Siggurd, I was there. He trusted me with their safety,' retorted the officer in defense of her abilities. The flinty eyes of the veteran could barely be seen in the dark night but still they somehow reflected coldly. As he spoke again, she knew he disapproved.

'Your duty is to the Emperor first and to your platoon second. You can't do that if your busy managing just one squad. That's why you have sergeants. You delegate to them and they deal with their men. Not the other way around. Trevin as good as abandoned his post. We all serve differently, but we can't forget our place in Him on Earth's Imperial Guard.'

When the veteran was sure the lieutenant had grasp his meaning he politely excused himself and made sure the survivors were ready again if it came to another fight. Della crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed her thumb along her damp braid, 'where in the warp are you Trevin?'

...

The trio of soldiers collapsed on the first piece of solid ground they could find that wasn't in ear shot of the blazing firefight. Derrick's right arm hung loosely at his side where the stikk bombs had mangled it. Trevin had seen worst so he turned his attention to Reiner whom they had supported on their way here. His fatigues were ripped and his left knee seemed to be more parts and pieces then whole.

'Well...' grumbled Trevin as he sat down by Reiner's leg. ''You want the good news first or the bad?' Both Derrick and Reiner exchanged glances. It was obvious that they were in a great deal of pain but it was the concern for each other that struck their sergeant most. Heavy weapon crews often developed a close bond, having to literally work as one to support their squads. 'Frakking hell sarge, is it that bad?' hissed Reiner as he clutched at his thigh.

Trevin nodded tersely 'I'm afraid it is trooper. I'll give it to you straight, you'll never wear those trousers again.' The two heavies burst into a nervous chuckle as the adrenaline from their scrap out with the Orks bled away. 'Good one Sergeant,' Derrick managed after a coughing fit. 'But seriously how does Reiner look?'

Trevin had another joke ready but held himself back. One good laugh might be stress relief but he didn't feel like giving any potential pursuers a bead on them. 'How should I know, do I look like Steld? Now shut up while I patch your arm.'

Halfway done dressing the mangled arm with his first aid kit, Trevin was interrupted by Reiner. 'Hey sarge, is it true about you and Steld?' Trevin glanced over his shoulder at Reiner who was trying to get into a comfortable sitting position while keeping an eye out.

'Oh yeah, sure thing,' answered the sergeant jokingly, not actually knowing what the question truly was. The heavy's eyes almost bulged out of his head, 'really? You and she really went at it huh?' emphasizing the notion with a rude back and forth gesture.

So that's what they were blathering about, thought Trevin.

'Went at it? Oh, Throne no. It was nothing like that. I wouldn't let her get anywhere near me with her needles so she played the "looker" card to get close enough to stab my ass full of sedatives.'

Derrick's grin was ear to ear as he nodded knowingly. 'Yeah, she's a scary one.'

With wounds dressed and bleeding stopped, the guardsmen turned their attention to linking up with their squad. Trevin tried unsuccessfully to raise someone on the vox. Between the state of things when he left and the distance they had put between them and the fight, he doubted anyone would be receiving his transmissions. The heavies kept sentry, Derrick crouched and Reiner laid prone.

A strange smell caught Derrick's attention, his nose crinkling as it wafted by. 'Hey… hey Reiner, do you smell that?' His partner shook his head without taking his sights off the area he covered.' Nah man, wasn't me,' answered Reiner defensively. Then it hit him, 'ugh, smells like, like burnt... something.'

'Yeah,' grumbled the crouched sentry 'it smells familiar.' Reiner snorted, 'if this is another one of your comments about my bowel movements you can go ahead and just quit it.'

Trevin dropped by them like a man under fire. 'Frak! That smell is familiar because it was everywhere after "Lancer's Last Stand".'

The two other's eyes filled with understanding. For hours after Lancer had flung the Manticore shell down the hill and into the trenches, the air had been filled with the smell of scorched greenskins. Whatever was coming must have been under a fair amount of las fire.

It took a few hair raising moments to hear it after that. Hiding on their little islet, the trio heard the splashing first. It was safe to assume it was an Ork and by the sound of the sloshing swamp water the creature was alone. That wasn't too bad thought Trevin, probably a lone straggler that fled the firefight. It was also probably wounded, which would make things easier. The sergeant strained his sight to make out any moving shape. It was then that the Ork came into view, unconcerned about stealth and wadding through vegetation like a charging bull.

Immediately, Trevin and the heavies dropped low at the sight of it. He had recognized the beast for what it was. What was the nob boss doing here, and alone for that matter? Had Della somehow managed to not only push back but decimate the horde? That seemed highly unlikely. Green Klaw continued to lumber on, showing no signs of having spotted the hiding guardsmen.

Worriedly, the heavies looked to Trevin for orders. 'Get the stubber ready, quiet like, I'll distract him in the meanwhile.'

Derrick grabbed Trevin by the arm and shook his head.' You can't be serious sergeant, let's keep our head down. It looks in a hurry to leave.'

'And then what, trooper? Report that we left the Ork boss walk on by while it was obviously injured and alone? The commissars will have our heads. Besides, we owe it and its ilk a blood debt for the lives they took. I don't intend on giving this Green Klaw a chance to whip up another mob and come back to make more trouble.' Trevin would accept no arguments. He moved passed the two burly soldiers in a crouch and disappeared meters away in the surrounding underbrush. Like good guardsmen, the troopers got to the task at hand despite their obvious reluctance to engage the enemy.

The massive Ork was out pacing Trevin at a rapid pace. For one, his every stride took him twice as far as any man's. Secondly, it wasn't trying to be quiet. Trevin knew that he had to keep it in sight without being spotted. He needed a fair amount of distance between it and his wounded troopers but if he allowed it to get too far, visibility would hamper his support and he would be left on his own with the nob.

'Not good' Trevin muttered. He was losing sight of Green Klaw now. It was now or never. 'Hey ugly!' Trevin yelled out, more timidly than he had intended. He was going to need to do better than that. 'You running with your tail between your legs?'

The massive Ork turned on itself so fast that the guardsman though it had snapped its neck. It burst out of a wall of vines and glowered in his direction, barely 20 meters away, it was all shadows and silhouettes at that range. 'Oye! Who said dat?' the creature bellowed accusingly. Seemed its sight range was as bad as the guardsman. 'You come' ere and say dat to my face!'

Already the Ork nob was back tracking to find the source of the challenge. As it neared, the shadows slowly receded from its brutal features. Trevin unconsciously took a step back as the Xeno glared at him.

'Wut? You lil grot want a piece' o me?' growled the monster. Its hide was cracked and blistered in places from all the las bolts it had taken. Its camouflage was all but gone and parts of its miss matched armor had blackened and deformed from the bolts' searing heat. Stikk bombs of all shapes and sizes dangled from its battle harness as well as knives and large caliber ammunition. Despite this, it looked in no way diminished. Trevin started to second guess his plan.

'You don't look like much to me, you, you...grot!' Trevin had no idea what to say but it seemed to get the Ork's attention. He squared his shoulders and tried to give the Xeno the same look the Ork was giving him. With a grunt and a snarl Green Klaw took a quick step forward. Somehow, Trevin stood his ground. He couldn't move out of the way, even if he tried. His legs weren't cooperating at the moment.

'You a 'ard one, aren't ya humie? But not as 'ard as Boss Green Klaw!' The Ork reached behind him and unsheathed the bloodiest blade Trevin had ever seen. In the dark, it looked rust covered with mottled brown and green blotches. A spark flew between the two opponents as the coin dropped. It was time to back up words with actions.

With an explosive leap Green Klaw hurled himself at the wide eyed guardsman. Trevin barely had the time to react before the huge blade clipped his helmet. It tore free from his head, accompanied by his strangled cry and the sound of a snapping chin guard. His legs still hadn't deemed fit to return to their proper use and so he fell back into the sucking mud. What would have been decapitation was mitigated to a bleeding gash along his scalp and a bruised throat. With a booming chuckle the Ork swung his blade in an overhead chop, severing a large mass of hanging vegetation, and brought it down hard.

Trevin did the only thing he could. He curled up into a fetal position and turned away from the blade. Miraculously, the blow missed him by inches and cleaved a deep groove into the sucking muck. Scrambling on hands and knees the guardsman abandoned any notion of bravado and fled the great bellowing beast as its laughter filled the swamp.

'Now!' screamed Trevin, waving his arms about wildly. He dropped onto his stomach and covered his head with his arms. The excited laughter of the Ork boss was matched by the thunderous barking of the gunners' heavy stubber. Guided more by the sound of the Ork than any real notion of its position, the air was filled with led. Trees exploded as they were pierced by large caliber rounds and curtains of hanging moss dropped to the marshland ground. Suddenly the Ork's confused face was visible amidst the pruned vegetation.

Green Klaw raised his cleaver instinctively to shield his face and dropped to a crouch, trying to get out of the hail of metal slugs hammering his way. The heavy cleaver succeeded in deflecting a few rounds but many more dug into his meaty arms and torso. Trevin prayed feverishly to the Emperor not to be hit. Orks might have the excess mass to take a few hits from a heavy stubber but a human would simply be rendered into a pile of grizzled meat and steaming innards. Even so, Green Klaw did not seem to appreciate the stubber as he roared his pain angrily.

The heavy weapon poured torrents of shells at their foe until finally its firing mechanism clanked loudly like some half-starved predator clamoring for more ammunition to consume. With rapid hands and familiar motions, Reiner opened up the weapon's steaming latch and forced fed it another belt from the ammo drum. Just as they were about to send another stream of steady fire at the massive Ork nob, Green Klaw pulled at his battle harness and sent a dozen of small glinting safety pins flying through the air. The entire area surrounding the Ork boss disappeared in a vast billowing cloud of noxious and thick smoke.

'Tricky humies!' bellowed the Ork nob, 'That's a gut' on. We'll settle dis a'nuter time then.' The Xeno laughed rancorously, seemingly having enjoyed this little bout. 'Just you wait, dis 'ere is Green Klaw's marsh. Mine!' It cackled as the cloud moved slowly away. Derrick hesitated, he could shoot and hope for a lucky hit but he also put his sergeant at further risk. Cursing he let go of the firing studs of his weapon and looked meaningfully at his partner Reiner.

...

As the sun rose over the swamp, the various elements of the Imperial Guard gathered. With a well placed screen of scouts and a solid core of line soldiers, the officers and sergeants of the units present conferred. The Ork presence here had been dispersed but no one was under the illusion that it would last. Sergeant Madison's squad, or what remained of them, had been found by the Galvan scouts a few hours after the decisive stand against Green Klaw's Kommandos. The misfits themselves had gotten beaten up but no one had fallen in the line of duty and Trevin had made it back with the heavies in one piece. As for the other two squads under Lieutenant Della's command, which had been too far to do anything but show up after all had been settled, they had nothing to report.

'I bet your scouts are going to have some well deserved R&R once you get air lifted back to Kursk,' Offered Lieutenant Della as she drank a cup of recaf with captain Bilius.

'Unlikely, lieutenant.' The captain had his hood down and in the morning light he looked like a weary bushman, Della guessed they all did. 'Colonel Maddox will want my company back out here to consolidate ground and map its layout.'

'I don't envy you the task captain, what with that Ork boss still on the loose' she said.

'It's not as bad as it seems really, it was starting to feel homely here anyway' the bearded man chuckled.

Veteran sergeant Siggurd stepped up in the periphery of Della's sight and stood ramrod straight, waiting to be acknowledged. With a nod from Della he informed her of the state of readiness of the platoon and the forwarded orders they had received when the Valkyrie drop ships had been in range to transmit to the squads' medium range vox.

The captain indicated sergeant Siggurd with his tin recaf cup as the man walked back to his troopers to give them some preventive hell. 'Some man you have there, lieutenant. Quite handy in a pinch. Even after taking out two Orks single handedly and nearly drowning, he matched my scouts pace step for step.'

Della agreed, 'now if I could only get him and sergeant Trevin to get along. This platoon would be captain Rommer's pride and joy.'

'Well,' The Galvan officer smiled, 'we all have our work cut out for us.' A scout dressed as a walking moss carpet came up to captain Biligius and passed him a sealed tube marked "priority orders". 'Speaking of which, if you will excuse me lieutenant. It was a pleasure working with the Persophonian 1st.'

Della echoed the sentiment and looked at Siggurd as he inspected the troopers. He was picking on individuals with dirty uniforms, which was everyone. She smiled until he came face to face with Trevin and an argument broke out. 'Here we go again.' She sighed and slowly walked towards them.


	8. second interstice

Interstitial

'So you faced off with an Ork warboss in the middle of a swamp with nothing more than two wounded troopers and a heavy stubber between them?'

Serenity couldn't hide her amazement, or her incredulity for that matter. Her eyes were a blaze with curiosity and awe, which was warring with her professional nature. No doubt she was trying to work out which parts of his story were embellished and which were concrete. Despite his earlier affirmation that he wanted his memoirs to be as close to the truth as possible, one would not be surprised if a Lord General might exaggerate his personal accomplishments or the fidelity of events twelve decades old.

'That would be giving me too much credit,' affirmed Augustus as he rubbed his fingers along the ridge of his nose. 'I easily see now, that it was a foolishness and misplaced sense of vindication that pushed me to do it. Any sane person would have kept their head down and left the Ork to go on his way. Then again, there is nothing sane about waging war. It is a cauldron of madness in which the dysfunctional prosper, both in its waging and its inevitable result.'

Serenity noted his words carefully; the best quotes were born of such sentiments and their innate acuity. 'I thought such dramatic acts of valor were not a Guardsman's lot and only existed on renderings meant to propagate the might of the Imperium. Is that not what you had said?'

'Quite true my dear, but my life has been anything but a Guardsman's lot. After all, I stand before you, the Lord General of an entire subsector's worth of fighting men. The cohorts we travel with now are just a fraction under my extended command. No, I had my fair share of ludicrously glorious run-ins. It is just another reason my legend is considered by the Administratum more important than my truth. None the less, it is one I cannot let die unshared.'

She shifted in her seat to sit at its edge, and leaned her elbows on her knees. After nearly four hours of interviewing the elderly man, their respective formality had melted to a state of mutual comfort. In part due to the nature of the activity, and the half drunk bottles of savory liquor. Serenity's uncomfortable footwear were left in a clutter by her chairs' legs, and she had long since stopped caring that her cleavage might show when she bent forward.

The general's eyes were in a faraway place. He hadn't spared her shapely body more than a cursory appraisal since their initial meeting. In passing, she wondered how faithful a man could be after nearly a century of marriage, and if he even still needed to quench such desires. Augustus' mussing snapped her back to attention. She cursed herself for letting her mind wander off the task she had been commissioned for.

'... It didn't matter anyway. It amounted to nothing more than a footnote in our ordeal on Kursk and the worst was yet to come. Though it did mark the beginning of a mutual respect between myself and the lieutenant. Something that took much longer to earn in the case of sergeant Siggurd.'

A chime interrupted the Lord General's thoughts and a servant slowly shuffled from the dinner hall corridor with a tray of sweet meats and confectionaries. 'I have taken it upon myself to liberate a few of the best fares from tonight's event master. As I know you dislike wasting supplies.'

'Thank you Theodore. Please make sure something palpable is distributed along the ranks. Leave the prohibited substances for the senior officers,' Augustus ordered. He turned to Serenity without being asked. 'The commissariat has complained numerous times that items of my personal supplies had been found amongst the lower ranks, which incited rowdy behavior and ill-discipline. Best to keep on Lord Commissar Ferghast's good side, he's the only one left with the authority to trial me. My time with the rank-and-file has left me with a healthy respect for those who hold your life in their hands, especially arbitrary ones.' He chuckled lightly. She could tell he still meant it.

'You also seem to have a good understanding of the men's needs and wants,' she added. The general shrugged, his heavy medals shimmering in the light of the fireplace. The servant attended to his duties quietly and was quickly forgotten. When he departed, cold party favors and warm recaf had been spread out between them. She quickly picked at a few promising items and filled a small plate before settling back into the velvet cushioned chair with the look of a famished scavenger.

'Eat while you can!' agreed the old soldier as he did the same, albeit with more dignity and far less energy. 'That is a truism that will never be overturned. From bilge scummers to soldiers and generals alike.'

'Did you ever go hungry on the front lines?' Serenity asked between bites of sugary, cream filled dinner cake.'

'No, we never wanted for food on Kursk.' Augustus said sadly. Serenity suddenly quieted her vigorous eating. Her features betraying the revulsion of the thought that had crept into her mind, she had heard of rumors of starving guardsmen resolving to eating their fallen to survive the extremes that war had forced upon them.

'You don't mean...' she gasped.

'No, Emperor no, never.' He shared her momentary revulsion. 'Only that rations had never been an issue on Kursk. Too many died with each passing days to leave us hungry. We always had a surplus of food, especially the senior ranks. They could have dinned on the best meals the Imperium ever concocted, and that indefinitely. Such waste was there.'

The general chewed a piece of sweet meat ponderously. 'No, what we lacked the most, was ammunition.'


	9. chapter 6

_**Operation: Thunder Ridge**_

6.

Patricius Hendricks walked down the corridors of the general headquarter at a brisk pace. He maneuvered between the passing Munitorium staffers with as much dignity as he could muster, he only had five minutes before the general's briefing started. For nearly a year now, the forces of the God-Emperor had been battling the rabid Ork horde, and had little to show for it. The guard had landed in a firestorm of bulk shuttles and landing barges. Within days a trench line 65 kilometers wide had been dug and manned with eager troopers. All the while bulk wards, bunkers, gun nests, and a fortified rockrete palisades had been erected. They boasted casemates and loophole firing ports manned by the men of the Ranok 568th heavy siege engineers. Before the foe had mustered to meet them, elements of artillery and armor had been deployed to reinforce the battle line. The Emperor himself must have smiled as thousands of Orks smashed against the combined forced of the Persephonian 1st and the Pangean 363rd. The resulting no man's land had reeked of burning greenskins for weeks after.

Unfortunately, things haven't moved forward since. As the young and newly promoted attaché to the commander-in-chief on Kursk, he mused nervously that this depressing fact. His path traversed the vaulted corridors and rooms of the senior officer's quarters and the endless security checks that assured the safety of the upper most military echelon. Esoteric auspex auguries manned by a detachment of "Death's Wing" Macharian storm troopers scanned him with their impassive eyes. Recently updated cogitators scrutinized his biological spoors to match his credentials using ancient and arcane mysteries rediscovered by the cult Mechanicus' magi biologis. He passed by tall arching windows opening up on sandy beaches and their sparkling crystal clear waters. The war was being planned and directed two hundred kilometers away from the front, in a specially constructed resort for the regimental elites. Straightening his light blue uniform for the umpteenth time, Hendricks presented himself to the last security check before entering the general's private briefing chambers. Two storm troopers stared him down, their hell guns' stock nestled under their shoulder at rest, while they awaited for his credentials to clear with command. These weapons easily weight twice as much as the standard lasrifles used by the front line regiments. Their supercharged hot shot laspacks could fire bolts of photonic energy powerful enough to slice through anything short of power armor and deliver fatal levels of kinetic and thermal energy, sometimes literally lighting up foes.

The young lieutenant took a deep breath and checked his hair. It wouldn't do to walk into such an esteemed commander's quarters and not look his best, even if he was just an over glorified assistant.

'They are waiting for you, Lt. Hendricks' said the Storm trooper on his left, in his perfectly pressed black uniform and polished carapace armor. Oh yes, thought Hendricks, looks mattered indeed. The attaché nodded and gripped his carrying case firmly as he opened the beautifully paneled door. He quickly snapped his heels and saluted, presenting himself to an empty room.

By the Throne, where was everybody? He checked his wrist chrono, confirming the time and looked about anxiously. 'Hello... General von Richter?' asked Hendricks, admonishing himself for his wavering tone. His gaze traversed the room, with its massive hard wood table shined to a distractingly bright gloss. Its white washed walls were covered in murals of glorious guard actions against the Emperor's enemies. A ludicrously ornate chandelier hung over the briefing table and sparkled majestically with Kursk's orange veiled sunlight. Alcoves were spread sparsely along the room and occupied by masterfully sculpted winged warriors in power armor set to contrast their strikingly beautiful half dressed maiden neighbors. The eastern wall was made of glass with thin fluted columns to separate the broad windows. Squinting to adjust his eyesight to the sunlight, Hendricks noticed figures resolving slowly into what he could only assume were the senior command staff.

Under large sunshades, held by uncomfortably dressed house servants, the regimental commanders and general staff were drinking from thin necked glasses, comfortably reclining on brilliant white washed chairs. The sight caused Hendricks to pause. He took a few unsure steps as he processed the scene. These powerful men were lounging on a balcony without a care in the world. They smoked heady cheroots and sampled various intoxicants, showing no sign of concern for the upcoming major offensive. Hendricks was astounded. Barely a day ago he had been at the battle line dreading the next horrendous Ork charge and now, he was staring at the ordained commanders of this theater as they discussed the merits of certain amasecs' body and aroma. Here, it seemed to him, the war was as good as an afterthought.

'Alright gentlemen' said von Richter, ' Please open the briefing package our friends at the Departmento so dutifully provided us for this operation.'

Half a dozen adepts and specialist sat around the general's conference table with the regiments' colonels and their aids, all in their smartest parade ground attires, while they opened their files. A slew of black clad white collared servants moved about the circumference of the room carrying silver platters filled with fresh pastries and porcelain decanters of recaf. The table was set with the same diligence as would be expected of a high society affair. The variety of dishes and appetizers baffled the mind and further enhanced the surreal nature of the briefing. If anything, thought Hendricks, the silverware was even brighter than the prismatic death trap hanging from the ceiling.

The young lieutenant's attention snapped back as the dour general, breast laden with medals and honorifics, smoothed his immaculately groomed goatee before speaking again. 'We have received word from sub-sector command that our efforts here have attracted the attention of the xeno Waaagh! This means we will have to secure our offensive capabilities.'

Heads nodded proudly at the news or wiped politely at the corner of mouths that had just bit into flaky pastries. The air crackled with self-congratulatory praises until von Richter quieted them down with a wave of his hand. Hendricks quietly took it all in from his place standing by the door. His unease grew as he failed to grasp the reasoning of such congratulations. Would more Orks making planet fall on Kursk not worsen their already tenuous position?

'Hence the upcoming assault, codenamed Thunder Ridge.' Von Richter gave a moment for his subordinate to find the proper page in their briefing. 'We are going to dislodge the Orks occupying the far side of the canyon approximately thirty kilometers west of the Kursk battle line. Although our anti-air batteries have been able to keep the greenskin air force, such as it is, reasonably at bay.'

A polite chuckle spread across the room at this allusion of the ork's mastery of aeronautics, once the jab had garnered enough attention, the general continued.

'We are going to need those bluffs if we want to make unrestricted use of our artillery, Their effective range will cover all vectors to our forces and offer round-the-clock fire missions, missions might I add, that your regiments will be thankful for once the Ork reinforcement make their inevitable touch down on our little slice of the Imperium.' Von Richter then turned his gaze upon a demurred adept clothed in Departmento Munitorium issued robes and passed on the briefing to the man, who stood up and adjusted his spectacles.

As the adept prattled on about the bluff's enemy force distribution, something every briefing naturally contained, Von Richter threw Hendricks a glance and beckoned him over with a quick flick of his fingers. The young Attaché discreetly came to the general side and leaned in, a bit startled that the general was ignoring the rest of the briefing.

'So you're my new aid are you? Hendricks was it?' asked von Richter over one shoulder, barely caring to reduce his volume.

'Yes sir' answered Hendricks, fully conscious that the Munitorum adept was casting uncomfortable glances at him and the general.

Von Richter nodded to himself. 'Ravion von Hendricks' grandson, the very same?'

'Ahhh, yes sir, of the Jonesian branch. Second lieutenant, Persephonian 1st mechanized infantry, Abel Company, previously adju...' he was quickly cut off by the general, who raised his hand to interrupt. 'Yes yes, you can forget about all that, your my aid now, your previous military postings don't interest me, your family affiliations do however. When we are done here we'll have a little chat about good old Ravion, I have a bet to settle with your colonel, Lazarus.'

'Of course sir, my apologies sir' said Hendricks, quickly returning to his place at the door and quietly thankful for the dismissal.

The briefing progressed with a speed usually reserved for uncomfortable social calls. Numbers were thrown around, officers assured the general their battalions were ready and at his disposal. Everyone ignored the fact they could barely understand the Pangean colonel's broken low gothic. It was usually considered both unwise and impolite to point out to a death worlder who's misleadingly smallish size betrayed her people's strength, the failing of her pronunciation. Finally, all heads turned to the Macharian Storm trooper captain when Von Richter asked about how the Persephonian infantry, who were going to play an essential part in the assault, were doing with the impromptu aerial debarkation training.

Captain Sternherst stood up slowly and folded his hands behind his back. 'It is... going, general,' admitted the captain grudgingly.

It was going to be an interesting posting, thought Hendricks. That was for certain. He unconsciously joined in the communal sigh that slowly spread across the room.

...

'Amazing... just, frakking, amazing' yelled specialist Zephira as a dozen troopers tripped over each other and landed face down on the beach. They stepped around each other with all the grace of a drunken herd of grox. 'I dropped you foals on land, sand, marsh, and water, none of which, you lot have been able to stand on for more than 5 seconds upon disembarking.' Troopers were helping each other up, looking for their weapons, or vomiting from the air sickness suffered on the Valkyrie's turbulent descent.

The hollering storm trooper carried her considerably bulky kit without breaking stride as she stepped on prone soldiers or sent others flailing back into the water with a solid shove. ' I can guarantee you lazy, wobbly legged, horse gakking excuse for guardsmen that if you drop to the ground after a rapid reaction combat drop, you will not, I repeat not, be getting up again. You and all your squad mates will be bunched up nice and easy for an Ork frag stikk or bomb squig to blow you all to the emperor's side.

As Zephira repetitively dunked a panicked trooper Lancer into the water, men were trying to get as far from her as possible. Jensen Melot, just meters away, seemed more interested in getting his wet hair back into place then save his pal and whipped out a plastek comb from his kit harness to get a better handle on the situation.

A handful of meters away, Lieutenant Della and sergeant Trevin watched the miniature force of nature that was their specialist drill instructor with mixed feeling. 'I don't think I like her very much' muttered Della as Zephira whipped the squad back into line. 'At this rate I won't have a command left the way she keeps manhandling them'.

'You know she is only trying to make sure we nail that drop. If not for her training, we might as well be bare knuckle fighting with the Orks,' said Trevin with a shrug.

Della slowly turned to face her sergeant, her stormy grey eyes searching for some hint of Trevin's usually adversarial nature. Their relationship had been complicated these last few months, and that was putting it lightly. None the less they had found a comfortable place where their grievances and frustrations could be voiced without resorting to court-martials for insubordination. His eyes met hers and shifted awkwardly.

'What?' Trevin asked, trying to break her stare.

'Nothing sergeant, just wondering why you're taking her side instead of your peoples.'

Trevin tried to take it in stride and laugh it off. 'You might want to inform Siggurd that we're his people then.' If Trevin and Della's relationship was dicey, then the one between her veteran sergeant and the infamously contrary leader of 3rd squad was downright cold.

'Sergeant Siggurd is a devoted Persephonian and not some Macharian she-devil dropped in our lap to crap on our every deployment exercise. It's different Trevin, and you know it.'

This discussion was as old as the war and Della didn't think it was worth getting into again. 'Alright, that's enough!' The lieutenant stomped down the Valkyrie's deployment ramp and into the vermillion colored sand of Kursk's beaches. Trevin groaned hurried to catch up to her brisk pace.

By the time the two had made their way to the orderly line of troopers on the shoreline, Zephira was standing at military rest; her tight black fatigues wet from her game of dunk the trooper. To her credit, not one of the troopers paid attention to the feminine shapes resolving from her ramrod straight posture. None but corporal Jensen, but he had a habit of getting away with things men of less dazzling features could only dream of. Della carried her standard issue M36 lasgun across her chest on her rifle sling; her walk clearly showing she was spoiling for a fight.

'3rd squad!' ordered Lieutenant Della, 'about-to and fall out!' Immediately, the squad obeyed and started double timing to the Valkyrie with a startled Trevin running back the way he came to lead the column. Specialist Zephira hadn't even blinked, rightly assuming that the orders didn't apply to her despite her subordinate rank. Della found her unshakable self-assurance insufferable. 'Let's make something clear trooper. I'm thankful for your help and I know your experience is going to save some lives but you're going to have to cool your jets.'

'My apologies m'am, I was just giving them the best training the Emperor had to offer. Excellence is the watchword of the ''Death Wings'' m'am!' Zephira could have apologized all day and night but her face said it all. She was taunt and athletic where Della still managed curves. Her dark brown hair was shorn not to be a hazard in a fist fight where Della's was a long twining braid of luxurious blond hair. Her body was marked with scars from hundreds of battles while Della's seemed to never have felt the kiss of a blade. Zephira's mind was set, she could never respect that kind of woman, soldier, or officer.

'My men have fought tooth and nail with the Orks for a year now, trooper' answered the Lieutenant to the snarky response. 'You and your people might have been jumping out of Valkyries since day one but my platoon has been given three days to get this maneuver right. Three days and one Valkyrie assault carrier with a 12 men capacity, which spends half its time in for maintenance. One Valkyrie for over 40 men!' fumed Della.

'Stop blaming the logistics lieutenant,' interrupted specialist Zephira. She definitely had the officer's attention now. 'We receive our orders and then we get it done, with or without the luxury of the Emperor help. If you can't manage, then you're not fit to serve, least of all command'.

Zephira squared her jaw smugly, and waited for the prissy princess to break a nail on it.

...

The thunder frightened her, it always had. The growling storm sounded like a hungry creature prowling outside her family's home. Hungry and cruel, she imagined it skulking around the grounds with its matted fur and mouth full of fangs. Sometimes it tore at the ground with his paws while at others, it walked like man. She swore she could see it in the intermittent brilliance of the lightning streaked night. She didn't like the lightning either.

Whimpering with every crashing boom of displaced air against her windows, she hid deeper in the luxurious folds of her bed. She imagined the many layers muffled her scent from the beast's senses. She squeaked when the rhythmic tattoo of the rain against her window panes was replaced by the shuddering of wood and glass, straining to hold back the storm. Her small hands moved with familiar motion, finding the thin golden chain that held the Aquila around her neck. Quickly, she muttered the litanies her mother and the family's confessor had thought her, mumbling over the parts she ill-remembered. The child strained to hear the words of her prayer over the frenetic beating of her heart.

More rumbles, more crashing lightning, more creaking groans. The girl tried to feel safe, tried to find the inner sanctuary erected in her by the Confessor's prayers. But it proved frail against the storm. She heard the glass of a window tinkling against the marble floor of her bedroom. In fright, the girl threw her protective layers away and crawled on hands and knees to the edge of her broad bed. Holding on to the thin hanging curtains that separated her bed from the rest of the room, she eased herself down to the floor, having tripped and fallen on the hard stone floor too many times before.

Overcoming those treacherous few inches, she looked around her darkened bedchambers. The window had cracked and splintered against the fury of the storm, or perhaps the beast's questing paws, she wasn't sure. Cold wind tore into her room, whipping rain against her face like needles; she choked down rising sobs as she paced her way out of the room. With the fearful care of a child, terrified to cut her naked feet against the scattered shards of glass, she ventured into the lightless hall.

Navigating only by the occasional burst of lightning from the raging storm, the hall way took a predatory aspect that leered over the hesitant girl. The thick red rug that ran its length looked more akin to a monstrously long tongue then a fine furred walkway. Furniture and decorative tables that held vases filled with fragrant flowers from a variety of worlds only served to cast long oddly proportioned shadows above her head. Unable to hold her terror, already bubbling over her innocent lips, she broke into a run, her thin silk night gown trailing behind her. The pitter patter of her small feet muffled by the long tongue-like-carpet. Arch looking men and women in fine uniforms and splendid dress gowns looked down at her from their large canvases. The girl tried to hold in her squeaks and sobs but it was impossible. Thunder boomed again, her furtive escape from her room only delaying the inevitable before the hungry, monstrously fanged creature found her. The child's tears streamed freely now.

She happened upon her father's parlor, his guards sitting by the door, and saw the dim flicker of light dancing beneath the heavy door. Father would save her, he always had his big shiny sword at his side, and he would slay the beast hunting her and take her back to where it was warm and safe. The girl ran between the guards, the men leaning in their chairs at a strange angle, whose portent her child's mind could not truly understand.

She banged her tiny fists at the door loudly, crying her father's name, her tears and sobs pouring from her like an endless sea. She struggled with the large brass door handle, using all her weight and both her hands to pry it open and let her squeeze into the room.

Father was standing by the fireplace with their steward. Despite her fear of the monster she halted, hiding in the leeway of a broad cabinet. They were loud and waved their arms angrily at each other but she couldn't make out why. The thunder grew louder; she could feel it in her bones now, getting closer, like the beast. But she could not interrupt, a lady never interrupts scolded the voice of mother in her frightened mind. Their words were long and harsh, their meaning unknown to her but clearly important. The child had never seen the steward addressed her father in such a way. She knew servants had been beaten for less.

Suddenly, the steward reached into his richly appointed vest and swiftly drew a small metallic device. Bellechance, their steward, pointed it at her father accusingly and the man stiffened, eyeing the servant incredulously. The room lit up as lightening flashed outside the parlor window, blinding the child and making her hold her breath. The floor rumbled with another powerful outburst from the imperious storm. Her breath caught in her throat.

Laura Steld woke with a jump as the dugout shook from powerful explosions. She wrapped her arms around herself as she struggled to breathe. Still shaking from her vivid dream, she rubbed a hand over her face.

'Orks at it again Steld, it's all good, you can go back to sleep,' came a voice from close by. Trooper Derrick and Reiner, 3rd squad's heavy gunners, played cards on a dusty ammo box. They seemed to be losing to corporal Melot and were too intent to notice her shaking, for which she was thankful.

'Right!' she managed with a believable voice. Steld turned onto her side, careful not to be seen as she rummaged through her medicae field kit. She found the ampoules she needed and slipped them in the guard issued hypodermal dispensers. Taking a deep breath, she pressed the muzzle of the apparatus to her wrist and quivered as it hissed, releasing the solution from its glass container. With a soft groan of relief, trooper Steld, medicae auxilia of C platoon, let the numbness take her once more and stared impassively at the dugout's ceiling as the world rumbled explosively outside.

...

General von Richter walked into the operational nerve center of the war on Kursk with a leisurely pace. A handful of days after his promotion, Hendricks still felt unsure about his commander. The man seemed competent enough, but he carried himself as if this war was little more than a regicide game, the cost of losing soldiers little more than an inevitability. Carrying his attaché case, his constant companion, Hendricks got his first look at the command center as he followed von Richter in. The low ceiling of the fortified underground bunker beneath the pleasant exterior of the headquarters hummed with activity. Glow globes studded the walls and mingled their artificial light with the ever flickering green light from the cognomen banks and holo projector. The immaculate commander-in-chief rested his hands on the railing of his raised dais. The bustling officers and the austere atmosphere clashed starkly with the General's disposition. Practical met vainglorious as men in combat fatigues ran up and dropped reports for the overly dressed general and his aid. Von Richter casually glanced at Hendricks to assure himself that his aid had everything under control and proceeded to pick at a loose stitching along his gold frogged uniform, seeming horrified at being seen publicly in such a state.

Grinding his teeth, Hendricks filtered the most important reports and informed the general. 'My lord, the brigade under colonel Petra has begun engaging the enemy on all its fronts. The skirmish phase is over, sir, the Orks are coming down the bluff _en mass_.'

'Good, it's about time they did, a bit reserved for greenskins aren't they? Petra's siege works are up?'

'Yes sir' said Hendricks, producing the reports showing the defensive earthworks that had been dug to weather the Ork's savage assault.

'Trust Petra and the 568th to dig in so fast, and under fire no less.' The General stroked at his mustache and goatee while he pondered. 'How about those Pangeans? Kept the Orks at bay did they? Loses?'

'Considerable sir,' sorting through his sheaf of paper, Hendricks found the numbers. 'Colonel Ma'Tang's battalion reports the loss of 5 squadrons of hellhounds where the Orks manage to break through the firing line, but the more maneuverable sentinel squadrons fared much better. Their losses are tallied only at 1 squadron, although 2 more are too damage to re-enter the fray. As for the soldiers, their guerrilla tactics have done marvelously. With hit and runs, very few Pangeans are reported K.I.A' read Hendricks quickly, trying to stay afloat as more reports poured in.

'Order Ma'Tang to get her infantry ahead of her hellhounds, those machines are more than worth their weight in dead Pangeans, bloody primitives, too cowardly to fight and die like proper guardsmen.' Complained von Richter as he eyed the holo projector.

'Now where are those Persephonians, ah there,' he increased the magnification to watch the trailing vectors,' here they come.' The general smiled as he saw his battle plan's _coup de gras _appear on the holo sphere, a massive flight of Valkyries was approaching through the canyon. They would reach the enemy position in a matter of minutes.

...

The assault carrier transporting 3rd squad, more commonly known amongst the regiment as Misfit squad, felt like it was being tossed about by a petulant child. Since dipping into the canyon leading up to the ridge on which the Ork war camp stood, the geothermic updrafts had been making it a hell of ride. The canyon's roots dipped past the crust of Kursk and into its mantel, the magma seeping into a flowing river at its base. The pilots' loud strings of expletives before climbing aboard made much more sense now, thought Trevin as he held to his harness for dear life.

He had no idea what it took to pilot a craft the size of a Valkyrie through a canyon. But he could imagine it was a constant battle of wills with the machines' spirit to keep them aloft in the raging thermals. Not to mention staying in formations with half a dozen more crafts going through the same ordeal. Trevin was starting to think he would have preferred flying through the teeth of the Orks' anti air guns over this mind numbing terror. He smiled nervously at the notion of others sharing his opinion in the flights ahead and behind his own.

To his right, Jensen was managing to keep his unlit lho-stick between his lips while being tossed around in his harness. Lancer was praying so hard he could be heard over the drumming of the engine and the groans of the craft's hull. Time to saddle up, thought Trevin with more courage than he felt. 'Ok boys!' screamed the sergeant to be heard, 'not long now, keep you rifles close and tied to your slings, if you feel the need to do something undignified, don't!'

Trevin got a "thumbs up" from the ever enthusiastic Corvin, his cocky grin at odd with the gnarled mass of scar tissue that once was his right eye. His heavy gunners seem a little less ure. Jensen just winked and patted Lancer to make him open his eyes and stop beseeching the God-Emperor.

The vox screeched to life in Trevin's ear, the pilot giving him the green light to get in position for the drop. He slapped the release on his harness and sprang up grabbing onto the guiding rail to steady himself. He signaled the boys and they followed suit, a spinning warning light filling the compartment. 'For the Emperor! For Persephony! For ever more!'

The assault ramp started to open, the reddish light of Kursk spilling in with a hot blast of air that smelled of mineral rich sulphurous gasses. A trooper in the back wretched profusely as the smell got to him, his buddies dragging him back up to get ready to disembark. Good men, one and all.

As the Valkyrie gained altitude Trevin's stomach dropped into his booths. Then, the screeching of hundreds of rockets split the air. Powerful explosions buffeted the ship, followed by the loud hammering of shrapnel and solid projectiles against the fuselage, which deafened those inside. The guardsmen held tight to the rail and the clip harnesses issued to keep them standing in such turbulence, thankful for what little safety they offered. Trevin looked down the line at his squad and gave them a confident wave as the ramp completely dropped and the rugged soil shot past at an alarming rate.

The Valkyrie dropped low when suddenly a heavy impact hit the craft. Troopers were flung within the compartment or were suspended in midair, pulled between the anchoring lines and the centrifugal effect of the carrier's uncontrolled spin. Tempered steel rent and bent out of shape as the Valkyrie carved a deep furrow, one engine disintegrating explosively as its fuel line ignited by the ricocheting bullets and its overheating casing. After an eternity the transport finally plowed itself to a stop.

...

Corporal Jensen Melot groaned as he sat up, smelling the acrid smoke and high grade promethium in the air. He reached over to trooper Lancer and was relieved to see his dopey eyed friend shaking his head of cobwebs, bloodied but alive. A quick glance around was all it took to see the extent of the damage. Trooper Urdesh was tangled in his anchoring line, his neck snapped. Corvin was cursing loudly, his arm clearly sporting an open fracture. Derrick and Reiner were wrestling their heavy stubber and its ammo boxes back into place.

That was when Reiner stopped dead in his tracks, and all at once, purged violently against the compartment's ravage hull. Trooper Fiori, a pretty girl who had made fine amasec at a vineyard back on Persephony, was lying far too still on the metal mesh floor. One of the ammo boxes had smashed her face in and nothing but a bloodied pulp remained.

Jensen's training kicked in without thinking, he started ordering the squad out before the fire and smoke did what the crash hadn't. With one boot out of the carrier, he looked back in and felt a sickening lurch. His gut knotted as unfamiliar anxiety flooded over him. He realized he hadn't seen any trace of Trevin.

...

The Hellfire barrage had annihilated the Ork fortifications and anti-aircraft batteries within seconds. Rising from below the ridge's dropping cliff on their vertical lift turbines, the Valkyrie assault carriers had swept over the defenses in waves and dropped their precious cargo of Persephonian infantry onto the Ork made tarmac. As troopers quickly disembarked under the barking of their carriers' heavy bolters, Orks poured from hangars and barracks all along their make shift air base.

But the Valkyries had not spoken their last. When they had delivered their passengers to the battlefield, they rose into the air and strafed the Ork infantry as a parting gift. Like their name sake, the Valkyries ravaged the Ork war camp with pinpoint precision and gave the vulnerable guardsmen below them valuable seconds to seek cover. Some fell from the skies in baleful fireballs as the Orks brought their ramshackle rocket launchers to bear, their inaccurate weapons firing corkscrewing payloads. If not for the sheer numbers of them, the brave Valkyries and their pilots would have fared better, but their erratic nature made them difficult to evade and their numbers seemed endless.

By raging firestorms and massing infantry did the Imperium enact their vengeance against the filthy greenskins. It was a bloody affair despite the bulk of the Orks having ventured down the bluffs opposite the canyon to face the holding force. But there was no such thing as non-combatants in the Orkish menagerie. Be they hulking brutes that stood taller and wider than any guardsmen, or their cruel hooked nosed diminutive counterparts, or even the fleshy bulbous animals they used as food and attack fodder, all were equally capable of killing a man.

With clunky pistols and rifles, welding torches, spanners, and sheer brute strength, the Orks sallied forth in a bellowing horde, seemingly glad to have enemies delivered to their doorstep. Goggle wearing greenskins fired great bouts of flames from leaking canisters strapped to their backs, and charging brutes swung hammers with rockets for heads. They kept coming even as the Persephonians poured disciplined fire into the enemy ranks. Those very same ranks thinned only too slowly.

Lieutenant Della directed her platoon like an orchestra. With sharp commands and curt signals she called for firing lines to light up the charging Orks and layer her squads' fire. It took too much damn fire to lay an Ork low. Why couldn't they throw more of the little ones at them, at least they had the decency to fry when you shot them.

Her platoon was spread across the wreckage of a Valkyrie and some half destroyed steel structure. The Orks had used it to support their rickety looking sentry towers. 'Honig! Where's my damn mount? I thought they were dropping the Chimera's in the second wave!'

'On it m'am!' the adjutant had shaped up well over the last few months. Her nervous demeanor had been replaced by a semblance of toughness, although she was still a tad bit too perky in Della's opinion.

'Tell those Navy flyboys that if I don't get my threads on the ground right frakking now I am going...' Della ducked as a hail of large caliber projectiles brutalized her section of cover.

'On it m'am!' hollered Honig again over the cacophony of battle. The girl was bent low over her vox set cupping the receiver headset hard against her ear. Her fingers worked dials and switches with surprising alacrity, trying to get her hands on a channel not filled with static from all the interference going on. 'E.T.A 5 minutes to drop' said the adjutant finally.

'Good enough! Hobs you watch that flank, their starting to chew through Lieutenant Wessler's blind side. Siggurd! Where are you damn it!' The lieutenant scanned the battle field. Smoke, explosions, and raging fires spread across the air base wantonly. In all this chaos it was her sergeant's job to be her second set of eyes and here she was with Hobs' squad pinned down by the towers edge and Pavo's burning through their las charge packs in an attempt to keep a mob of choppa wielding Orks from closing range.

'Sergeant Siggurd is with Misfit squad m'am' said Honig.

'Why the hell is he all the way over there?' screamed Della to be heard.

'It's sergeant Trevin m'am, their Valkyrie crashed coming in. They're dangerously close to being over extended into the enemy positions.'

'Well tell Trevin to stop looking at his horse's ass and get back here!'

'Can't, corporal Melot took over m'am, and he won't back up. Sergeant Trevin is M.I.A. Siggurd's on his way to reel Misfit in.'

Missing in action... In the middle of a major assault like this, missing was just another way of saying "no one saw you go down". Misfit had always been a troublesome squad, and Melot was certainly not breaking the trend. Disobeying a direct order on the field was ground for execution but loyalty ran deep in that squad. Good men were going to die if Siggurd couldn't reel the squad in and have the front push forward together. Loyalty or not, this meant charges. Della really didn't have time for this crap right now.

...

Misfit squad had made it to a burn out shell of a hangar in one piece. It was obvious they had skidded quite some way ahead of the planned imperial advance and the only thing keeping them alive was the Ork's tendency to head for the biggest fight first. Jensen had the heavy stubber placed to engage the rushing Orks straight ahead of their position. Those Orks would pick a fight with them just by virtue of walking within striking distance, so chewing them apart seemed like a sensible risk, even if it made them a target. The rest of the squad spread out to fire out of whatever nook they could find that offered them cover.

'Hey Jensen...h-hey...' sputtered Lancer as he hugged the wall beside his buddy. 'He isn't dead is he, Gus I mean?'

Jensen patted his friend on his helmet not to spoil his aim too much. 'Good old 'Lucky' Trevin? Not a chance Freddy. We just have to find him. He's out there somewhere, and you know without us he'll feel lost.

Lancer nodded nervously. He was shaking like a leaf which didn't help his naturally poor aim. The good thing about Frederick Lancer was that no matter what, you could count on him, even if he did look like the world's biggest coward. Orders crackled along the squad vox network, Siggurd was ordering to reform along the line. Freddy and Jensen shared a look, and then caught the rest of their squad mates' eyes, an unspoken consensus passing between them all which punctuated by the throaty roar of Derrick and Reiners' heavy stubber.

'3rd to Siggurd, that won't be possible. We're ahhh... pinned down and... ahhh having vox equipment malfunction.' Lancer looked more nervous about lying to Siggurd then the Orks milling around their little patch of rockrete. He fidgeted and panicked not knowing what to do, and started imitating the sound of static while Jensen talked.

'What the frak? What is that...whose doing that? Melot! Where's your good for nothing sergeant, where's Trevin!'

'M.I.A veteran sergeant, I can't hear you very well,' more terribly imitated static from Freddy joined the mix.

'Stop that, you frakwits! Hold your position I'm moving to you.'

Solid slugs big enough to empty a man's guts whizzed by the small group's paltry cover, answered by the sharp crack of ionised air as las bolts returned fired. Things were going to hell in a hand basket but there was no way the boys were going to leave their sergeant to out there. They had to save him, least of all because they knew he would have done the same. If he was dead, well, then he deserved to be brought back home and not just left rotting on an Ork tarmac. They wouldn't let Kursk have him.

'Well at least look at the bright side' cackled Corvin, manic light shining in his eye as he fired back at the Orks,' were're getting reinforced. When old Zigzag is done with us, he'll probably kick the Ork's arses too!' the young trooper smiled wolfishly. Jensen wasn't all that sure about Corvin these days. The war had turned his nasty streak into full blown psychosis.

...

The industry of war, nothing was quite like it. It hadn't exactly lived up to the stories and paintings he had inherited from his ancestors but he could make out the bold brush strokes of heroism and sacrifice here and there. Captain Harold Rommer had arrived mounted on his faithful steed _Opius maxim_, his command Chimera, as any aristocrat worth his salt would. His Valkyrie had entered the fray on the third wave and dropped him and his steed well behind the friendly lines.

It was a shame he had only managed a front line officer commission but it was not dignified to make a fuss with the Administratum. Petitioning was for peasants. Rommer sat within the well-oiled belly of his steed, his command staff about him. His vox operator, Commissar Carver, Father Jonas, and a few bodyguards sat by his side. A rather good entourage if he said so himself.

Rumbling at a guarded pace, his armored transport followed the advancing guard line some 2 kilometer ahead where the worst of the fighting was. It had moved within the Ork buildings and storage auxiliaries of their camp. His company was making a decent account for himself. All 4 platoons were clearing the buildings assigned to them. As per the orders received from the Ranok Colonel, who was in charge of this operations. Colonel Petra expected the Camp to be burned to the ground before the Persephonain section swung down the bluff and smashed the greenskins against the anvil of his defensive earthworks. It was a maneuver straight out of the _Tactica Imperialis_ and so, little could be criticized about it. Not that Rommer would, he approved whole heartedly.

'Your third platoon is lagging behind Captain.' Commissar Carver informed him in his usual stone cold tone. Quite a man that Carver, remarked Rommer, every inch the paragon of his kind.

'Ah yes, the third. It's to be expected dear commissar, after all, it is the command of a house Della scion, a woman no less. Their bloodline is not all that martial, unlike my own.'

Carver stared at Rommer impassively, his face shadowed by the dim red lighting of the Chimera innards and the slope of his peaked cap. If the captain could have pierced the gloom and the iron discipline with which the commissariat had trained him, he might have had a hint of the disgust Carver felt for this faux-warrior.

'The Emperor cares not for gender or lineage captain. He demands the same from every man, woman, and child in his Imperium. Absolute faith and devotion, until every last drop of blood has drained from their body.' Father Jonas at the captains' side nodded solemnly, eyes closed as he finished a prayer.

'Well said Commissar! A true inspiration, we should remind the troops of that more often,' lauded Rommer, oblivious to the black clad specter giving him a death's glare beneath his visor.

The entourage was not so oblivious however, and every enlisted guardsman in the transport, including the captain's body guard, felt the meaning of the commissar's words bare down on them with inhuman malice. 'Good, then you won't mind drawing up your command vehicle up alongside 3rd platoon's position so that I may... inspire them.'

'3rd's position' said Rommer voicing his discomfort. 'But that is a woefully close to the unclean xeno.'

'Why yes, captain, and how better to show your illustrious family's martial spirit,' crooned Carver as he began checking his bolt pistol's ammunition. It was simply a pre-battle ritual and Carver had already done so half a dozen time today. But it served to remind the captain of the power of the Commissariat, that of unequivocal summary execution, of any man, of any rank, who fail the Emperor with the sin of incompetence, heresy, or cowardice.

...

Stinking Ork blood splattered the crumbling ruins of the hangar as a gurgling xeno dropped to the floor in shambles. Heaps of greenskins lay strewn across the rubble surrounding Misfit squad. Sergeant Siggurd stood in a semi-circle of gretchin and ork boyz with his broad chain sword resting on his shoulder. His mangled face of scar tissue was glistening with sprayed blood, atomized by the guttering motorized teeth. His was a mask of hate and retribution, the white of his eyes the only part untouched by the thick dripping liquid.

For a moment, the wayward troopers feared he might turn his trusty blade against them, but after a few breaths he spoke. 'Alright you thick headed piles of Grox shit. You want to do this; you do it the right way.' Siggurd paced, looking at the situation with a veteran's eye. The squad was in a rough way. The gunners had already expended most of their ammunition and the depleted squad sported wounds of all kind, tightly bandaged to prevent blood loss. Everyone short of trooper Corvin looked just about to throw up a white flag. These idiotic idealists hadn't counted on the harsh reality of their situation to be quite so brutal, but it was, and now he had to be even harsher to get them moving.

'you two, take your heavy up to that hillock over there, the minute you run out of ammo you let me know and take up covering fire with your pistols. We are going to abandon the position as soon as that happens, no stubber, no stand, understood?' a few nodded, evidently relieved by the confident tone of the old drill sergeant.

'Melot, Lancer, you know Trevin the best and where you lost track of him, head east towards our lines. We ought to have gotten our mounts by now and Della will be pushing up to our position. Wherever the lieutenant is, that's where you'll find Steld, if your little circus hasn't cost us the advance that is.' He glared hard at the troopers wanting to drive the point in. The guard worked as a unit, every part essential to its success, running off was called desertion no matter how valiant and courageous it might be. When order faltered, good men died for no good reason.

As Derrick and Reiner struggled up the hillock past Siggurd, Jensen and Freddy hurried out of the crumbling hangar. With a few curt gestures he repositioned the rest of the squad to better support each other's firing line instead of ganging up behind the best cover. Which was too exposed at the flanks and vulnerable to one lucky stikk bomb taking out the entire unit. Noticing the gleam in trooper Corvin's eye he called the boy over.

'You ok there guardsman?' said Siggurd, paying close attention for signs of battlefield stress. That look the boy had, he'd seen it before. It was the kind a good man got before snapping and gunning down his own mates.

'Like a breeding stud in a pen full of Phillies, Sarg!' said Corvin checking his lasgun's charge. 'Where do you want me? I'm ready to give those greenskins some more Imperial love!'

'Good to heard trooper. You stay by me and watch my back.' The veteran hunched down by a large piece of fallen rockrete and pulled the young trooper with him. 'Now I can see you're all fired up, and that's a good thing. Greenskins like going for the biggest baddest arsehole in a bunch, and that's me agreed? So you will have plenty to shoot at.'

Trooper Corvin smiled, there was a strange wolfish quality to it, Siggurd made a mental note of it.

'Anything for you Sarg!' Siggurd grunted, he'd be keeping an eye on this kid, if he managed lived through the day.

...

Loud guttural screamed echoed against the sheet metal walls of the hangar as another massive horde of Orks worked themselves up. They shook heavy tools and burly cleavers, rattling pipes and clunking hand canons against their chest. They even started fighting each other to see which of the Boyz would make it to the front of the mob for the mounting charge. As the tide began to bulge towards the crumbled hangar, loud petrochemical engines roared by misfit's position.

The first line of unfortunate Boyz ignited as heavy multi-las turrets swept over them. Orks that had just moments before fought their way upfront were scorched by the high yield energy blasts of the Chimeras' mounted heavy weapons. Frontal heavy bolters barked harshly unleashing their explosive munitions into the tightly packed formation. Limbs parted company from bewildered greenskins while well drilled infantry disembarked under the cover of flank mounted las rifles. Rommer's mechanized company, including Della's own 3rd platoon, decimated the front ranks of this newly formed battle line.

Misfit squad whooped and cheered as the greenskins burned by scores. 'Stand to troopers, eyes on the foe, keep those rifles ready!' Siggurd knew better then to think the though greenskins defeated so quickly. And he was right.

As the mounted company checked their fire, only a sizzling carpet of discolored flesh remained. The smell was awful, like burned fur and rotten cankerous flesh. Then, the flesh started to writhed. Hundreds of Orks rose from the ground, shrugging off their dead kin from their backs. Chattering gretchin jumped out of the piles of their sizzling cousins and began to fire back with clunky sluggas.

From the mass, a terrifyingly large Ork with a sizzling array of orange lightning flickering around his crude orkish augmentics stepped up. He bellowed hard enough to make the readied guardsman falter, 30 meters away, and began the charge anew.

Siggurd sneered at the monstrous mountain of green muscle. 'Get ready Misfit... here they come.'

...

Thank the Emperor he was still alive. Jensen and Freddy had ran low and hard to avoid getting seen. Even if the two's heart had soared when they saw the steel wall of chimeras growling past them, they knew any number of dangers still lurked about. Packs of overlooked gretchin could be waiting behind any of the multitude of wreckage. Undetonated ordinance was always a possibility too. Poor visibility had been the downfall of many a guardsman and Jensen dreaded the possibility that friendly fire would burst out of the Emperor forsaken smoke that blanketed the tarmac. This little rescue mission was a real gamble, fitting for a man of his tendencies, thought Jensen. The Emperor sure had a sense of humor.

None the less, Jensen had thanked Him on earth for his whimsy after finding their sergeant. Augustus 'Lucky Gus' Trevin, the state of which might have convinced someone that he needed a different moniker, still had life in him. Then again, how many guardsmen had ever survived falling out of an aircraft, during a massed assault, and into the middle of an Ork war camp? Not many bet Jensen.

Checking to see if their friend could survive being moved, the two close friends set about skulking through the craters littering the camp. If they could reach their commander, they could make it out on top after all. With Trevin held between them, his bloodied and battered body lolling spinelessly, they kept low to use the terrain for cover. Jensen couldn't believe they had managed to find their sergeant and almost make their way back without running into trouble.

Jensen watched his step as they left the safety of yet another crater and began the risky trek across open ground. Then Freddy froze in place. Jensen was about to curse his friend out when he realized Freddy was staring past his shoulder with undisguised terror.

Then he heard the cocking of a firing mechanism.

'Gak...' sighed the deflated gambler.' Snake eyes...'


	10. Chapter 7

7.

The Ork's last push had been a bloody affair. All things considered the Persephonians had done well. A great number of the charging greenskins had been laid to waste by the overwhelming fire arrayed against them. Unfortunately, all that had managed was weeding the chaff from the horde. When the Orks had finally managed to close grounds and engage the firing lines, it had been the biggest and the toughest of them that had made it. Almost twice the size of an ordinary Ork, these brutes, classified as Nobs in the _Tactica Imperialis_, had sent soldiers flying in various states of dismemberment. However frightful these juggernauts had been, imperial victory was at hand. Eventually the Orks were overwhelmed, with casualties falling within acceptable parameters according to Imperial doctrine.

Reforming the ranks with the help of his entourage, Captain Rommer regrouped with his peers amongst the other companies and charged down the bluff. As colonel Petra had expected, the Orks routed as soon as they were hammered against his siege lines by the Persephonian chimeras. As cathartic as their first offensive engagement had been, when the dust settled, it became far harder to cheer. The ever torpid father Jonas was administering the final blessings to the rows of Departmento issued corpse shrouds lying at his feet. Ragged guardsmen were moving in small groups, helping each other to their platoon medics, who had pooled their resources around a few damaged Chimeras. Rommer winced as a cold eyed medic took the hacksaw to a comatose trooper, severing what was left of a ragged stump below his knee. The smell of burning greenskins, piled high as Emperor-Day pyres, wafted over him. Bringing a handkerchief to his mouth while listened to reports, the paling aristocrat muffled his gagging impulse and set about another direction all together.

His vox operator, who's set the officer was connected to, was suddenly turned on himself as he tried to minimize the distance between his equipment and the captain. Rommer took shelter in the leeway of his command vehicle, desperate to escape the breeze. Casting his eyes about to focus on something else than the nauseating stench, his gaze came across Lieutenant Della and her men. Distracted by the insistent vox operator, babbling something about his equipment amidst an effluvium of apologies, he noticed a tense debate unfolding within his subordinate's vicinity. He was about to go over and set this unseemly gathering straight when he spotted the black clad shape of Commissar Carver. The man was brandishing his bolt pistol at two kneeling troopers. Rommer suddenly found the stench of burning greenskins much more tolerable and marched back where he had come from, a leaning vox operator following on his impromptu leash.

'Wait, you can't just shoot them!' screamed Della as Commissar Carver leveled his bolt pistol with unwavering assurance. Both men knelt with their hands behind their head. The shadow of their deaths something neither of them expected nor understood.

'I most certainly can, Lieutenant.' The dark specter's eyes leered invisible behind the thick black visor of his peaked cap. 'In fact, that I have brought them here instead of executing them in the field is the extent of my magnanimity'. The Commissar's finger rested upon the trigger, set to bring down the hammer of doom upon the deserting pair. 'I have found Trooper Lancer and Corporal Melot guilty of desertion, having abandoned their post, disobeyed orders, and failed in their moral duty to the Emperor in the persecution of his holy war!'

Lieutenant Della had ripped her beret off her head when she had seen the political officer walking her men back to the front line like prisoners. The clearly nervous men were holding a battered and bloody sergeant Trevin between them, having braved the infernal battlefield to finally find him. Medicae auxilia barely had time to take Trevin away that the black clad specter of death had forced her soldiers to their knees and readied them for the Emperor's justice. The man was heartless; Della harbored no doubt the extent of the commissar's compassion had everything to do with needing someone to carry the incapacitated Trevin back to safety.

Guardsmen all around had stopped what they were doing and watched with morbid curiosity as the scene played out. Fires still burned along the tarmac. Men heaved greenskins by the dozen into piles for burning. Chimeras rumbled as they were attended by techpriests. Officers were whipping their men into line with the help of their sergeants. But despite the carnage of wounded men and ravaged wrecks, the air around Misfit squad was uncannily still.

'These men were acting under my orders commissar. Surely you will not execute them for doing their duty?' The golden haired officer pleaded, her headdress crushed in her nervous grasp. Siggurd was by her side and shot her an unreadable glance.

Carver raised his weapon, but did not holster it. 'Is that so Lieutenant? I understand it is every noble officer's reflex to commiserate with their soldiers. But please realize that if you wish to continue along that line and I do not find your answer satisfactory... 'He paused letting the weight of the situation settle, 'then you will join them under charges of incompetence.'

As if brought by divine providence, father Jonas joined the crowd which was slowly building around the commissar and the lieutenant. Needless to say most troopers saw it as a mixed blessing. Guard priest did one of two things, daily services and funeral rites. Only one of which was likely to be needed here.

The one sided stare down continued for long seconds before Della realized he was waiting for her testimony. 'After their carrier crashed I was forming my platoon to establish a beach head as per orders. I was obviously handicapped with one squad out of operational range and so I could not advance as I should have.' She licked her lips nervously, why was she sticking her neck out for the biggest torn in her side? Siggurd certainly would have counseled against it. Then again he had no love for Trevin and his flunkies. Neither did she, but somewhere deep down she still felt she owed them for the call she had made on the battery hills.

The squad had been ordered to protect a Manticore battery on the defensive hillocks of the second trench along the Kursk battle line. Della had ordered the battery to change their arc of fire to cover the center of the line. It had been the tactically sound thing to do. It also had left them without support to quell the tide of Orks climbing their hillock. She had condemned them all to a horrible death at the hands of the barbarous greenskins. But they had not died; in fact they had held the line against all odds. This was the least she could do, Honor demanded it,_ she_ demanded it from herself.

'Proceed' said the commissar matter-of-factly.

'Misfit reported the loss of their squad leader, and they were pinned. I sent Veteran sergeant Siggurd to rally them and hold their ground, as dutiful guardsmen should.' She hoped she wasn't overselling it. 'No doubt when the line had pushed parallel to their position, Corporal Melot and trooper Lancer had seized the opportunity to go looking for their squad leader.'

The commissar's head swiveled slowly to Siggurd, piercing him with his unknowable stare. 'Do you corroborate this account Veteran sergeant Siggurd?'

Frak! Thought Della, now she had dragged another good soldier into this mess of a farce. She owed Misfit but Siggurd had no such debt of honor and he would not lie to those he openly disdained.

But he did.

'On my record commissar, sir' Siggurd twisted at the waist slightly and spit a wad of congealed blood from his tussle with the Orks. He never took his eyes off the blank visor that hid most of the vulture's face. 'We had... comm difficulties. I judged it safe enough to let the boys go.'

With that, Carver slipped his powerful pistol in its cradle and nodded. 'Lucky for them, your record is spotless sergeant.' And indeed it was. As chief officer responsible for discipline in the Persephonian 1st, he had studied the best and the worst of the regiment's trooper's files. It was rare to find both of those extremes in the same instance, such as with Siggurd and Melot.

'I will be requesting a writ of permission from you lieutenant, confirming this account and the fact that these troopers were under order. The Emperor protects!' snapped the black clad specter as he clicked his boot heels. As he walked away, Jensen slumped in relief. Freddy still held his hands behind his head and let go of the nervous giggle he had been holding back.

...

The hum of the moving air was all he could hold on to. Fire lanced along his limbs when he tried to move them. The agony was a constant, each breath like crushed glass rattling in his chest. Darkness was the only other constant, pain and darkness. All he knew was that the shaking tremors, when they came, always ended with the agony of splintered limbs and then helpless paralysis. He had no clue as to where he was or what was happening. It seemed pointless then to try and figure it out. Instead, he focused on the strange hum of the moving air.

...

Slowly, lucidity came crawling back. His pain addled mind found fitful rest in blissful morphium hazes. Though he couldn't remember how he had been hurt. He knew it must have been terrible.

What seemed at first a limbo of agony and senseless torture was eventually replaced by the soft weightlessness of pain salves. He was dimly aware that time flittered by, but he could not have cared less. The blazing purgatory had eased, and memory found its way back to him through the cracks of his shattered skull.

...

Trevin woke again to the strange smell of spiced smoke wafting over his bed. Bandages wound tight around his head robbed him of his sight. His body was as good as useless, encased in thick synth cast. Only his hearing and sense of smell were still of use to him.

True enough, the dosage of his pain salves sometimes made even those senses questionable but he took comfort in being able once again to tell the difference between his dreams and those fitful waking hours.

The curious scent came to him in slow puffs and was not all that unpleasant. He always felt tingly and lighter when it was around. Testing his hand, Trevin found that he could make use of his fingers and slowly tried to move his arm. Dull pain throbbed along its length but even that was a shadow of its former self. He brought his hand to his face with great difficulty, finding that scruffy facial hair had grown over it. Despite what felt like a monumental step in his recovery, Trevin still couldn't manage to free his eyes from the bandages.

'Oy, soldier boy is' wake! Nah nah, rest. Before angry lady shows 'gain. Rest, I watch over ya dreamin.' Trevin couldn't understand what the voice was trying to say but the heady weight settling over him convinced him it didn't matter.

...

Insistent voices woke Trevin again. They came from time to time to check up on him. They prodded at him and changed the plastek tubes and bags that allowed for his waste to leave his body. Some spoke as if he was not there, others tried to ask him how he was doing, but Trevin never said much. Speaking hurt too much. Any movement of his head did. So he developed a series of grunts which sounded more or less positive depending on what he could understand of the queries.

Trevin didn't know how long he had been at the medicae center, for surely this was where he rested. The smell of antiseptics battled with pungent infection. He guessed he was in some kind of communal ward because the voices moved to and fro regularly. He could hear them speak to many different guardsmen. He could also hear those less fortunate than him, although how fortunate he really was would have to wait until he could actually see himself in a looking glass.

He could now move his fingers and toes, which meant he still had limbs. Although his days were spent in darkness, he could see when he opened his eyes under the bandages. The light that filter through was painfully bright, so he preferred to keep them closed. So far so good, thought Trevin.

...

He hadn't figured out who the mysterious speaker that came to his bed side was. The voice was a man's and he never came when the physicians and auxilia's were around. He spoke with a strange accent and bad gothic. Whoever he was, he was always followed by the spiced smoke and Trevin had recovered enough of his wit to realize the man was blowing it into her face. Whatever kind of game the stranger was playing at, the peaceful dreams Trevin had when the smoke filled his lungs was enough for him not to question it further. Each time, Trevin would breathe deeply of its exotic scent and smile. Somehow, he knew the stranger smiled with him.

'Ung'Bak! You have been smoking your damnable narco sticks in my ward again haven't you?' The accusatory tone started Trevin awake.

'Nah nah mein! You told Bak no smoke, he no smoke!' came the stranger's voice, mischievous and apologetic. 'Besides, you took Bak's last stick yesterday.'

The irritated woman sat on Trevin's bedside and started to fiddle at his bandages. She was clearly more intent on speaking to this Bak fellow. 'And I took the ones before that, and those before that. It's your damn friends that bring them, I know it. If you don't stop I am going to ask Medicae Orthel to deny you their visits.'

'Nah mein, Medic man no do that, he like Bak and his friends.' Answered the stranger, joyful humor in his tone, unruffled by the auxilia's threats.

'We will see Bak, we will see!' The woman finally turned to him, her voice changing from irritated admonishment to soft professional interest as she took his hand. 'Sergeant Augustus Trevin, I'm auxilia Miella, if you can understand me please squeeze my hand.

'Its ok' said Trevin hoarsely, surprised at how raw he sounded. 'It doesn't hurt to talk so much now.

'That's great news sergeant, you were in a very serious crash. We had to keep you under to spare your body most of the shock. How are you feeling?'

'I'm not sure. Better? I guess. How long was I out?' Trevin tried to sit up but gritted his teeth as pain ripped through his chest. Stars exploded in his vision as he was careful pushed back down by the auxilia.

'You must not move sergeant. You've only begun to mend. The Emperor deemed you worthy to live. However miraculous that is, you must not make it any harder for us to keep you amongst the living.' Miella used a well practiced tone, one which carefully balanced faith, compassion, and a hint of guilt to get the usually stubborn guardsmen to do as she asked. It worked far more often than not. On some guardsmen however, it had no effect.

'He big boy lady, he can take pain, yes?' Trevin felt Bak lean over him for an instant before Miella shoved him back.

'Emperor help me Bak! If you don't give me room to work I'm going to use these scissors on you!'

'Scissors?' asked Trevin.

'Yes sergeant...'

'Augustus' interrupted Trevin.

Her careful fingers began to loosen his bandages slightly before she answered. 'I know your first name sergeant, however, the Munitorum is quite adamant that we simply refer to patients by their rank.

Trevin heard the scissors sheer through the bandages carefully, the cold steel against his itchy skin a welcome feeling.

'Close your eyes sergeant, they have not seen light in quite some time and it will be painful at first but they will adjust.' Miella assured the guardsman.

Trevin smirked. 'Does the Munitorum also insist on you being elusive about how you answer questions?'

'Pardon?' the auxilia had paused her work and Trevin heard Bak snicker.

'I already asked you twice how long I was out, you never answered.' Pressed Trevin with what he hoped was a playful tone, only hearing his croaking voice instead.

'Questions slow us down sergeant, the Munitorum does not tell us not to converse with the patients per _say_...' she finally pulled the last of the bandages off Trevin's face, keeping a hand cupped over his eyes carefully. 'Your chart says you were at the central dispensary for a month and then sent to the recovery wards for two more.'

Three months thought Trevin, 'any news from the front?' he asked in disbelief.

The auxilia sighed softly as she parted her fingers to let light caress the sergeant's sensitive eyes. She shook her head; 'I never hear anything but what the guardsmen scream in their sleep...' it was clear to Trevin that Miella did not want to speak of it.

The blurred edge of his vision resolved painfully, his blinking eyes trying to bare the all encompassing wall of brilliant white that flooded over them. Slowly, between barely opened eye lids, Trevin saw the sadness painting Miella's face, and behind her, Bak's wide grin.

...

Thunder Ridge, it had a nice ring to it. Within a few days of destroying the Orks encamped on it, the ridge became the first forward command post in the battle for Kursk. Since the first day the imperial forces had landed on this ruddy dust ball, this had been the first advance, the first success in one whole year of bleeding and dying in the emperor's name.

It had a nice ring, but it didn't look like much. Colonel Petra and his battalion of Ranok siege engineers had built, dug, and supervised the other elements of the assault force in how to make earthworks. From the top of the ridge down its sloping rear (which now pointed towards the Ork lines), lines of trenches, saps, communication by ways, parallels, and pill boxes reinforced with dirt glacis made up the defenses leading up to the barracks.

With flak boards and steel plates the men of the imperial guard had at once built their homes and their fox holes. They would fight and die in these trenches. Only the Ranok 568th found comfort in that. Reinforced dug outs could survive anything short of a direct hit down their ventilation shafts. Seeing how Orks were bad at calculating angles, it was unlikely the subterranean chambers along the trenches would collapse. Of course you had to know the ins and outs of engineering to have that insight and so no matter how much the Ranok diggers explained, the other regiments dreaded being buried alive.

Behind the trenches was the ridge proper. The base sat solidly anchored on the rock plateau that had calcified over the ages. The layers of the canyon which had reached these heights allowed for the barracks, motor pool, and artillery positions to command incredible arcs of fire. Along the height and breath of the slope leading down from the ridge, impassable fields of overlapping fire created a kill box the likes no sane man would ever dare. Unfortunately for the soldiers of the Emperor, the Orks were too dumb to be afraid.

By the end of the first month after capturing the ridge, the Orks had assaulted the trenches no less than twenty-eight times. None of the Orks, their ramshackle war wagons, or even their pitiful excuse for walkers, named killer-khans by the horde screaming their names, had survived the defenses. Had circumstances been different, it would have been a great victory for the guard.

Despite the presence of persephonian mechanized infantry, Ranok trench specialists, a company worth of sentinels and hellhounds from the Pangean detachment, a platoon of Galvan scouts, and an entire battery of basilisk artillery, the Orks were bleeding them dry. There simply was not enough ammunition.

Las packs drained faster than they were recharged. Heavy stubbers ate solid projectiles at a ravenous rate and their barrels warped from the constant firing. Auto cannons had long gone silent and their silence left certain trenches dangerously unsupported. Las cannons had fared better, being only used on heavily armored targets like the wagons and killer-khans, still, not many cells remained. Rocket launchers laid gathering dust in the armories because no shells remained. Even the mighty basilisk, whose use this base had been established for, had run dry.

All that remained was men, faith, and courage. When the latter had dwindled to nothing, the Commissars had found an alternative. The endless motivational reservoir that is fear.

Their senior, Commissar Carver, had addressed the men in the trenches one morning after a Ranok hiver was found dead at his own hands. 'Suicide is not an option gentlemen', the dark specter had said solemnly, as priests had lain the body of the trooper for all to see.

'You are charged by the God-Emperor himself with the destruction of his enemies, which are mankind's enemies. You have been armed and cloaked in his protection for this sacred duty.' Carver had looked at them from behind his featureless visor, every guardsmen feeling his stare though they could not see his eyes.

'You will fight until you are killed. Fight until your blood has soaked the ground a deeper red than Kursk's own. Fight until you have made your death worth the effort and investment that the Imperium has devoted to your sacred duty.' With his last words he drew his bolt pistol and held it at the ready while the priests chanted litanies of accusation and horrid torments for the souls of cowards.

'Trooper Vershok of the Ranok 568th, also known as the ground pounders, you have been found guilty of failing your duty in the service of the Emperor. For this, the penalty is death by execution!'

Carver leveled his pistol and shot the corpse in the head. The harsh bark was followed a moment after by the mass reactive shell blowing the skull apart in a shower of gore. The assembled guardsmen reeled from the sight. It seemed that even death was not enough to still the commissariat's hand. Even as men of the 568th grumbled at the excessive shaming of their fellow's body, three other commissars escorted haggard looking soldiers to their knees in front of the crowd.

Their eyes were hollow and their faces wore despair openly. Carver took a single confident step to the first of the guardsmen and shot him in the face. 'These guardsmen are part of trooper Vershok's unit.'

He walked up to the next, who simply looked up at the emotionless face of his executioner, and shot him. 'The crime of their comrade is a burden the entire unit must carry.'

Carver looked up at the crowd as he walked to the last man, who whimpered in terror as death stalked towards him. 'Every man that does not die at the hand of the enemy will perish at the hand of the emperor's judgment. Should he believe himself out of the god-emperor's reach, he will find himself joined by three of his brothers. To them, he will have to explain how his cowardly shame was worth their lives.'

With those simple words of rebuke, he executed the last kneeling guardsman without ever lowering his eyes.

Needless to say that word of the incident had spread through the soldiers' ranks like wildfire. As heartless as the decree had been, not a single suicide had been reported in the following months. Incidents of guardsmen running out of their trenches into the teeth of the assaulting hordes did increase, however. After a few more examples by the commissariat, those broken souls made sure to leave their equipment in the trenches before charging barehanded, least their fellows be sent to recuperate the Emperor's property.

On the eve of the second month, when men were down to their last clips and set their bayonets on their rifle's end, the Emperor had finally answered the doomed guardsmen's prayers. The Ork horde, seemingly inexhaustible, was running rampant up the slope butchering its defenders when the night sky filled with grav chute.

Before the crates of ammunition even hit the ground, powerful beams of las bolts pierced the night with unerring accuracy. The bottom of the slope lit up in billowing clouds of hellfire and engulfed the body of the advancing horde. Seconds later, storm troopers hit the ground and rolled up into firing crouches to continue laying their powerful hell gun fire into the confused Orks.

Despite the harrowing fire that skewered the foremost greenskins, the storm troopers were too few to truly rout the foe, but vital minutes had been bought by the surprise attack. Guardsmen all over the slope desperately ran from their trenches to open ammunition crates and distribute the much needed contents.

The Macharian "Death Wings" were now fighting a retreat up the slope with disciplined volleys, covering their numbers with expertly laid fire. They moved like shadows in the darkness, the red lit lenses of their night gear the only way to tell where they were. Still, they fought with such fury and precision that the defenders' spirits rose at this miraculous rescue.

Doom had been postponed. Although the toll had been great and much of the ammunition had fallen and scattered too far to be recovered, there had been enough to buy them more time. Time for which to square the debt they owed the Emperor, or enough time for General Von Richter to evacuate his precious war machines. Lost within the carnage of the war, a soldier dreamt of a fateful night, so long ago.

...

The shot was lost within the fury of the storm, but his hand still shook from the discharge. Lord Steld lay crumpled on the rich scintilian red rug. Bellechance's breath was coming in ragged bursts as he struggled to cope with the blasphemous truth of his act. The master of the estate was choking on his own blood, which poured from the bullet wound that had torn out most of his neck.

The lord's boudoir revealed itself somberly amidst the flashes of lightning. Its every sumptuous contours somehow made morbid by the act of betrayal they had just witness. The steward's legs could no longer bear the burden of their owner and Bellechance leaned against the writing desk, the very same that still separated the dead master from himself.

Windows rattled from the buffeting winds, seeming to voice the outrage of the house itself. Then, silence, a strange absence that tortured the breathless servant. A silence only weakly intruded upon by a timid whimpering.

'Whose there?' Asked Bellechance to the darkened room, the steward turned upon himself, leveling the compact pistol at shadows. 'Show yourself!'

Thunder crashed a second after the brilliant light of the electric storm gave him a glimpse of the spreading pool of blood draining from the master's body. He circled the corpse half expecting the lord to rise and punish him for his insolent act, but lord Steld remained still and continued to grow pale with a stricken air of condescending surprise.

Another flash, more whimpering, Bellechance felt the beating of his heart, his sweating brow, and the rising sense of damnation build within him. He wondered if madness was gripping him. He had after all, killed his better, his master, and for what?

That's when he saw her. The child was holding on to the edge of the floor to ceiling bookcase. She whimpered, frozen in fear, eyes filled with her innocent tears. She had seen him, seen it all. Loathing for what he had done welled up inside him, dashing him upon the reefs of his conscience. He had acted with such vehemence, blinded by the need for temerity, that he forsook the lord's virtues. He had been a father, and despite his misgivings, a caring one. A father he had now robbed the child of.

Her eyes were filled with confusion and fear, staring at the pistol the steward still clutched impotently against the horror of his crime. Seeing this, Bellechance put the weapon on the desk and kneeled down on the thick carpet, offering his hands to the child. He realized mutely, as tears began to fall from his eyes, that he wanted to beg her for forgiveness. For something she could never understand nor ever forget.

'Little miss... I'm so sorry. Why are you up? Why did you have to come here tonight?' No, no he would not blame her for this. This had been his choice. He had taken upon himself to judge his betters and take action that was neither permitted nor permissible. He edged forward on his knees, fighting the tremor in his voice to reassure the poor child.

'Is it the storm little one? Has it awaken you?' perhaps if Bellechance could keep her mind on the mundane she would speak rather than drown in terror. She nodded timidly. Good, thought the servant, she had not been struck witless by the sight of her father's slaying.

'It is a terrible night, is it not little miss? Yes, terrible a night. Go to your mother's bed side, you know the way correct?' another timid nod, her knuckles white as she gripped the bookcase's edge. 'Tell the mistress an incident requires her immediate attention in his lordship's boudoir. Tell her to come with the House guards. Tell her... tell her I am very sorry.'

Bellechance tried to give his most amiable smile and waved her off, slowly getting to his feet. The child darted away at the sight of him rising and her naked steps could be heard slapping against the marble floor of the corridor.

With a shuddering breath, the young steward of the house set upon the task of soaking up the blood from the lush carpet before it stained too deeply. He composed himself, or tried too, but found it difficult to clear his eyes as he hefted lord Steld upon his desk and laid him in a more dignified manner. With prayers on his lips, he beseeched the Emperor to take a noble son of Persephony to his side and hid the death wound along with the lord's final visage under his handkerchief. Perhaps if the God-Emperor saw fit, his own crime would be lessened for their noble intent.

The lord Steld had been a man of strong emotions and stubborn disposition. After having sampled a sector's worth of vice, he had quickly become jaded to the stimulation they offered. The lord had been known for his keen blade and his barbed tongue. After a life time of duels, lord Steld had taken an unhealthy liking to the shedding of blood. Something young Bellechance, newly instated as house steward, had discovered along the first few months of his employment.

After having lost a handful of promising servants because of some errors on their part, Bellechance found it hard to find qualified help and retain their services. Clearly, disciplining the help was his duty, but it was one the lord and his housecarl had reserved for themselves. It had taken him some time but the steward now knew why. The servants he had thought released from service had never returned home. In fact, house ledgers showed a somewhat large compensatory dispensation to their families.

His interest enflamed, Bellechance had inquired to the senior members of the staff but to no avail. They were incredibly tight lipped about it and because he required to prove himself home a worthy steward, he had let it go in favor of more pressing matters. It was only after quite some time, too much for his conscience to leave the matter alone, that the young steward had stumbled upon the truth in the deep cellars.

The memory left him cold as he wrapped the master's cloak around his stiffening body, making sure the fabric of his lordship's trappings were as pristine as he could make them. Frustratingly, the droplets of blood marring the fine fabric gnawed at his frayed senses. Those that had begun to unravel the night he had been making inventory of the house's fine brandy caskets. It was under the light of the oil lamp that he had discovered the well worn oak door. He had never seen it before and it had not been shown to him when he took the responsibility of stewardship.

The muffled sounds that had managed to escape that den of horror had made his blood ice up. He hid in the shadows and snuffed his lamp. The maddening cries had eked through the ancient wood door for hours before going silent. Then his lordship and his housecarl had exited the den with the merriment of sated devils. Bellechance still wished he had not dared to look, but he had, and he knew he would never forget what he had seen. As if the doorway was a portal unto a world beyond the most hellish of places, the private den of his lordship had gripped his heart and stilled his soul.

Beyond the threshold of the cracked oak frame was a small room. Its walls were of half rotten timber and its floor nothing more than moist earth. A support stanchion stood mightily at the center of the room, in which was stuck a bewildering array of bladed tools and knives. All were coated in the rusted red of dried blood, of which the room reeked. Sunken on her knees, arms bent and broken, a young servant girl was leashed to the stanchion.

Bellechance did not know who she was. He could not, for her face and scalp were but a mesh of gaping wounds sliced into her flesh. Designs had been carefully carved into her skin and what was left of her tattered remains were unrecognizable. No other wounds marred her body, no blossom of blood that told the tale of deeper, deadlier wounds. Yet the girl was clearly dead, her glassy eyes open and filled with unimaginable pain. Her heart had failed her.

As the young steward heard the heavy footfall of the house guards coming down the hall, he kissed his golden Aquila pendant and took solace in the knowledge he had fulfilled the oath he had sworn that night. He mouthed the last of the canticle of servitude.

'Though I am surrounded by craven evil, I will bright His light into the darkness, for the Emperor ask only what he is due, the life that he has given me.'


	11. chapter 8

8.

The hot thermals coming from the canyon's edges washed over the ridge and the imperial defenses. To say it got windy would be putting it lightly, as the cooler air mixed with the heated jets from the magma covered canyon floor, the result was downright unpleasant.

The men and women of the Persephonian 1st were dutifully filling their trenches. An odd mix of elegantly detailed, yet mud caked, uniformed line of guardsmen crowding the firing steps and pill boxers on the redoubts. As lieutenant Della walked along the trench system to check up on her platoon, she could smell the rich sulphuric winds mixing with the smell of fetid greenskins burning down the slope. This last charge had been halfhearted and most of the gretchin and Orks that had assaulted still burned from the pyro-troopers' flamers spread along the first parallel trench.

Usually this task would have fallen to her veteran sergeant but Siggurd had been in the thick of things. He suffered from minor burns after having wrestled a spraying flamer from the hands of a surprised trooper, who had gotten a face full of teeth, after a diminutive greenskin had been flung into the trench by its larger cousins.

Della padded shoulders and gave firm and confident orders to Duran and Hobs' squads. Taking a deep breath, and immediately regretting it, she walked around a bend to come upon Misfit squad's dug out. She chided herself at her misplaced dread, but she had expected a mess of undisciplined troopers. Although they were in her platoon, Misfit always felt like they belonged to Augustus. He inspired staunch loyalty, which made her job all the more difficult when she needed to harangue them in. Had it not been for Siggurd's recommendation, the young aristocrat would surely have gotten his own commission.

There was no two way about it though. Augustus Trevin was far too willful for command and Siggurd knew it, rightly so. Della gave Misfit's gunners a nod as they looked down from their sandbag pillbox and walked into the dugout. Half the squad was sleeping and the other smoked lho sticks around an ammo box used as a stand for corporal Melot's helmet, now an improvised dice bowl for whatever game was going on. They barely looked up at her, not even sparing a salute for their superior officer.

Men had been shot for less, especially under Commissar Carver's tenure at this outpost. True to form, Misfit didn't seem to care much, and their glares hinted at a hidden violence for anyone who would give them reason to. Melot walked over slowly, stepping over trooper Corvin as he pushed himself up from the dirt floor in an unending series of strength training exercise, and smiled tiredly. They all looked drained, like most of her men, but especially since the loss of their sergeant.

'Lieutenant,' offered Jensen by way of a greeting.

'You boys doing okay here?' asked Della, eyeing the tension in the room.

'Dandy, ma'am. Just dandy.'

Della gritted her teeth. Why was she letting Misfit walk all over her. She had even lied to cover them, an unimaginable thing just a few months ago. Discipline needed to be restored, but not here, not now, not with men at the end of their rope and trigger happy from weeks of constant assaults.

'Its sergeant Trevin, thought you would like to know,' said Della. The room seemed to still at the mention of their leader. Even Corvin halted in mid extension. 'I got word from command that he has been released from the trauma ward a week ago. He's doing fine but he will need to rest some more before he is ready for duty.'

Misfit's mood immediately lifted, men even waking their fellows to pass on the news. The entire unit was giving her their full attention. Honest relief spread across their faces as they began to smile.

Jensen leaned in with renewed mischief in his eyes. 'Thank you ma'am, for everything,' Della knew exactly what he was referring to, but this was the first time the event had been referred to, even in this roundabout way.

' I let you boys down once before, even if it was in the name of duty, I figured it was time I made up for it.' The lieutenant felt the burden of guilt lifting, if only slightly, as she confessed about that day on the Manticore hills when she had committed them to a certain death to hold the line. She had not even voiced this guilt to father Jonas. Officers weren't supposed to feel guilty about following orders, after all.

Jensen offered her a crisp parade ground salute and went to share the good news with a bleary eyed Freddy as he struggled to wake up.

Della held back a hint of a smile as she walked out of the dugout. She could still remember the talk Siggurd had given her.

...

The silence was almost unbearable. A glare was all it took to get Ramsey and Honig to abandon their lieutenant in the back of the command chimera with the veteran sergeant. Siggurd slammed the hatch rune and the compartment ramp shut. It had become an uncomfortably intimate space.

'What in the hell was that about ma'am?' growled Siggurd angrily.

Della was taken aback but she smoothed out her uniform to affect an air of calm and composed herself. Despite her best effort, Siggurd saw right through the act. 'I will remind you that you are speaking to a superior officer, veteran sergeant, and that I represent the Adeptus, which voice His will!'

'Don't give me that horse shit! You don't get to hide behind rank after that shit you pulled with the commissar!' Siggurd's fury was like a physical thing. He stepped towards her and pointed a thick finger accusingly, daring her to keep going. The compartment suddenly felt like it barely had enough room for her to breathe.

Her breast swelled with anger at being spoken to in such a way by a subordinate, both militarily and socially. Had this been Persephony, he would have been publicly flogged. But this wasn't her home world. She was not just a daughter of house Della, but a leader responsible for every life under her command and to the Master of Mankind.

'Your right, I don't get to deflect. You want to know why I lied for those soldiers Siggurd?' Della breathed in deeply of the artificially recycled air and stared straight into the mangled man's eyes. 'I did it because it was the honorable thing to do, because it was the right thing to do!'

Surprisingly, Siggurd gave her a curt nod and relaxed his stance but she could tell this was another one of his evaluation. Amongst their many responsibilities, veteran sergeants were nurse maids of sorts, helping junior officers on the field and letting them benefit of their years of experience. In this way, Siggurd often took on a strangely paternal aspect and showed an uncharacteristic amount of care.

'Explain,' demanded the veteran.

'Those men put themselves in danger to recover one of their own' answered Della with conviction.

'They disobeyed a direct order' countered the ornery soldier.

'They refused to give ground, just like they were trained to do. They just happened to fall on some pretty damn dangerous ground.'

'Those men threatened the stability of the line we were forming; you had to fight with one less squad at your disposal, risking the entire company's push.'

Della frowned, anger rising once more, her words fighting to justify her decision, fighting to save their lives once more in her mind's eye. 'Melot and Lancer weren't running away damn it. They were searching for Augustus, Carver had it wrong!'

'Augustus?' asked Siggurd, his sneering face impossible to read and his tone carefully neutral. 'Is this about a wayward unit or a single man? Did I lie to a commissar for the life of that pitiful excuse for a guardsman?'

'You lied to support your platoon leader, to support her decision and because you trusted her judgment' said Della. The moment those words left her lips she knew it was true. He did trust her; this wasn't about his grudge match with Trevin or the unruly nature of Misfit squad. It wasn't even about committing an offence punishable by summary execution, lying to a Commissar; it was about making sure she was confident of her choice and ready to deal with the consequence.

As the light dawned in her eyes, Siggurd stepped back and took a respectful stance. 'For the record ma'am, whatever you see in Misfit and its squad leader, make sure it does not cost the lives of other good guardsmen in exchange.'

She nodded and reached for her comm bead's activation rune. 'Honig, confirm that all squads are mounted and ready to move out. We have a horde to rout for colonel Petra and I'm sure captain Rommer is anxiously awaiting our readiness.' She turned to Siggurd who was still waiting at ease.' Dismissed sergeant' she said.

Siggurd snapped off a salute and dropped the hatch of the chimera before stepping out onto the tarmac of the still burning Ork war camp.

...

The bunker was ill lit and plain, as all such drop patterns were. Nothing more than flak board and quick set rockcrete, reinforced with some sand bags, and great deal of faith in the Emperor. As far as those inside it were concerned, at least it wasn't a hole in the dirt, which often felt too much like standing in one's own grave.

Surrounding the command nave were the officers of the outpost unofficially named Thunder Ridge. Vid screens and cogitator's were strewed about the edge of the room. Their power cables snaked between the attending staff, which crowded what little room was available around the central tactica station. Irate tech priests struggled to keep the machine spirits appeased but they frequently overheated. Despite complaints by the command staff, the techpriest could do no better, as a molten river of magna coursed only a few hundred meters below them.

A large man, easily twice the size of his entourage, was leaning over the central station and its maps. Colonel Petra of the Ranok regiment was so large that captain Rommer wondered what they fed the children on his hive world. Possibly the runts of the litter, mused the aristocrat.

Four other Ranok captains accompanied him in his scrutiny of the region's topography, all singularly large compared to their three Persephonian peers and the bearded Galven, not to mention the diminutive Pangean.

As the siege engineers grumbled about "this" or "that", Rommer could clearly see that their girth gave them a suitable "dirt farmer" look. Not guard officer material at all. He sighed at having to take orders from such inferior stock. Captain Van Helger and that drunk, De la Croix, stood beside him exchanging a look of uncertain quality. Yes, they probably felt the same as well. Persephonian's were not suited to follow such dirt mongers, with their drab grey fatigues and their neckless heads. Surely such low set craniums must be a sort of mutation. They looked more like bulls then men.

Assisting this strategy meeting was father Jonas and Commissar Carver from the Persephonian battalion and an enginseer primus, by the name of Sigma, from the Ranok Battalion. Rommer wasn't sure about the last two but father Jonas's unworried demeanor always made him comfortable. Here was a man who knew his place in the order of things, when a priest started to panic, that's when you had to start worrying. They benefitted from the Emperor's protection like no other after all. As blasphemous as the thought might be, priests reminded him of those tiny birds men used to take down into mining shafts. Yes, a good early detection system indeed.

Colonel Petra stared straight at Rommer, a quick glance around showed Van Helger and De la Croix waiting expectantly on him. 'Pardon me?' said Rommer.

'Are your mechanized units well provisioned in promethium?' asked Petra impatiently.

What a thick accent the man had. Rommer smiled diplomatically and moved his hand about. 'We have enough to run half the chimeras, more or less.'

'Half is as good as none. You will make your reserves available to us, that we might dig your vehicles hull down along the trench line. This will allow some anchoring points as well as offer medicae stations for battle field triage.'

'I must object colonel! You cannot simply bury our proud steeds into the muck. We are a mobile force. Surely you see the dishonor you heap upon our proud lineage by asking this.'

The Ranok officers around the table crossed their arms across their chest, a gesture the siege engineers seemed to favor often.

'Perhaps you would rather sally forth on your own, captain Rommer. Because unless you did not hear me a moment ago. We are not to receive any additional supplies by theater command. We break them or we are broken,' Said Colonel Petra with his gravelly voice.

Rommer was about to object once more when Van Helger's augmentic leg kicked his shin painfully.

'Don't give him that choice Petra, he'll take it,' affected Van Helger with a camaraderie Rommer was unaware he shared with the colonel. 'We persephonian's love a good counter charge too much. None the less, we will heed to your experience. It's much more your kind of war then ours isn't that right, de la Croix?'

The slightly inebriated captain piped up, ' Oh yes, all grunts and gristle' said De la Croix. A quick cough from Van Helger signaled his maladroit reply. 'I meant, takes guts and grit to fight toe to toe with Orks like that. Good lads you have there, colonel.'

'I will thank you, for the sake of brevity,' the large man said as he returned his attentions to the maps. 'We only have one chance at this, I suspect. We need to break the Orks' flanks wide open and get to that Mek Boy. Ever since he fled the fall of his camp he has been throwing everything he has at us, but cleverly staying out of sight himself.'

'That's where lieutenant Prizler comes in,' Petra nodded over to the bearded scout officer. 'You and your long cloaks will find me that Emperor forsaken Mek boy during the next assault. Once you have eyes on him, I want coordinates for the 568th's basilisks to hammer it.' The officers of the Ranok siege regiment nodded their thick necked heads in approval of the plan.

Petra ran a finger along the lines of the map. Showing where the trench would be without artillery support while this happened. 'This is where the Persephonian chimeras will be dug in, it's going to be a hell of a grind, but it will buy us enough time for _the coup de gras._'

The large Siege commander stretched his bull neck to look around the room. 'Captain Ri'zal, where are you man?'

A short swarthy man bulldozed himself a way between the Ranok and Persephonian officers. He wore a sleeveless flak jacket and wore a small metal container on a chain around his neck. Resting his lean muscled arms on the table, already set high for the bigger Ranok, he waved a hand waving a smoking cheroot.

'Right, Ri'zal's remaining sentinels will be waiting down the northern slope. Our engineers will lower his machines with a rig. That way, when we have eyes on the target, they can swing by and hit the flanks. Seek and destroy captain.'

The small death worlder bit on his exotic smelling cheroot and tightened a colorful scarf around his bicep. 'Ya, ya, we come, we kill, Pangean good at that. No problem mein!'

Everyone around the tactica station nodded their approval. 'Operational signal will be "Granite", when you hear it; you know it's a go.' Petra folded his arms over his chest and gave his subordinates an approving nod. All returned it but for Captain Rommer and Commissar Carver.

...

He could get used to this. The beach's cool breeze brought welcome respite from the dry wasteland air on Kursk. Lounging on the long chair and working on his tan, Trevin folded his arms behind his head.

The last few weeks had been difficult but he felt fitter now then he had for a long time. What had started as an old man's shuffle, aided by a cane and a medicae auxiliary, had turned into a 2 kilometer jog along the beach in just under a month. Daily exercise regiments along with Ung'Bak and his fellows had given him an insight on their way of life, as well as a degree of acceptance from the strange little folk.

The Pangeans were arguing a few meters away, oiled up and wearing little more than their _Danh Dau_, their tribal scarves, and their fatigue pants. At least Trevin thought they were arguing, it was hard to tell when they prattled on in their home world's dialect. They waved their arms about and looked ready to throw down, but then again they always did. Ung'Bak caught Trevin's eyes and gave him a mischievous smile before calling him a _lu'in b'ein_, it was some form of honorary title the Pangean unit had bestowed upon it. It meant lazy white skin.

Ung'Bak abandoned his kinsmen and jogged over to him. 'Why you lying down again? You will grow soft, well, softer any ways.'

Trevin laughed at his friends' well meaning words and sat up. 'You have got to learn to rest a bit Bak, what's the point of training all the time if you can't enjoy life?'

The short muscled powerhouse shrugged, tightening his colorful _Danh Dau_ around his thigh. 'Life is dream, if you dream lazy than you not wake up strong when emperor call you to him. He no like soft dreamers. Is why we go away from Pangea looking for harder dreaming.'

It was a miracle if you could make out half of what Pangeans said, even if you could get over their broken gothic. Their folklore was as confusing as the notion of deep dreaming, which was what they called the heady narcotic trances they favored. When they weren't pumped full of combat stimms and fighting the Emperor's enemies, they trained to do so between bouts of trance dreaming.

Trevin clapped a hand on Bak's shoulder as he got up and looked over his head to the long cargo 8s that had just parked along the beach's roadway. That way led to the high echelon's walled rest area. The shorter man turned to see what Trevin was staring out but couldn't make out anything out of the ordinary. 'Wacha lookin'at?'

'Those trailers' pointed Trevin. 'Their horse wagons, their used to transport mounts. I didn't' know we had horses on Kursk.'

'Wata horse, does it taste good?' asked Ung'Bak.

'No, Bak, their not for eating. Who would do that anyway? Come with me.'

The two guardsmen jogged off the beach, passing Bak's kinsmen who were busy seeing who could stare longer at the shrouded star Kursk orbited. No doubt permanent damage would ensue but Pangeans didn't seem to understand that some pains could make you weaker in the end.

A Persephonian quartermaster was unloading a fine looking Long Strider and caught Trevin's awed look as they arrived. The portly sergeant held the reins of the majestic horse and patted the animals flank. 'She's a beauty, is she not?'

Breaking into a broad smile, Trevin ran his hand along the Long Strider's cropped mane. 'What is she doing here; did we get white shields as reinforcement or something?'

'Reinforcements?' replied the quartermaster as he snorted. 'Nothing like that soldier, she's one of the colonel's mounts, came in with the secondary baggage train. Bit late but, the warp you know, can't keep a schedule tidy in there.'

Trevin hadn't heard a word. He was too busy taking in the nimble frame of the Long strider, its powerful muscles bred for short distance sprinting. They were as agile as a fish in water. They were the kind he had rode when captaining the power polo team back home. Fabulous beasts they were but worth a fortune to maintain.

'The old hermit has taste, that's for sure,' said Trevin to no one in particular. The quartermaster had caught the Colonel of the Persephonian 1st's nickname but didn't bother to correct the younger soldier. The look of pure rapture he wore was enough to convince him to let it slide.

'Ok now,' said the portly quartermaster. 'Enough gawking, I need to get this lady to her berth before Colonel Lazarus notices I'm late.'

'Right, though I'd be surprise if he'd notice anything.' Mumbled Trevin, catching his senior's admonishing look and taking a step back. Ung'Bak appeared from under the horse, having taken the tour around the monumental beast. He literally had walked his small frame between the creature's high haunches without bending over. Clearly the animal had found his meandering disturbing; because it's dark eyes seemed to be glued on him.

'Wat you see in it, I don't know, too big. Even you need a ladder _lu'in b'ein._'

Trevin watched the graceful animal trot away beside its tender and smiled. 'That's half the point Bak, on top a long strider's back, a man is king of the world.'

...

The last ork assault had been brutal, no two ways about it. Siggurd watched the walking wounded make their way up to the makeshift medicae station he sat in. Guardsmen helped one another or used their lasguns as walking sticks to make it up the slope. Rolling up the hill beside them were the few chimeras which had been kept in reserve to taxi the seriously wounded to the station. The rest of the battalion's mounts had been dug in and now served as fix heavy weapon points along the trenches.

Siggurd shifted on the bench inside the large tent. He had been triaged an hour ago for his promethium burn and given some pain balms before sitting down. Beside him, rapidly bandaged soldiers bore wounds that bled through their dressings. A young trooper with the uniform pins of a Garneti house servant had half his face bandaged up from a gouging eye wound. He was wavering in place, slipping in and out of consciousness, so Siggurd gave up his spot on the bench to lay the boy on his side before he pitched forward.

Laura Steld walked up to the sergeant and waved him over to a seat further in the tent.

'Shouldn't you be taking care of him first?' said Siggurd as he pointed to the boy with the face wound. Steld shook her head dismissingly, 'Priorities are NCOs and those who will be able to fight immediately. He'll be transferred to HQ, if they ever send anyone to pick them up.'

Siggurd sat on a metal stool, his disapproval all over his mangled face. Steld got to working on his arm, cutting the uniform's sleeve off to inspect the burns. She sprayed some antiseptic along his burns evenly. All around, auxiliae were bandaging wounds, dispensing salves and balms. The worst cases were forwarded to the actual medicae physicians, although they were woefully overburdened.

The young trooper from Della's platoon worked silently and quickly. She worked clinically, her detachment only reinforced by the dead eyed look she wore. Siggurd remembered Steld from the drills he had run during their founding. She had been livelier then, but not by much. Always trying to perform well but making sure she didn't draw too much attention. She never got in trouble and practically never socialized with the other troopers. And despite her noble lineage, she had not asked nor received an officer's commission.

Steld had, however, often been ill during their training. Her meek nature was one of the reasons she had been selected to be platoon medicae. She clearly had the wits to master the basics and the regiment had though it better for her to stay out of harm's way. Shortly after her training as auxiliae, she had earned herself the nickname of 'deadeyes'.

It was time Siggurd tested his theory as to why. He watched her deftly reach at her hip pouch for morphium and slipped the vial in her injector. He grimaced as the hypo-needle punched into the burned flesh. She hadn't even needed to look, her movements second nature.

Although it was only natural for an auxiliae to develop this kind of skill, Siggurd hadn't missed the fact that she needed much more concentration while performing other procedures. Combined with her glazed eyes and her casual indifference to the unsightly reality of her role, the picture was starting to fit the bill.

She had access to the apothecary, here the supplies of morphium were always flying off the shelves and wouldn't be well inventoried. She also shared the same faraway look the severely medicated guardsmen had.

Steld caught his intense scrutiny and stopped her work, staring into his storm grey eyes, so vividly set in a face ravaged by such horrible scars, and returned the long pensive stare.

'What?' asked Siggurd.

'It's your eyes,' said Steld simply.

'I can see fine,' countered Siggurd, misunderstanding her meaning.

Steld nodded, 'I know, it's just that,' she struggled to find the words. 'They seem so familiar.'

...

'You know, no matter how many greenskins I fry, I never really feel satisfied. There's always more of them and they all look the same, might as well not have fried the first one,' grumbled Corvin on the trench's firing step.

'Huh huh,' answered Freddy, not really listening. Another long night looking out onto the zigzagging trench line and earth works, waiting for the inevitable to happen.

'Maybe… maybe I just need to think on a bigger scale,' said Corvin. He turned to Freddy and shoved his watch partner.

'What?' blurted Freddy Lancer, slightly ruffled. 'Why did you do that?'

'What does a guy have to do to get his hand on like, a bomb? I mean like a _big_ bomb. I'm talking xenocide big!' Corvin nodded his head emphatically, exciting himself with his own vision of destruction.

'You know your weird, right?' stammered Freddy, more than slightly disturbed.

Before Corvin could reply, a procession of holy men appeared around the trench's bend. Father Jonas led the robed acolytes to dispense with the Emperor's blessings. The emerald green hems of their sacred vestments trailing along the muddy planks. In short order, the troopers assembled by the waiting priest and bowed their heads. Father Jonas walked along them and blessed them, sprinkling holy water over them.

'O' noble sons, for thy duty is truth, and truth is his will. Take upon shoulders the burden of your lesser and hark upon His foes with all due diligence!' prayed father Jonas, his hands moving surely along the sacred artifacts his acolytes handed him during his blessing. As the procession walked on and disappeared along the trench network, Freddy looked up and immediately regretted it.

Trailing behind the holy men was the shadowy form of Commissar Carver, a subtle reminder of what awaited any man who lost faith in the cause. The black clad specter of death panned his unseen sight along the ranks, hands clasped behind his back. It wasn't until he had gone that the cold that had gripped at Freddy's heart began to relinquish its dreadful embrace.

The mood was heavy, but then it could not be otherwise. The members of Misfit squad that was not on watch duty lounged around their foxhole and twiddled the time away with anything that would get their mind of the impeding shouts of _Waaaaagh!_

Jensen was practicing sleights of hand with his cards. Derrick and Reiner were maintaining their back up weapons. Freddy and Corvin were outside, because no one wanted to stay around Corvin for too long. The boy had gotten more and more off kilter this last year and although he was a solid fire team member, his thoughts wandered to dark places when he wasn't shooting things.

'Do you know what I miss?' asked Jensen to no one in particular. A half a dozen soldiers turned to him and this unexpected break in the silence. 'I miss sneaking out the servant quarter's back door with a bottle of the Harlington's fine liquor, with a few of the handmaidens.'

The gunner duo chuckled and kept polishing the firing mechanism and barrel of their weapons. 'Why is it everything you ever talk about always has women and booze Melot?' said the brawny Derrick.

'What, do yours only have booze and horses?' chided Jensen.

The room filled with soft laughter. It's mood lifting slightly. 'You were a servant of house Harlington?' asked Finley. The youngling had replaced trooper Urdesh after the Valkyrie crash at Thunder Ridge. Finley had been a woodsman, bound to no house and cutting timber the old fashion way for the nearest town. Persephonian nobles liked their country houses serviced by the rustic and quaint.

'That's what the pins say Finley' said Jensen, flipping a card and shuffling his deck one handed.

'Sorry corporal, I never learned heraldry, no need really' offered Finley, who was forgiven with a lazy wave. 'I miss the storms myself. The forest always smelled so good after a heavy rain fall. The air crackling with electricity and the soil freshly watered.'

A few nods of ascent were thrown at Finley. 'Aye' added Olef, who had been a ground keeper for house Tsaveska in his other life, 'the summer orchids used to fill the gardens with such sweet fragrance.'

It seemed a lifetime ago that they had been servants and vassals of the many noble houses that vacationed on Persephony. Majordomo, house guards, gardeners, and stable boys, these were many of the duties they had fulfilled. Now they huddled in dirt holes holding trenches against endless greenskin hordes, which only seemed heartened every time they were pushed back. Jensen swore they were getting bigger too. Did anyone even know why they had been mustered, or why they were fighting the Orks on this worthless planet?

The alarm klaxon blared loudly outside their foxhole. Jensen guessed it didn't matter why they were fighting anymore. All he knew was that if he didn't, he and his friends were all as good as dead.


	12. Chapter 9

9.

The cry of _Waaaagh _resounded against the slope as the Orks charged the imperial defenses yet again. The Ranok guardsmen manning the lower trenches fired freely as the first wave poured from the dusty outcropping of boulders some hundred meters away. Thick two legged creatures hopped and dashed towards the glacis from which the Ranok fired, whipped onwards by teams of gretchin and runt herder Orks. It seemed the Mek boy had finally ran out of Wartrukks and killer-khans, so resorted to good old cannon fodder.

As the bouncing squigs approached the trenches, pyro-troopers stepped up and bathed their ranks with blazing promethium jelly. The fungoid attack dogs sizzled and popped as they died in droves, but they had done their job. Now clearly visible against the dark night, the blazing troopers began falling as gretchin and Orks filled the air with large caliber rounds or simply tackled and clawed the siege engineers to death.

The second wave was on the move, hurling projectiles randomly and sprinting towards the trenches in murderous excitement. The booming of the basilisk batteries thundered in the distance, and moments later, the charging Orks were obliterated by a massive barrage that covered the Ranok retreat from the first parallel.

The few surviving pyro-troopers manned the zigzagging saps that led to the second parallel trench and roasted any greenskins stupid enough to charge after them. Thank the Emperor the Orks were such slow learners. The rest of the Ranok manned the firing steps and redoubts that had been built by their regiment. Smoke and fires burned all over the lower slope and the no man's land ahead of the first parallel. With the saps easily held by flamers, the greenskins predictably charged above ground to the next trench line only to get tangled in strategically placed razor wire.

With the second line manned by an abundance of guardsmen, their overlapping fields of fire targeted the tangled Orks, which now fell in droves. Heavy weapons chattered on rapidly, overheating their barrels but spraying lethal amount of fire all along the advancing wedge of Orks. Motar teams, in specially dug pits lined with sandbags, rained shells down along the killing ground in endless waves until it seemed that the enemy would break.

But the Orks didn't. They never had this early during an assault, with or without armor support. With the first parallel taken, and the ground between it and the second now a mess of craters and littered with Ork bodies, the imperial advantage had come to an end.

The third wave was now charging through the blue cordite smoke the Basilisk shell had left behind. Had the imperial forces any shells to spare the mighty guns would have continued to shell the kilometers long trench line and halted this advance. Without them, the most dangerous killers of the Ork horde were now unopposed. Amongst them, boyz with large dakka guns advanced, ammo hoppers lashed to their backs by improvised means.

They unleashed a hail of fire at the guardsmen, their projectiles felling pitifully few but keeping the majority of the soldier's head down. As large greenskins barreled onwards, uncaring of their kind's wild fire, the Nobs dropped into the trenches and saps. Guardsmen began dying as the massive creatures easily slaughtered them with hacking chops of their cleavers or with the bone crushing strength of their bare hands.

Despite the best efforts of the Ranok Officers, few things were as terrifying as a Nob in hand to hand combat, and the forces of the Imperium begun to unravel. More Orks ran out of the dying smoke, large rockets stuck on to long poles, and began firing their cork screwing missiles at the redoubts and heavy weapon pillboxes. Most of the explosives missed their mark and hammered along the glacis and reinforced parapets, but it only took one to take out their targets and the sheer amount of ordinance all but guaranteed the Orks would take out the strong points along the trench lines.

The second parallel fell minutes after the Nobs had reached the trenches, now all that stood between the Ork horde and the Thunder Ridge base was the third parallel and the brave men and women of the Persephonian 1st.

...

With victory against the tired and under supplied humies, Mek boy Ratchek-Fixa, whose camp had been ransacked by the imperials months before, rolled towards the battle field, eager to make his Orkish know-wats felt.

...

The going had been slow but it had paid off. Having rappelled down the northern face of Thunder Ridge, the Galvan scouts now made their way into enemy territory with all the renowned skill of the Long Cloaks. Covered in rust colored mesh, in which dry brambles had been tucked, they used the natural wasteland dust and grit to become one with land.

Prizler was proud of his platoon. They had fought in every climate and fauna Kursk had to offer and despite being behind enemy lines, they had evaded detection by the roving bands of Orks and their armored patrols. Crawling along the dusty vermillion ground, hiding amongst barren rock outcroppings and shallow dips, and sleeping covered in the desolated soil; his scouts had been phantoms ever since their deployment days ago.

As shrouded skies darkened, what passed as night on this worthless ball of dirt was setting on his position. The ruddy glow of the far away star dissipated behind the ever present orbital vapors and signaled the beginning of another night of tense skulking. The greenskins were not known for their awareness nor their disciplined patrols, but what they lacked in skill, they made up in utter randomness and overwhelming numbers.

Tonight was different and Prizler could feel the change in the air as easily as his Long Cloaks. They had crossed paths with very few greenskins and their habitual scattering of warbands had gathered closer to the Imperial lines. It seemed he was running out of time. If they couldn't spot the leader of the Orks soon, they would launch another attack and it would become very complicated to track the xeno war chief.

'We're gonna need to find some high ground if we stand a chance of locating the target,' grumbled Prizler to himself.

A shambling piece of terrain knelt slowly by his side, its long las tucked inside its coat to hide its dust covered wrapping. 'Problem, sir?'

Prizler sighed softly before turning to his veteran sergeant. 'It's the eleventh hour Nate, and we haven't seen hide nor hair of this Mek Boy.'

His sergeant knew very well what his commanding officer was thinking. It was imperative they located their quarry. The outcome at Thunder Ridge all depended on the success of this operation. 'Higher ground then, or we could always back track to that jutting boulder we passed at o two hundred,' suggested the veteran.

'No,' said Prizler. 'You and I both know it won't have the range we need, but thanks for not pointing out how gakked we are.'

'All in a day's work, sir' chuckled the sergeant. 'We press on and hope we find a suitable perch then.'

The lieutenant nodded his agreement and signaled the rest of the unit to increase their displacement and look for suitable ground. A few quick light signals from a hooded lamp pack made sure the other squads, kneeling in cover some three hundred meters apart, understood and confirmed their orders.

Prizler's instincts had been right on the money. Not two hours later the ridge side lit up as the Orks assaulted its western slope. The night was split apart as a massive firefight broke out along what Prizler knew was the first parallel some dozen kilometers to his south east.

He wasn't ready to give up yet. The clock might be minutes away from striking twelve but as long as hope was alive, The Long Cloaks would soldier on to the bitter end. It was time to try something a bit more risky.

Prizler waved over his sergeant and outlined his plan. The veteran looked skeptical but seeing that his lieutenant was dead serious, he muttered a prayer to the Emperor and moved away to relay what would likely be the last orders the lieutenant ever gave.

Taking a deep breath, Lieutenant Werner Prizler looked south to the roving dust cloud the Ork horde kicked up. '_The 5th finds the way'_ he said, speaking the Long Cloak motto.

...

'Put your backs into it, you foal gakkers!' berated Siggurd as the Orks stampeded up the glacis of the Persephonian trench line. All along the hundred meter stretch of earthworks Della's platoon manned, the mud plastered sons of Persephony poured indiscriminate fire onto the hulking brutes coming to jump into their trench.

Orks poured around the sandbags and dirt pill boxes, shrugging off the worst of the heavy bolters that had been set in them, and jumped unto terrified guardsmen. The sheer weight of the brutes stomped the soldiers to death and the wide swings of their choppas devastated those unlucky enough to be trapped between the hulking slabs of green flesh.

Siggurd unsheathed his chain sword from his back and yelled as he took a chunk out of a Nobs knee, 'fix bayonets!' Most of the soldiers had not waited for the order to set them on their guns, but they knew it would do them little good.

Unbelievably, the bellowing Nob turned towards the veteran sergeant with half his knee missing and launched himself at him. The leg snapped as the Ork lunged, but the brute didn't waver and soon fell on Siggurd with all its crushing weight. The sergeant, trapped beneath it, held the encased segment of the chain sword across his chest and forced it against his attacker with all his might. Its revving teeth pressed into the Ork's throat, who aimed to savage the guardsman with its tusks, and shredded the thick packed muscle until finally jamming against the creature's spine.

Despite the grievous wound, the veteran had to struggle under the beast the precious long seconds it took for the Nob to bleed out, for it stubbornly tried to bite his head off the entire time.

Everywhere along the trench, guardsmen were fighting for their lives and good men were being torn apart by the handful of Orks that had made it to the trench. An explosion rocked Siggurd as he slipped out from under the Nob's dead weight; the neighboring pill box had just been reduced to a pile of flak board and mud by a stikk bomb.

Debris showered down on the blood soaked sergeant as he rallied men to fight the brutes. Standing along the lip of the trench on the imperial side, he saw Commissar Carver striding purposefully whilst shooting into the depression. He walked with purpose and confidence, armored in his contempt, into the jaws of horror and madness, untouched and unaffected.

Effortlessly switching his aim between the Orks and the guardsmen, some of which were climbing out of the trench to escape the slaughter, the commissar reaped a hefty toll on all those he deemed blasphemous in the eyes of the Emperor.

A barbarous Nob, easily three times the size and girth of the slender political officer, swung himself up from the lip of the trench and howled. Its massive two handed axe weighty enough to knock a chimera on its side. With an economy of motion which left any error a fatal mistake, Carver pivoted out of the way of the swinging Ork and let a burst from his bolt pistol detonate up the creatures back. It cried out in anger and pain, turning to spray froth and slobber over the Commissar's great coat.

The battle raged on around the pair. Man and Ork taking each other's life in close quarter combat. The guardsmen, miraculously, began to overpower the Nobs. They struck and stabbed at the great brutes with their bayonets, desperation lending them courage and strength. From above the trench line, within it, and even amongst their duckboards, the guardsmen knifed at the Orks as a swarm. The Nob facing Carver bent low and adopted a simian hold over his axe, the chunks ripped from his back seeming to have slowed it not one bit.

Despite the frightening countenance of the Ork, Carver felt nothing but cold hatred and righteous indignation at the beast's existence. Releasing his pistol's sickle magazine and slamming in a new one, he drew his saber from the scabbard at his waist.

The Ork relished the thought of a worthy foe and ignored the last of his kind as they died in the trenches. The guardsmen secured their positions as the two opponents faced off.

Veteran sergeant Siggurd looked on, but wasn't sure which one he hope would win.

...

The Pangean sentinels crouched along the northern ridge. In spite of the raging battle being waged above them, Ri'zal and his hunter-killer company hadn't received the word to attack. It didn't sit well with the death worlder, not one bit.

Despite their depleted numbers, the twelve sentinels were armed with an array of deadly weapons, which combined with their speed and all terrain capabilities, meant they could reach any point of the battle field and unleash a hell of las cannons, auto cannons, and krak missiles on their target.

All they needed was the word. 'Ya hear it S'ui?' asked Ri'zal to his squadron. A throng of negative sounded colorfully back. 'Ya, I no like it none. Boss Ork must be da. Must be. Hey S'ui, you hear' thing yet?'

The pilots answered back irritably. 'Shut up Ri, you bitch mo'tan my wife!' said one of his squadron sergeant, Tak'Ben'Lo. The captain laughed along with the rest of his men. Were it any other regiment, the sergeant would have been shot for that kind of talk. But the Pangeans were a mouthy bunch. It was a seen as strength of will, essential in a fight, and so necessary to survival on Pangea.

'Lo'pa eng'ju' swore Ri'zal. 'This fight be over' fore we start it.' He fiddled with his vox unit in his sentinel then made up his find. 'Ok S'ui, I hear da sign. Get ready to light it up!'

'Ahhhh… I no hear nothing Cap' said Fu'Shen one of his squad mates.

'Well I did,' insisted Ri'zal. 'Now, light up ya bird and let go!'

A chorus of ascent garbled over the vox. The Pangeans had waited long enough.

...

Prizler smiled as he brought down his night vision scope, 'the Emperor provides.' All thoughts of stealth had been left behind as the Orks had gone to war. None would be looking so far behind them.

Prizler's scouts had found a strangely layered slab of sediments that had formed a canted slate. It stood nearly thirty meters high and almost looked like stairs set for a giants. All around it the lay of the land remained flat but this piece of curious geology had broken with the trend. Even better, it allowed for prime cover for long distance observation. Exactly what the Galvan had needed. It was almost too lucky of a break to be true but Prizler wasn't about to spit on the Emperor's magnanimity.

The scouts disappeared in its surroundings to secure the perimeter and Prizler climbed to the top with his sergeant. No sane junior officer would ignore the counsel of his veteran and Nathaniel Chorus was an expert. The rugged man might as well have been birthed by the rock of Galva itself, for all his natural talent.

'What do you see Nate?' asked Prizler as he dropped to his stomach on the lip of the sediment slab with his sergeant.

'I see lots of greenskin asses,' answered Sergeant Chorus. 'But not the one we're looking for.' Nate was good at getting a grasp of any situation instantly. It took the lieutenant nearly a minute to come to the same conclusion.

'The war chief should be with the rearguard if the last months' assaults are anything to go by. At least that's why we never got a good look at it, right?' Prizler was beginning to doubt the logic that had seemed so solid at the mission briefing. Something was very wrong here.

Chorus groaned at his side. The lieutenant had come to recognize it as the sound of things going downhill. Reluctantly, he traversed his rifle's scope in the direction the sergeant was surveying.

'He wasn't in the rear guard sir, he wasn't there at all.' The sergeant said.

A massive construction of metal plates and belching black clouds was coming from the west. It was escorted by a fleet of wartrukks, bykes, as well as some looted tanks. The rumbling machine at its center was chewing up the wasteland with massive threads interspersed with impossibly thick wheels. It stood ten meters high and twice that in length, judging from the scale of the tanks rumbling at its side, and was festooned with fangs and Orkish totems of scavenged metals. Three rickety towers rose from its hull and sported spiked crow's nest with large multi barreled guns manned by grim looking gretchin. Series of launch tubes were spread across its thick rivet spammed hull. But all this paled in comparison to the monumental battle cannon that jutted out of its chassis.

'He was building himself a siege breaker,' understanding finally dawning on Prizler. 'Emperor preserve us' he whispered. 'Get the vox Nate, the word is "Granite."

...

Ri'zal and his S'ui were striding along the wasteland as fast as their birds would let them. Luckily for the base, they were already half way to their target's vicinity when they had received the operational sign of 'Granite'. The fact they had broken with orders didn't need to be shared with command.

The company travelled in a long tailed wedge which gave them suitable support for the head squadrons and concealed the rest of the number in their dust wake. It was a good way of covering ground and surprising your enemies, a tactic the greenskins didn't care for. Their forces could easily be spotted from where Ri'zal and his S'ui were, striding at a distance along their flanks.

The Pangean captain was watching the hard returns on his auspex and frowned. The Orks had a large number of outriders. Like a swarm of Pangean Ung'K gnats, they would harass his sentinels if they went in to strike the target, that gargantuan rolling steel heap. Sentinels were light weight chassis on two reversed joint mechanical legs. That made them little more than fast moving, lightly armored, canon carriage. If they wanted to hit the looted tanks and survive, they were going to need speed, and surprise those outriders before they messed it all up.

Ri'zal picked up his vox set transceiver. 'Ey ya, Lieutenant scout mein, yu'da?' the sentinel pilot waited a few seconds and tried again.

The vox screeched into life inside the noisy pilot compartment, 'vox silence was the protocol _chisel,_' came the angry reply of Prizler, using their code name for the operation.

'Ya, ya I know' said Ri'zal dismissingly. 'You need ta draw bykes and buggies to you, then we ambush them, then we go for big green boss, okay mein?'

'No go _chisel_, not the game plan. I repeat, negative _chisel._' The lieutenant of the scout seemed about to bite his tongue off at the suggestion.

'Ok mein, we go to you,' Ri'zal switched channel and said, 'Tak, you find signal?'

'Sure cap, gimme minute,' answered Sergeant Tak'Ben'Lo.

Ri'zal switched back to the emergency frequency they had been given for the Galvan scouts and caught the tail end of an angry retort.

'You sump sucker! I'm going to report you, _Prospector_ out and returning to vox silence,' snapped lieutenant Prizler.

Ri'zal shrugged and waited for the coordinates he knew Tak would have for him. It wasn't the first time the Pangean's had ruffled feathers in this war and it wouldn't be the last. They had a no nonsense approach to life that only cared about two things, being strong and dreaming hard.

Within moments the entire company of sentinels turned south towards a strangely uniform rock outcropping that looked like layered slabs of stone. Ri'zal knew very well that it would attract the greenskins to their position and the scouts would have to join in the fight. He needed to, if they were going to pierce the screen of outriders. The job had to be done, and they would do it no matter the cost.

The captain smiled crookedly as he started seeing part of the Ork cloud detach and head their way. No sooner had they done so that long fingers of las fire speared out from the slabs of stone towards the outriders.

Despite the great dust cloud obscuring part of the Ork vehicles, masterful shots took out riders and the greenskins manning large dakkaguns bolted to the buggies' frames. Already, a great number of the faster and more agile Ork outriders had been picked off as the sentinels split to either side of the rock, like water parting fluidly around an immovable object, and unleashed the devastating firepower of their hunter-killer sentinels.

Ri'zal laughed loudly as he heard a lasbolt spank off the back of his compartment. It had been aimed at the thickest part of his compartment's armor and was clearly meant as a message. Ri'zal found himself liking these Galvans more by the minute.

The Orks had clearly been caught by surprise, dozens of their vehicles becoming burning wrecks in the opening moments of the sentinel's charge. Heavy caliber rounds chewed the fast attack vehicles along their flanks and legs. Two birds blinked out of existence on Ri'zal's auspex, from Tak's squadron, and others reported light damage.

A profusely smoking rocket flew at Fu'shen on Ri'zal's left flank and miraculously deflected off the pilot's compartment. Fu swore as he registered the danger a second before, his cockpit swiveling on its axis in just the right way to save his life.

Another of his men climbed along the slab rock and skillfully launched his sentinel into the air, dropping on an Ork buggy that was rigged with a heavy scorcha. It had been bathing the scouts, who were scrambling up the rock formation to escape the blaze, and burning them alive. The sentinel seamed to pitch forward awkwardly before regaining its balance, then lifted a leg to stomp the buggy again for good measure.

Las canon burned actinic lines across the flat wasteland and auto cannon stitched bloody trails along dismounting greenskins. They made smoldering carcasses of buggies in short order. One sentinel was chasing a group of Ork bikers around with its heavy flamer, spraying tongues of fire thirty meters long, and Ri'zal was reminded of how much Fo'um liked to play with his prey.

The skirmish was over in minutes and the Orks had clearly suffered the worst of it. Ri'zal didn't know how the scouts had fared but he was 3 birds down and half of the remaining sentinels had suffered light or superficial damage. The Orks however, has lost well over two dozen vehicles, which now left an entire flank of the monstrous Ork siege breaker exposed.

Ri'zal spared a moment to pop the hatch atop his bird and look up the rock formation at a clearly pissed off scout officer and his sergeant. 'I know you report me mein. I get it. I sorry for this, very sad dat ya mein dead. But I wanted to say, thank ya mein, hope your S'ui wake up strong with da Emperor.'

The Galvan was clearly torn between shooting the Pangean captain in the face and cussing him out. Instead, Prizler pointed to the siege breaker, 'My men died for your shot, make it count.'

With a nod Ri'zal returned to his seat and closed the hatch. He opened his dream box, the metal casing that hung around every Pangean's neck and snorted a pinch of its content. Feeling the dream come on him, he placed his hands on the throttle and stick, and ordered all speed ahead.

...

The sun rose on Thunder Ridge, if anything like that could be said of a world wrapped in clouds of orbiting gasses, which dissipated all light into a reflection of the ruddy soil. Today however, the soil was awash with a very different kind of red.

This last Ork advance had cost them everything. Well over half of the large Ranok battalion was no longer combat effective, or simply dead. The lower half of the slope was a mess of caved in trenches and gouged out craters. Fires still burned as they fed on the corpses of both Ork and Imperial dead.

The dug in chimeras had fared rather well but without the redoubts and pill boxes, which had all but been destroyed, they served little purpose in a viable defense. Because their fuel had been used up for other necessary logistical reasons, less than a quarter could actually be moved. What little defenses could be rebuilt, was done with the chimeras staying in place instead.

There were no more reasons to bring the wounded up to the plateau. Too many would never have survived being moved and too few remained able to move them anyway. The medicae and auxilia were spread across the wrecked battle field and did what little they could. After their cognomen tags were taken, the dead were separated from the living and thrown into burning pyres.

Guardsmen littered the grounds or sat by their dying squad mates. Defeat hung in the air; they all knew they would not survive another attack. The priests wandered the fields granting rites of passing and taking confessions. Even Commissar Carver and his juniors knew this, what would have once been grounds for summary execution was simply left unpunished. There wasn't enough bolt rounds to get the job done anyway. So Carver made his way to the command bunker, such as it was, where he could still do his duty while the other commissars spread across the battle field, looking out to the west with weapons in hand, refusing to die cowed.

Even as the last of the Ork horde broke and ran, it was clear that the devastation wrought upon the meek Persephonian battalion was enough to neuter them. Of the three companies sent to support the Rank 568th, a pitiful amount still stood standing. A third at best, the numbers reported to command had claimed. The spirited sons of Persephony no longer hid in their trenches. As the light spread up the slope to the ridge's plateau, it revealed a line of pristine persephonian blue.

The men and women of the surviving companies were in their parade best, which they always carried in sealed plastek bags in their kit, as befitting a force from an aristocratic world. White hats with sharp black visors and gold trimmings contrasted the light blue of their frogged jackets. High collars trimmed with more gold and bearing the pins and pips denoting house service, social class, and occupations, shone brilliantly despite the hazy sunlight. White gloved hands held polished lasguns at the shoulder. Junior officers with exquisitely weaved epaulettes, their service braid looping down from their left, stood amongst their ranks. Even Siggurd's mutilated face was somewhat mitigated by the splendor of his uniform. Only the captains were missing, having been summoned to the command bunker

Colonel Petra's heart sank as he saw how few of his senior officers were left alive. Of the ten he had chosen for this mission only four remained. Their lost was keenly felt and he blamed himself for the toll in human life this debacle had cost. He should have known something was off the minute general von Richter had asked him to personally lead the forces to attack. Supposedly, to establish a forward firing base at Thunder Ridge.

Everything about the pompous aristocrat rubbed him the wrong way. From the cheroot and brandy he passed along at strategy meetings, to the flaky fresh cream laced pastries he always served. Well maybe not the pastries, he had liked those. Damn it all.

The three Persephonian captains were present, along with the support staff from the Commissariat and Ministorum. They had changed into their finest, except for that Rommer fellow, who either didn't care about how he went about or simply didn't grasped that they were all dead.

The stoic Macharian 'Death Wing' platoon had equally been devastated, their lieutenant, a man Petra had hardly spoken to and whose name he could not remember, had died a week ago. In every engagement the storm troopers had hunted and killed the fiercest Ork on the battlefield, hoping it was the war boss. It had been costly to their numbers and had turned the assaults around as surely as a titan would have, but it had never defeated the horde. Now only sergeant Ceryl and a dozen of them remained, all here to protect this last useless meeting from attack.

This latest reprieve from the Orks would not last. It could not, because he knew very well from the report he had received from the Galvan scouts and the Pangean hunter-killers, what was coming their way.

His men looked to him, some with the haunted eyes of dead men, others smoldering with defiance, but none bore hope. The air of the command bunker reeked with desperation and Petra wondered if some of it was his.

Ranok was a world plagued by great tremors. Despite this, the temerity of its people had allowed for the erecting of great hive cities whose foundation swayed and absorbed the worst of the quakes. Those miracles were from a bygone age and the cult Mechanicus slaved over them in adoration, but even they could not hope to completely understand the mechanism they tended. So ancient were they, that when they failed, great swath of the hives crumbled onto themselves. Especially those along the edges of the hives where the poor and downtrodden lived, those places had long ago become half rubble warrens and earthworks serving to shore up stout buildings.

When the great quakes hit and the hives became dust clogged tombs, the people of Ranok took pick and shovel in hand, and set their grit masks stoically. Even the predatory gangs stopped their warring and set the iron to the soil. No man worth his salt had not dug out a hundred dead, searching for that one living soul. When the worst disasters hit, the people of Ranok showed just how their ancestor's temerity lived on in them. They dug and rebuilt, together.

Petra was going to be damned if he was going to give in to the weighty sentence over his head.

'I won't pretend everything is going to plan,' Petra said. He straightened himself to his full height and filled his voice with every shred of stubbornness he had. 'We have an Ork monstrosity coming our way. It's got long range capability and it's on the move. That means we can't spare the last few earth shaker shells we have trying to figure out where it is.'

The Ranok officers were already trying to figure out what kind of defense work could be put up before realizing, as Colonel Petra already had, that staying in a static position was going to be the death of them. Those however, were the general's orders.

'We can sally forth' offered captain Van Helger, realizing the same peril they were in. 'It's not much but the Persephonian 1st can move out and fight their way to the target and relay the position. Personally I wouldn't mind seeing how far I can shove my metal foot up their leader's posterior.'

Captain Rommer practically exploded, 'That's suicide van Helger, have you lost your mind?' Rommer looked to De la Croix for support and scoffed as the inebriated officer shrugged non-plussed.

'We should send word to his Lordship and request evacuation, or reinforcements!' said Rommer. He was met with Petra's contempt.

'We have already sent word to general von Richter you idiot! What do you take us for, fools?'

Rommer stammered at being addressed this way, 'how dare you speak to a nobleman like this? You're only Colonel because your filthy hovel of a world has billions of dirt shovelers to offer the Emperor. There is no quality to your quantity!'

The Persephonian captain seemed too angered to notice the bulk of the room focusing their ire on him. Petra crossed his arms over his chest, most of his officers followed suit.

'Allow me to litigate,' the suggestion offered from the bunker's shadow. A sliver of the darkness seamed to split from the whole as commissar Carver stepped under the light of the central tactica station, between the Ranok officers and Rommer. As tense as the air was within the rockrete confines of the bunker, the presence of the infamous commissar cut through it and drew everyone's attention.

'Colonel Petra,' offered Carver as he tipped his peaked hat's visor forward over his eyes in way of greeting. He turned to the Persephonian officer, 'Captain Rommer,' he paused to let the threat in his voice sink.

'Over the course of the last 81 days of operation I have carefully balanced the scales of punishment and inspiration to keep this fighting force at its peak,' explained Carver as he undid the golden clasps holding his great coat closed. He made a show of revealing the intricate frogging of his uniform, decorated with sparkling medals, and tucked his thumbs into the red sash at his waist.

Carver panned his invisible gaze over the officers of the room. 'I must say that I am impressed by the stalwart dedication of the Ranok 568th and the skill of the Persephonian 1st. Some elements work better than others, however. As the eleventh hour fall upon us, I find the scales of my balance have tipped.

The tension in the room melted and was replaced by confusion at this seemingly polite proceeding. Especially at such a critical juncture in time.

Carver offered respectful nods to the storm troopers that manned the command center of the bunker, an unspoken agreement passing between those who had trained under the auspice of the Imperium's many schola progenium. Carver rested a hand on his bolt pistol and he turned towards Rommer slowly, his leather great coat creaking impossibly loud in a roomed filled with breathless men.

Rommer blinked uncomfortably and licked his dry lips.

'You disgust me Harold,' said the commissar with such vehemence it took the captain by surprised. What had he done to merit such hate from the commissar, was he not a reputable commander from a distinguished lineage? Had his men not performed with skill?

'And I am finally convinced that you are little more than an empty uniform,' carver's voice rose incrementally as he continued speaking. 'I have not seen you once unsheathe your sword. Not once have you shot your pistol in anger at the xenos at our door. You spent more time inside your chimera than with your men, setting the example an Imperial officer should. You lead from the back Rommer, so far back you can't even see the blood your men are paying in service to the Emperor.'

Rommer began to argue but stilled his tongue as Craver quickly drew his bolt pistol from its holster and held it uncomfortably close to his face.

'And now you suggest retreat? You haven't even shed a single drop of blood, and you talk down to a man, a superior officer, who has been seriously wounded four times in defense of this base. Oh yes Rommer, I check the medicae reports. I know how painful this operation has been for you, what with that rash you so obstinately asked ointment for. A rash every single soldier on this dust ball has been silently bearing since the first day they set foot on Kursk!'

The righteous Commissar yanked at his collar, showing the angry welt that spread across his neck, a painful but all together harmless affliction common to worlds with such fine particulate.

'You're behavior is cowardly, your methods shameful, your outburst insubordinate, and now, your judgment has come.'

Rommer opened his mouth again to voice his outrage, and carver shot him through it.

The portly officer hit the floor in a splatter as his headless corpse pumped pooling blood around the truncated neck. With little more thought on the subject, Carver holstered his weapon and turned to Petra to apologize for the mess, and asked him to continue the briefing. Knowing he was no longer needed, he turned to leave with the two storm troopers who dragged the body out of the room.

'I suggest you get Rommer's senior officer to take command. A blond woman, I believe?' asked Carver in passing. Van Helger and De la Croix, shocked by the execution of their fellow, nodded their heads. Raising a finger, as if to ask permission to speak, De la Croix offered, 'Lieutenant Della, I believe.'

Commissar Carver hid his smile.' Yes, Della, I approve. That one has fire,' said the executioner knowingly as he left the senior staff to continue their planning.


	13. chapter 10

10.

His dreaming was coming to an end. Ri'zal didn't mind though. With only 3 squadrons left to his company, he could think of far more shameful ways to meet the great warrior when he would wake to fight at his side.

They came low and fast across the weakened flank of the great Ork machine, just as he had promised the Galvan scout. At first the Orks didn't react and Ri'zal laughed it up with his S'ui. The greenskins probably thought it was their own coming back. That only made the order to attack that much sweeter when he gave it.

The sentinels spread out and released all the fury their mechanical mounts had in them. Three Ork laden war trukk exploded as white-blue lascanon blasts took them and ignited their fuel containers; Blitzer squadron had drawn first blood. The flaming greenskins were still falling from the skies when Ripper squadron, mounting auto canon, broke off and stitched angry lines of fire across the looted tanks.

The clunky tanks kept rolling on but swung their battle canons towards their rears, where the sentinels were drawing their fire away from their recharging squadron mates. On their own, Ripper had scored a few incapacitating hits on the ramshackle tanks but most of the damage delt was to redundant Orkish 'upgrades,' such as toothed track guards and excessively decorated totem poles.

But Ripper squadron weren't on their own. The looted tanks' canons thundered loudly and a sentinel from Ripper squadron disintegrated in a shower of smoking wreckage. Seconds later the Pangeans had avenged that loss as Blitzer squadron speared the distracted tanks with high powered beams of las fire, blowing one's turret straight off and wrecking a second's left tracks. The last tank of the flank guard simply swerved away from the siege breaker and rolled on into the wasteland, its driver incinerated by a well placed lascanon shot through the front glacis of the vehicle.

'Tak!' yelled Ri'zal over the vox, trying to cut through the carnage of the battle raging around his bird. 'You have command, I go take big machine out, keep 'em off our backs!'

The screeching vox echoed back with the chugging sound of sergeant Tak'Ben'Lo's auto canon, 'Ya, ok cap't, see you when I wake up. Light it up mein!'

Ri'zal pulled hard on his stick and took his squadron towards the moving monstrosity that was the siege breaker. Pangean's weren't much for sentimentality. Life was just a dream, meant to show the great warrior, the Emperor, their worth. Then, they would awaken at his side and serve him in his great battles. To that end, every Pangean dreamed hard, as they said, and lived at a haggard pace, filled with constant battle and punctuated by periods of intoxicated rest.

Today, Ri'zal knew he and his warriors would soon end their dreaming. He also knew this display would draw the great warrior's attention. None of Ri'zal's S'ui, his squadron brothers, would shed a tear for such a fortuitous waking.

With Fu'shen and Fo'um at his side, he pushed his sentinel to its limits. The squadron cut deftly from side to side to evade the storm of fire the greenskin's were sending their way. The pilots' skills were unmatched as they engaged in a mechanized ballet of evasion and insane maneuvers. The ground at Ri'zal's sentinel's feet exploded as canons mounted on the side of the rolling fortress fired at him. Gretchin sighted the grotesque weapons; beady eyes pressed against telescoping lenses or other visual enhancers. They screeched their instructions to their fellows with mouths filled with needle like teeth.

With an oath to the great warrior, Fo'um banked left, cutting across both Ri and Fu's birds and bathed the side of the siege breaker's metal plated ramparts in a cloud of billowing fire. The thirty meter jet easily reached the lower reaches of the point defenses and fried a host of greenskins instantly.

'Way to lit'em up Fo!' cackled Fu'shen over the vox. Ri'zal agreed but knew how this flamboyant attack would end. Fo'um continued to stride along the behemoth's tall tracks and spread his fire along its flank. In the time honored way of the Pangean hunters, Fo was the torch bearer, walking into the dark jungle and offering his life to its predators so that his fellow hunters could kill the distracted beasts.

A heavy bore weapon found Fo'um's measure and fired. The sentinel swayed as the pilot compartment took a direct hit but Fo steadied his bird quickly. Thick oil smoke poured out of the compartment and the sentinel lost its fluid grace. But continued on in a predictable direction, keeping a steady speed.

Fu'shen offered a quick prayer to his fellow Pangean before maneuvering his sentinel at break neck speed between churning tracks and monster sized steel shod wheels. Ri'zal was close on his tail and as he timed his swift sideways slide under the siege breaker's chassis, he saw Fo'um's hatch pop open.

The scrawny Pangean was waist high out of the hatch, smoke pouring out from beneath him. He aimed his side arm at the greenskins on the ramparts of the siege breaker and shot wildly, refusing to give up on his moment of awakening. He was clearly strung up on combat stims from his dream box, which explained why he was attempting to pilot his bird "monkey style".

All things considered, he was doing well for someone piloting a sentinel with his feet, flames licking up his pilot's compartment, all the while firing his las pistol at the enemy.

Ri'zal smiled at the indomitable spirit of his S'ui. He disappeared under the great engine's belly to wreck some havoc, and lots of it.

...

A pleasant breeze stroked the thin cotton drapes along the veranda. It was one of those rare days when Kursk's orange sky glowed with an almost enjoyable intensity instead of a ruddy red. Von Richter sipped at his recaf while he lounged, reading the morning's reports. He was grateful for the breeze as it made wearing his crisp uniform slightly more tolerable in the beaches' humid heat.

Hendricks appeared at his side with his habitual nervous look. Despite this the general pulled down his tinted glasses and set them on the table beside him where his uneaten morning meal of lavishly garnished bread rolls waited.

'Sir,' attempted the young lieutenant.

Von Richter simply waved him away and took the file, silently perusing its content. It was urgently stamped with all sorts of priority seals from the Ranok colonel, the theater command intelligence desk, and annoyingly, Hendricks' own seal of priority attentiveness. The latter was usually reserved for when an _aide-de-camp_ such as Hendricks was asked to filter the most important reports to be processed by the general. A task von Richter had never asked the young lieutenant to undertake.

'You may go, Hendricks' said the general at the hovering presence. The beautiful morning was beginning to spoil already.

'I believe you will want to issue orders immediately general. If I may sir, I will remain to expedite the process, if you so choose to give them,' said Hendricks tensely.

The general ran his fingers along his carefully groomed goatee before glancing up at the impetuous aid. 'I get the strange feeling you are trying to play the part of commander-in-chief lieutenant, or is it that you believe you know my mind intimately, after only a few months of service as my adjutant?'

'Neither my lord, I... I only though the pressing nature of the report would merit such a response.'

The stately general nodded his head in quiet disapproval and flipped through the report's sheaf of request papers. He scanned them over, back and forth with a practiced ease, and focused on the important elements. This sort of thing came easily to him, who after many campaigns had learned to keep inordinate amounts of factors in mind simultaneously, and juggle their effects on the wider theater of battle.

Von Richter smoothed his hand over the reports, stopping the cool breeze from ruffling the papers before closing the file and handing it over to Hendricks. 'Take this as a lesson lieutenant, you were wrong. No further orders are required. You most likely wasted all those busy scribes' time getting this to my attention.'

'None, sir?' asked Hendricks in disbelief. 'But sir, the soldiers at Thunder Ridge are in dire need of support. They are under supplied once again and facing a greenskin contraption that will spell their deaths.' The young man was struggling to hide his rising dismay. To Hendricks, the general's easy dismissal was appalling. Dedicated servants were dying in the service of the Emperor, and although every guardsman had sworn to do so, surely they did not merit being sacrificed with so callously?

'Yes, lieutenant,' the general sighed. You have made that perfectly clear every time a communiqué from the ridge was sent to headquarters.' Von Richter took a sip of his recaf and grimaced at its tepid flavor, it had lost all its robust body. He set it down gingerly. Yes, this morning had definitely been spoiled.

'With all due respect sir!' interjected Hendricks.

'No Hendricks!' snapped the general, angry at the obtuse nature of his underling. 'I gave in last time and sent them valuable supplies. I made it clear that if those guns couldn't be taken off that ridge, then the resources could not be spared to move the men either.

'Now get the hell out of my sight before I break my promise to old Ravion and send you back to the front with the rest of your insufferable peasants.'

Hendricks staggered, the general's outburst felt like a physical force. Was this why he had been plucked from the ranks to become the general's aide, favoritism and back door dealings in the name of old debts? Was valor and courage worth nothing; did men and women ready to march into the jaws of hell not worthy of assistance, or righteous avenging?

As Hendricks walked back into the luxurious interior of the head quarter's general staff wing, his heart sank into a cold place. Hendricks resolved to find out how the slaughter of nearly two-thousand guardsmen could possibly be excusable. He would find out, and if von Richter's reasons weren't damn good, then he'd make sure their valor was remembered.

...

The strider paced in its pen, his larges nostrils flaring and catching the scent of something unseen. It paced within the confines of its lot nervously, its great dark eyes trying to pierce the gloom of the night until finally it saw what it had sensed. The man walked to it slowly, offering an open palm with a small measure of sweetener in it. Finally, the strider approached the man with the familiar scent home.

Trevin smiled reassuringly as he moved his hands between the bars that kept the majestic mount trapped. As the horse took in his scent and that of his treat, it relaxed and licked at his offering, soon forgetting its apprehension under the soothing caress of its visitor. The animal was a beautiful specimen of its breed and Trevin was instantly filled with affection for the long legged sprinter.

But this wasn't a courtesy call. Trevin had taken a great risk by intruding on the private stable of Colonel Orcha Lazarus, his regimental commander. It was going to be the least of the risks he'd take tonight, but he still took the time to bond with the mount, calming himself and finding peace within the gesture. The great mount's soft brown coat and its large innocent eyes put him immediately at rest, and he recalled his many years of joyful riding back home.

It was a crime to let such a perfect specimen be trapped in a pen awaiting the leisure of his lord Lazarus. No, it deserved to run wild along the plains of this world, even if it was a wasteland. It was in its blood to do so, and in his to do this.

The strider side stepped nervously as a shadow fell down from the stable's rafters, its appearance sudden and silent until now.

'Coast is clear mein, you need go quick' said Bak as he noticed that Trevin had done little so far but exchange looks with the horse. The swarthy death worlder dropped and began to gather the supplies and the saddle Trevin had set down close by.

'You can't just mount a horse without its permission Bak, it's just not done,' said Trevin, obviously enamored by the lean mount.

'Sure yo can, that's why all these tools, ya' countered Bak, his hands filled with the bit, harness, and reins. 'Now git a move on. Coast no stay clear mein.'

The persephonian sergeant sighed knowing his friend was right. He would have to skip the formalities although it felt _wrong_ for him to do so. He opened the pen and guided the horse to a mounting station. With the aid of the short Pangean, he fitted the strider with its saddle and filled its saddle bags with supplies, many of which Bak noted were for the horse more than Trevin.

'Yo need mo water, forget them bags of grain, mein' urged Bak.

Trevin shook his head, 'I'll be fine Bak, but striders burn their energy quick, if he doesn't eat well he won't even get me to the cliffs. Trust me I know what I'm doing.'

Bak didn't know why Trevin was going through all the trouble of getting this horse. If he had decided to go A.W.O.L to join his unit, he could have at least stolen a motor bike or something. Persies and their horses, thought Bak, now _that_'s weird.

Trevin nearly had the animal ready when Bak crouched by the open stable doors to keep an eye out. As his friend brought the giant horse to the exit, the Pangean slipped beneath it and to Trevin's side, spooking it once again.

'Listen mein, you good guy, too tall and too soft, but good guy. Here,' Bak reached down to his thigh and untied his _Danh Dau_, the colorful tribal scarf that told Pangeans which tribe and family's dream they shared, it was a touching gesture. 'Wear it here,' he attached it to the straps of Trevin's kit, tucked beside his back pack, a few knots kept it from floating about.

'Now you honorary Ung family' said Bak with a proud nod.

'Ung?' asked Trevin as he hauled himself up the side of the horse with a leap, 'I thought Bak was your family name?'

'Nah, family first then home name, and then tribe, me am Ung'Bak'Pa and now you are Ung'Gus' Trevin. I know, stupid name but that's what Pangean call you now... you should drop Trevin, too silly, sounds weird.' Bak smiled crookedly as mischief twinkled in his eyes. 'Now go before battle over and you no wake with your S'ui.'

Sergeant Augustus Trevin nodded as formally as he could and exchanged a salute with a man whose friendship was incredibly recent, but deeply genuine. With a gentle nudge of his heels, Trevin set off into the night.

...

Trevin guided the long strider to the first of the check point out of the HQ sector. The guardsmen manning the small gate house couldn't help but share a surprised look as he trotted to their station. The Persephonian raised a hand in salute and pulled the strider to a halt, its hooves clattering to a stop before the flabbergasted Ranok guard at the level crossing.

Trevin offered the man a charming smile.

Finally the man managed to find the words he had been trained to say, 'Orders and destination.'

Trevin shrugged, his las rifle moving along with his gesture, he desperately hoped he wouldn't need it. 'No can do guardsmen, it's all on the hush-hush. That's why I was given the colonel's horse you see, fast and quiet with no need for requisition forms.'

The Ranok guardsmen looked a bit confused but seemed to eye the stripes on Trevin's arm. 'Well I'm at least going to need your name and cognomen id number then, sergeant.'

'Not a problem soldier,' said Trevin as he gave him his rank and serial number. 'Just between you and me trooper...' he leaned in conspiratorially and paused long enough to let the man offer his name.

'Marosh, sergeant Trevin' said the trooper.

'Marosh, strong Ranok name that, I'll be crossing path with Colonel Petra, if you know what I mean?'

The trooper's eyes searched his face for a moment then widened with comprehension.

'Right,' said Trevin knowing they were on the same page. 'Anything you want me to extend to your boys?' The desire to be with his brethren was plain to see on trooper Marosh's face and Trevin knew he would be able to pass this check point, and the others after that, with a little help from his new friend.

'Iva Tavko, if you see Iva, please tell her that I meant what I said. She will know what it means, sergeant.' The man's craggy face suggested a simple and brutal soul, but in his eyes shone such a passionate fire, that when he spoke, Trevin almost felt guilty for using him. He decided he would find this Tavko, for this lover in ogre's clothing, when and if he reached the ridge.

With a shared nod of understanding Marosh waved his partner to open the level crossing gate. The length of white and red stripped metal rose high into the air and Trevin was about to urge the strider onwards when a commanding voice boomed behind him.

'Hold that gate!' said a mustachioed Ranok officer as he marched to the gate house. As he stepped into the light of the gatehouse perimeter the guardsmen snapped at attention and saluted the man with all the sharpness of a mining pick hitting granite.

The man bore the insignia of a captain on his collar and assessed both his men, and Trevin, with the intensity of a prospector sluicing for gold.

'What in the name of the great quakes is going on here, Marosh?' growled the officer as he rested his hand on a heavy ended sword. 'Close that gate right now!'

'Sir! Sergeant Trevin of the Persephonian's 3rd company is requesting passage stating important business, sir!' said Marosh with all the rigidity of a statue.

'Is that so?' the officer's tone made it clear he didn't believe a word of it. He stood by the massive flanks of the strider and looked up at Trevin while trooper Marosh sweated bullets beside him.

'Orders and destination sergeant, and make it quick!' snapped the captain as he beckoned with an impatient hand.'

Trevin swallowed hard, his little story was full of holes and his rank wouldn't help anymore. With every inch the level crossing depressed he could feel his panic rising. The rank and file was people he could relate to, and despite his noble origins, the Ranok officers were not that kind of people. It seemed his little attempt was going to end quicker than he had expected.

'Sir!' offered trooper Marosh with a nervous quiver. 'Sergeant Trevin has not been issued papers as he is bound for a special destination.'

"What?' grunted the Ranok captain, 'and you believed that? You're a lot dumber then you look Marosh and that's saying a lot. Now shut up, I asked him, not you.' The burly captain drew a powerful looking las pistol and aimed it square at Trevin's face, who struggled to keep the strider put, frightened from all the sudden aggression.

'You have 5 seconds to explain yourself before I shoot you, sergeant, 1...2...'

Trevin was caught flat footed at the business end of the Ranok's gun and couldn't come up with a good lie, Jensen would have had one by now, he wasted time thinking.

'3...4...' continued the officer.

'I'm going to Thunder Ridge to find my unit,' blubbered Trevin impulsively. His breath caught in his throat as he raised his hands up, his posture begging not to be shot.

The captain frowned, but stopped counting. 'Why?'

'Why?' repeated Trevin still reeling from the countdown.

'Don't waste my time,' snapped the captain.

'Because they're going to die!' answered Trevin honestly.

'You sure you're not just deserting?' asked the Ranok officer, his pistol lowering slightly.

'Desert to where? The planet is filthy with Orks, no, I'm not deserting. Listen, they were sent to the ridge and it's been months, word gets around camp and I'm sure you've heard. No one is being mobilized to help them, they're not going to last,' pleaded Trevin with the officer.

The captain took a moment to search Trevin's face for deceit, and finally nodded solemnly. The electrical buzz of the lumen poles filled the night air before the Ranok unclipped his sword from his waist and offered it to Trevin.

'We have a saying on Ranok,' said the man holding Trevin's gaze with the weight of his belief. 'When the sky falls, we are all one.'

Trevin didn't know what to answer but he knew the intent of the words. Solidarity in the face of a certain end, and he understood why the captain was letting him go. 'I'll make sure this is used in the service of your kin captain, and Colonel Petra will know of your words.'

Trevin clipped the sword to his belt and dug his heels in the strider's flanks to set off at a gallop. He looked over his shoulder at the two soldiers by the gatehouse and yelled back, ' and I'll find Iva, don't worry Marosh!'

The captain crossed his arms over his chest and turned to the trooper at his side, 'Iva, huh?'

Marosh grinned with all the awkwardness of a sheep confronted with a wolf.

'Send word ahead, that a rider will be passing check point Secondus and Tertius, he is not to be delayed.'

'Yes, captain Tavko, immediately sir!' said Marosh as he hurried to the land line vox in the gatehouse, relieved to slip out of the captain's burrowing gaze.


	14. Chapter 11

11.

Daybreak was minutes away, or what passed for a sunrise on Kursk. Prizler crawled slowly in the penumbra towards the looted tank parked a handful of meters away. The siege breaker had stalled, against all hope the Pangeans had succeeded in damaging the monumental engine. The rush of endorphins that had flooded through him when the contraption had stuttered to a stop had quickly died out. He remembered gripping his long las as his heart pumped madly in his chest ,but no matter how long he paned his rifle sight along the Ork machine, he couldn't see any of the Sentinels lopping away.

The Pangean really _had_ died trying.

Despite their earlier clash about putting his scouts in danger, he certainly could not hold it against the Pangean captain now. The valorous charge and impossible success of his peer had set him on this present course. He breathed slowly, making sure not to disturbed the reddish dust on the ground as he inched his way closer to cover. It would take him and his men out of the open and one step closer to their true objective.

Knowing his platoon sergeant was dozens of meters behind him with another squad of dispersed scouts reassured the lieutenant, but it didn't make this operation any less suicidal. The last of his men were spread out along dry scrubs and wasteland depressions, which hid their approach to the Ork's giant moving fortress. As if that wasn't hard enough, Prizler and his men needed to slowly infiltrating the picket lines left by the Orks camping around the behemoth.

When it became evident the Mek boy's siege breaker wouldn't start any time soon, the orkish escort had gathered around it to break camp. The Orks seemed unconcerned of their vulnerability out in the open, and the scouts watched as they made fires to gather around. The Orks sat there, drinking out of large metal canisters decorated with tribal glyphs.

Him on Terra had blessed the galvans with an opportunity to sabotage the great construct before it took its toll on imperial lives.

Prizler froze as he heard a grot clamber up the side of a tank and squabble with its kind. It was right on top of him. It wouldn't take much to notice him beside the tank's tracks. The long coat camouflage netting was useful at a distance, but up close, it wouldn't stand up to even the most casual of glances.

With an agonizingly slow hand signal, he halted his squad's approach and crawled to the enemy engine at a glacial pace. The grot seemed unhappy with its lot and paced along the hull of the tank, whining bitterly at having been pushed from the fires to stare into the nothingness of the horizon.

Prizler dared a glance at his squad, taking a few seconds to spot each one. He was proud of them, virtually ghosts one and all. Nodding and signaling silently, he let them know what he was about to do. He saw the slow movements of his men as they unsheathed their blades for some wet work. When he was assured they were ready, he moved.

He reared up suddenly and grabbed the grot by the foot to drag him off the tank. His men surged forward to reach the cover of the vehicle. As the yelping greenskin lost its head to Prizler's war blade, his men crawled under the tank, unlimbered their pistols and preparing themselves to eliminate any enemy unfortunate enough to have heard the dying grot.

The grot's partner, an equally vicious looking dagger eared greenskin, hissed unintelligently as he rounded the tank to see what had happened. It was dragged to the ground and stabbed repetitively by two scouts, who made sure it had a mouthful of dirt to stifle any further complication.

So far so good, thought the lieutenant. He signaled Sergeant Chorus' squad to move up to their second position. It would take long few minutes, but at such a precarious stage it wouldn't do to rush, even if the day's muddled light was making its first appearance.

If they could make it silently to the enemy construct, past the parked war trukks, bykes, and buggies, they had a real chance of destroying this beast. A few well placed demolition charges would do wonders to the ammunition stores of that monstrous cannon. At least that was the plan. Then they could exfiltrate and break radio silence to call in some kind of support, or even long range shelling. If they were lucky, they could even manage to disable a few of those tanks and even out the odds.

He saw Chorus take out a few more gretchin sentries with his squad and thanked the emperor the Orks were too lazy to man their own perimeter. A grot was a spindly looking malnourished child at the best of times, stinking and baring those needle like teeth at everything around it. They were faster and smarter than their bigger cousin but a few stiff thrusts of a good knife could silence them. That would never do with even the smallest of Orks.

Sergeant Chorus sent him the all clear sign and Prizler moved into the receding shadows. He and his men ghosted from cover to cover, often time coming within meters of loudly grumbling Orks and their promethium distilled rot gut. Another twenty minutes saw them ducking under the siege breaker's hull to escape the touch of the morning light. They had set a dozen charges strategically along the way without firing a single round, or even eliciting an alarm.

He sighed in relief as the last of his men made it into cover before sending them in search of an entry point. Prizler signed Chorus over, and they both took a knee while they conferred in hushed tones.

'Well done Nate, by the book and in record time. These greenskins are going to have a hell of a surprise,' said Prizler. His friend smiled as he imagined the explosions ripping along the camp.

'Now for the hard part,' Chorus boasted. A soldier dropped by the pair and interrupted them.

'Lt, you're going to want to see this,' scout Uriah's tone was heavy with reverence.

Prizler and Chorus followed the scout as he brought then to the wreckage of a sentinel, long scavenged for all it's worth. Although there was plenty of room under the chassis of the siege engine, the scouts moved at a crouch and took advantage of the deepest shadows offered by the nightmarish construct.

Pistons, hydraulics, wires, and all manner of auspex and gears had been cannibalized from the sentinel, leaving only the shell of the pilot's compartment behind. It wasn't empty. A dozen meters away, Prizler could see the same scene played over as more of his scouts investigated a second wreck.

There wasn't much to say. He leaned in and searched for the Pangean's cognomen tags. They normally would have been around his neck but it looked like the Orks had managed to shoot the legs out of this sentinel, allowing them to rip their way inside and hack the soldier to pieces. Finally, after holding back the urge to purge his stomach from the sight and smell of heat ripened flesh, he found the man's tag and used his thumb to clear the smears of dried blood.

'Captain Ri'Zal'Om'Pa, Emperor keep you.'

Finishing the silent prayer he turned to his men, spread out under the hull, and signaled them to split into four teams, find an entry, and set charges on targets of opportunity. Then he turned to his veteran sergeant.

'Alright Nate, take care and get it done. Whatever happens regroup at the perching rock and move out with or without me by,' he looked at his blackened chrono, '0600, understood?'

The sergeant nodded, '_the 5th finds the way._'

'Yes it does,' Prizler tapped Chronus on the shoulder and parted ways to climb up a massive track. He kept to the inside of the immobile metal thread using the supporting parts of the locomotive system to aid him. He finally reached the upper part and swung himself on its outside to stealthily use it to climb the last two meters to the gangway bolted under the chassis for emergency maintenance. It was gretchin size and Prizler crawled along the 4 feet gab between the gangway and the hull to an access hatch.

He had a feelings things weren't going get much roomier than this.

...

The perpetual hazy sky of Kursk loomed over the marching soldier like the mirage of a sunrise. Its light, filtered through the gaseous nebula above them, cast everything around them in a surreal orange light which melted with the ruddy vermilion colors of soil along the horizon. The wasteland was occasionally broken up by outcroppings of rocks or shallow dips in the ground, carved by centuries of wistful wind. It was endless, like this march towards certain death, and covered the sky blue uniforms of the guardsmen in a reddish dust.

Still they marched on bravely towards their destiny, with the same discipline they had earned in the Emperor's service. Rommer's 3rd company, now commanded by Lieutenant Della, headed the column with misfit ahead as a vanguard, while De la Croix's 5th held the center and Van Helger's 8th brought up the rear. All told, nearly three hundred men were left from the thousand strong battalion.

Soon, none would remain.

The Emperor demanded sacrifice, and the master of mankind knew well the meaning of such a thing. For near on ten millennia, the Emperor had sat upon the golden throne and guided the brilliant light of the Astronomicon, by which all travel through the warp was possible and the continued existence of humanity assured. It was a harrowing ordeal even for a mind as powerful as that of the God-Emperor. Agonizing, dreadful, eternal, what were three hundred more lives when he had suffered for so long and would continue to do so to keep the forces of darkness from swallowing His mighty empire, this Imperium of Man.

Della reminded herself of this every moment of this suicide mission, but guiltily wished that the Emperor would have seen fit not to have her share her last hours in the company of specialist Savana Zephira.

The two women walked side by side at the head of the 3rd company. They could not have been more different from one another. Della was regal in her parade kit, despite the staining grit that robbed it of its white, gold, and blue, while the other was encased in a carapace of now lusterless black. The storm trooper checked the specialized power attachment hanging from her hell gun, all the way to her backpack. Neither spared a glance at the other.

'Tell me again why of the three storm troopers attached to this little expedition, it's you I have in my company?' asked Della irritably.

'Because I asked for it,' said the storm trooper without breaking stride.

'Are you set on making my life miserable to the extent you risk death to be there when I fall?' grumbled Della.

They two had only ever met during the training exercises required for the assault drop at Thunder Ridge. Zephina had been a relentless bitch to Della's platoon then, and their relationship had immediately turned sour. It had all come ahead on the last day of training when Della had confronted the Macharian storm trooper on the beach and Zephina had made her loathing of Della's breeding and leadership qualities obvious.

'It's not like that at all Lieutenant,' said Zephina, without bothering to explain.

The wind whipped by as it changed direction without warning. It sent Della's long blond braid flailing behind her and Zephina smirked. The storm trooper had shorn hair and even without her helmet she didn't have a problem with the wind.

'I really wonder why you keep your hair at such a ridiculous long length,' Zephina said as she shook her head slowly. When Della had finally wrangled her braid back over her shoulder to rest down her chest plate, she turned to offer the storm trooper a piece of her mind but stopped short when she realized Zephina was being genuine.

'Its...tradition,' answered Della as she increased the pace of her walk to make up the lost time her braid wrangling had cost her.

'That's all?' said Zephina, easily matching the lieutenant's pace.

'What more do you need?' said Della annoyed. 'It's part of who I am, what my home world is like, it gives me something to do on when I'm on leave.' Zephina noticed that Della had started playing with the end of her braid, stroking her fingertips against it without noticing.

'It's just, really not practical,' chuckled the usually hard edge trooper.

'Yeah, it really isn't, and tedious to keep clean with all this red crap flying around,' laughed Della in a rare moment of camaraderie with the cankerous woman. 'So why did you ask to be attached to my command? You didn't say earlier.'

'Oh, that,' mused Zephira.

'Well?' Della refused to let her push it aside. Whatever the reason Zephina had for opening up, Della intended to take advantage of it. If not now, then when?

'I thought I had you figured out on the beach. Had you figured as a prissy Persy who cared more about what she looked like, both as a commander and woman, than the mission. Except I was wrong.'

'Persy?'

Zephina nodded, 'yup, it's what people call you Persephonians, that or S. , but Persy is really the bad one. Effete, some would say.' The trooper rolled her shoulder to ease the tension in it before giving her pack a boost to redistribute its weight.

'You had every right to knock me down and I was waiting for it,' Zephira confessed. 'Your men would have loved you for it too, but you didn't. You walked away and got on with the mission. I respect that.'

Della nodded, remembering that day months ago. 'I just thought you were a colossal bitch, to be honest.'

The women burst out laughing and attracted some curious stares from the soldiers around them.

Della caught Siggurd's eye and sobered up, the veteran's gravitas immediately reminding her to put her war face on. None the less, the mood along the column had eased up a bit. The men from the other platoons didn't know her very well and she reminded herself that her command of the company had come at a horrible cost, despite of what many had thought of captain Rommer. She knew that her peers would hold the line though; Both Wessler and Lomis were good junior officers, just like her. All they needed to do was walk up to a massive war engine and give the basilisk batteries the coordinate. Surviving was the hard part, that and somehow holding it in one place until the hammer dropped. Speaking of which, where was that thing? They should at least have been able to spot it with the long sights by now.

...

Misfit was navigating the shallow dips and low hillocks of the wasteland a few kilometers ahead of their pathetically depleted battalion. Jensen was barely even trying to keep the squad in line at this point; he kept thinking it didn't matter anyway.

Freddy was, as always, at his side and as nervous as a rabbit caught in a snare. The survivors of the unit followed behind in a haphazard line, Corvin plowing forward with his head down and a white knuckle grip on his rifle. Jensen wasn't sure if the trooper was angry at his fate or just aching to shoot something. The heavy weapon gunners closed the rear without as much as a word. This was all that remained of the unit Gus had left, albeit unwillingly, in Jensen's hands.

He couldn't help but feel he had let his friend down. As he climbed up a small hillock, for the hundredth time today, he grudgingly forced his aching limbs to make it to the top. When he finally did, he dropped to his knees, not from despair but rather from ingrained muscle memory hammered into them by Siggurds' training.

Freddy flung himself to the ground in a shocked impulse and Corvin cracked a smile. Down a depression in the lay of the land, was the largest monstrosity any of the guardsmen had ever seen. Misfit snapped back into a disciplined unit and hid their outline against the hill's rounded peek.

The Ork construct rose a dozen of meters in the air, festooned with large metallic fangs and parapets. Massive tracks bore the weight of the siege engine idly as a small force of light vehicles and looted tanks waited at its base. No smoke belched from its high smoke stacks and its massive form rested quietly without power, its engine shut down. Even motionless, the machine appeared to carry its own atmosphere of dread and carnage, as innumerable greenskins crawled over its hull and gangways between its armaments. The greatest of which was the bowel loosening canon protruding from its hull, easily worth a battery or more of Basilisk artillery.

'Well...' sighed Jensen as he flattened himself against the ground and reached over to Freddy's back mounted vox set. 'Explains why we couldn't spot it. Damn wasteland looks flat from afar but it's got more curves than a house matron on a cake binge.'

Freddy nodded emphatically in agreement, his wandering eye slowly pulling away from the other as it was wont to do when he panicked more than usual.

...

'This is it ladies and gentlemen' said Van Helger as he hung up the vox receiver on Honig's back. Della had been angered at her senior's breach of protocol when he had taken up the communication intended for her but now was not the time to debate it.

'Seems your vanguard spotted the beast, Della, and what's more, it's not on the move.'

'Come again?' said Della, surprised.

'I'm as stumped as you lieutenant, no pun intended' said Van Helger as he rapped his knuckles on his metallic leg. 'Whatever the reason, it seems the Emperor has seen fit to give us a bloody break.' The three officers held their own council as the men halted and established perimeters to observe and defend, every guardsmen keeping their head down and adopting a kneeling position to try and limit their exposure.

De la Croix grumbled, worst for ware for his lack of drink and his creeping withdrawal symptoms. He clasped his hands together at his waist to stop them from shaking, but he was only fooling himself if he thought no one had noticed.

'Maybe we should just call it in now and same ourselves a martyrs end?' he said.

'Come now Arthur, you know as well as I do that we can't do this thing in half measure. We need to make sure it stays put otherwise our last shells will be in vain.' Van Helger offered his friend. Della was of a similar mind. If the Orks had the ability to mobilize then they had to be engaged to keep them in place, even if it did cost them their lives.

'Fine, fine,' agreed De la Croix reluctantly before adding, 'Is it me or is it terribly warm out here?'

The two other officers regarded themselves and agreed wordlessly to keep an eye out for the self-afflicted captain and his men.

'Not really Arthur,' Van Helger said, not without a hint of empathy. 'You should get yourself checked by the medicae before we engage, just in case.'

De la Croix was about to defend his state of preparedness when he realized he was offered a way to save face. 'Perhaps, it wouldn't do to make the lads suffer any more than they already have. Heh, Jordan.'

Della didn't dare speak, she didn't want to intrude on the informal agreements her seniors had, but was relieved to see Van Helger give her a thankful nod for playing along.

'Right then, to work,' said Van Helger as he started carving on Kursk's dusty soil with his combat knife. 'I suggest that we spread out our forces with Arthur's 5th and my 8th taking the north and south flanks, while Della's 3rd hold the center.'

Van Helger's patrician features smiled reassuringly at Della, his soft green eyes encouraging and protective all at once. 'Because it's your first company level engagement, we will make sure to take good care of you Lady Della. Please understand this has nothing to do with that unpleasant business with Rommer. You will, in a sense, take the brunt of the risk, but if the worst comes to pass, Arthur and I will be able to fold in and give you a chance at retreating.'

'That won't be the case sir,' Della assured her seniors. 'Today the Sons of Persephony stand or fall together, in the name of his most holy majesty, and for the honor of our home world. There will be no retreat.'

'Bloody well said Della,' smiled Van Helger.

'Please, call me Josephine' offered Della.

...

The battalion had crept forward as silently has they could. In low crouches and finally, crawling on their bellies, they took their position along the last Hillock overlooking the Ork monstrosity. As per the _Tactica Imperialis_, Della's men formed the spine on a concave formation, with De la Croix and Van Helger forming extended arms to her flank. When the Orks charged, as they surely would, they would be met with over lapping and enfilading arcs of fire. What would normally lay any mortal force low would probably only slow the Orks down. More importantly, the Persephonians hoped it would keep the siege engine in place while the greenskins focused on the business of killing. Only the Emperor knew if any of the guardsmen would survive, but with his grace, the Basilisk artillery would find its range with the last of their armor piercing shells and destroy the abomination.

Siggurd made sure the men were lined up and in firing positions. He looked over to Wessler and Lomis' platoons at his sides. He nodded to himself, their ranks meeting his exacting standards. Although he had no authority over the other platoons, he was not the kind of man who would overlook other's faults for the sake of professional amiability. Their veteran sergeants could piss and whine all they wanted about his interference. Right was right, and he had payed the price for that belief many times over his life. None more than the first time he had acted on that belief. He spared a moment of inattention to run his calloused fingers over the rubbery flesh that covered most of his face. The scars would always remind him.

...

This was not what he had expected. Darkness was all he knew now, the dark and the pain. He had lost count of how many days it had been since he had been taken to this chamber of torture. He had lost the ability to see long ago. His stricken senses screamed out in pain as they were rendered impossible to use one after another. He had expected justice, what he had received was agony beyond any he had known in his short life.

His waking moments had invaded his dreams and he could tell neither apart. He tested his restraints, feeling the barbed razor wire dig into his swollen wrists and sliced him to the bone. Had his throat been able to give voice to his pain, he would have cried out, but all that escaped his horribly mangled lips were gurgling sobs. His face and neck was so wretchedly ravaged that it had swollen beyond any measure of proportion to blind him, choke him, and make any sound distant and muffled.

He prayed the Emperor for release, for the death he had expected to find the moment his crime had been revealed. He should have known his torturer would not have given him such a painless release for his blasphemy. No common man would ever have dared raise a hand against his betters, but he had not only done so, he had murdered a house patriarch out of some lofty ideal of righteousness. It was clear to him now that such notions were for the priests of the Ministorum to undertake, not him.

His flesh was burning with fever, on fire with a thousand cuts and a hundred bruises. The simple wooden chain he had been broken upon and bound to, in the most unnatural of ways, was the same he had discovered the servant girl in, just a short time ago. The irony did not escape him.

The house guards had found him easily. In the Lord's study making sure his master rested in a dignified manner. Whatever the punishment his master had deserved for his cruel enjoyment, he now had paid, and Bellechance insisted he deserved the proper honors fit a man of his pedigree.

They had set upon him like enraged dogs, clubbing him to the ground with fist, baton, and pistol butts. This, he had accepted without resisting. He knew his guilt deserved as much. Then he had been bound and brought to the lord's Hurscarl. Again, the manservant had thought, it was only fitting that the protector of his lordship's life be the judge of the man who had dishonored him. He expected a round to the head and an end to this entire unseemly affair.

His dread came after the Hurscarl had vented his rage upon his already broken body. Death was too sweet for such an affront. At least it became obvious that the loyal Hurscarl believe it to be so. The young steward was dragged unceremoniously past the lady of the house as she shrieked, having just received the horrible news of her husband's murder. As discordant as the sound was, it was the small child clutching at her leg, in her soft white night gown, that struck Bellechance the most. Her eyes were filled with confusion and fright, but despite this, she showed concern for the friendly steward that had always been very nice to her. He blinked the blood and tears from his eyes as he was dragged across the floor in front of her. His thoughts were a strange mix of shame and distress, for his crime, and at the knowledge that his blood was ruining the lord's expensive carpet. Then, he was brought to the estate's cold dark recesses.

It was though a pain addled mind that he realizes what the depraved Hurscarl had in store for him. He moaned deplorably as he was sat upon the torture chair and left to the ministration of the dishonored bodyguard.

'You're going to regret ever killing him,' he had promised with bared teeth, and with that the man had begun to do his worst. Beatings and mutilation were just part of his revenge. The Hushcarl carefully kept him alive through the aid of life sustaining machines. Clear tubing ran from the buzzing and beeping apparatuses to his flesh. Feeding him a life preserving serum while his body wallowed in its waste.

Whatever the Lord had taught his life ward in this vile chamber, he had learned well. The Hurscarl set upon Bellechance's flesh like an artisan, whose work would be the Magnus Opus of his life. Somehow, the steward knew that when the last stroke of the butcher's blade was dealt, the bodyguard would wash the stain of his dishonor with his own blood.

Unbeknownst to both Bellechance and his victimizer, that end was fast approaching.

...

Prizler had had just about enough of this. He had crawled, squeezed, contorted, and slinked through all sorts of gaps and machinery fluids since he had entered that damnable access hatch nearly 40 minutes ago. The interior of the maintenance areas, if this is where he was, followed neither rhyme nor reason.

By now Chronus and the other teams would surely have found something vital to plant the charges on and on their way out. Twenty minutes left to regroup and he was still lost inside the capillaries of this monstrosity. To make matters worst, he had disturbed some kind of nest and tiny greenskins, the like he had never seen or heard before, which had poured out to bite and stab him with rusty nails. He had squashed and pounded a few of the snot green creatures against the walls in his panicked struggle and the rest had disappeared as quickly as they had come upon him.

This was quickly turning into a disgrace. He managed to find a fuel pipe and decided to follow it until he came upon another hatch set higher in an open compartment. Well, as open as the inside of these tunnels got anyway. Reaching up, and tearing a few jagged nails out of his great coat, he lifted the hatch and was buffeted by horribly dry heat.

He had found the confines of the access ducts unbearable after crawling along them for so long, but he was now forced to reconsider. Already swimming in his own sweat, he climbed out of the hatch into a large room filled with rows and rows of large idling motors. The sound easily covered the squealing of the hatch's hinges and Prizler was happy for the small mercy. He quickly hid amongst a forest of feeding pipes.

'Maybe all that crawling around was worth it after all,' mumbled the lieutenant to himself. He peered around the walkways above him and the isles between the rows of idling engines.

Three large Orks the size of nobs, wearing overalls and carrying oversized spanners, walked about adjusting bolts and valves, seemingly at random. Amongst them were a slew of emaciated gretchin who looked as dried up as prunes. One of which slipped and fell into a cycling engine to be mulched instantly. The larger Orks laughed and quickly gathered to watch the dismembered creature get spit out of the chortling machinery.

Now 's my chance thought Prizler, as he moved away from them on the lower level and began to distribute tube charges on fuel lines, hydraulics, and barrels of ill contained mechanical oil. He would start a fire the likes the Orks could never extinguish, if they even had something as elementary as fire retardant in a colossus this size. Just as he set the last of his charges he felt, more then heard, a commotion outside.

The massive engine lurched forward and then stopped in a crash of grinding gears that sent a splitting drive chaff flying. The Mek boys hollered angrily as their domain filled with smoke and bursting pipes.

Prizler was knocked to the ground right before an exploding gear sliced over his head and ricochet further down the engine room. Gathering his wits about him, he gave the Emperor a quick thanks and used the chaos of the moment to slip out through an adjoining corridor. The time for subtlety was well and done with.

He imagined one of the charges had detonated prematurely, or perhaps an Ork had found one and had set it off with its blundering. Whatever the case, it didn't matter now, he raced along the corridors despite the inherit danger of running into Orks. The maintenance ducts were no place to be if this thing was falling apart. He'd just have to be faster than the Orks, or luckier than a blind man walking through a mine field.

He became suspicious of his luck when he made it all the way out onto the parapets without seeing a single Ork, then he found out why.

The Orks were streaming out of the siege breaker and were running towards a hillock. Their buggies and bykes were already cresting the hill and spraying random bursts of fire all over it. Then he saw them, the dust covered blue of the Persephonian infantry. Looted tanks thundered onwards, shooting salvos at the hill and blowing men apart with lucky shots.

Why were they here? There was no reason to throw themselves at an enemy they couldn't hope to defeat unless...

Prizler dropped to his knee and fumbled through his kit to get a grip on the wireless detonator that controlled the explosives his men had stashed amongst the Ork escort detail. Flipping the cap, he depressed the arming stud and heard a rippling of explosions.

A dozen looted tanks felt the hit of the charges set against their vulnerable areas. Turrets blew off of hulls; tracks splintered explosively, becoming deadly shrapnel to the Ork infantry running at their sides. Fuel reserved ignited, flash burning dozens of Orks in their immediate surroundings. It was a sight welcomed by the Persephonians, who used the shock and confusion of their enemies to redouble their fire and pelt them mercilessly, buying precious seconds before the wave of orks engulfed them.

The shock wave of the explosions buffeted Prizler, even behind the parapet, and he felt his rib cage vibrate at the sheer power of so many detonations. But it wasn't over yet. He screwed his comm bead back into his ear and pressed the general channel stud.

'Attention all Imperial forces, this is Lieutenant Warner Prizler of the Galvan 5th light infantry regiment, come in, I repeat, come in.'

'Lieutenant Prizler, was those fireworks your doing?' the voice on the vox sounded relieved. 'Where are my manners, captain van Helger, Persephonian 1st. Not that we're not grateful, but what's the meaning of this?'

'Sir, the Pangean hunter-killers managed to immobilized the siege engine in front of you. They died to give us this shot, so we decided to infiltrate and finish the job. I take it you're here to call in a strike?'

A long moment passed before van Helger answered, 'Sorry lieutenant, greenskin got a little close for comfort there. A strike indeed, standard _Tactica Imperialis_ doctrine, you know your procedures well.'

Prizler cursed, 'I have men all over this rig setting up charges, tell me we have enough time to bug out before the earth shaker rounds hit!'

'Afraid I can't promise you that son, it's in the hands of the emperor now,' said van Helger sadly. 'The storm troopers are damn quick with all those bombardment calculations, efficient buggers. Listen, try and make a break with your men on the north side, we'll give you all the cover we got, strider's speed lad!'

Prizler looked around him, getting his bearings as to where north was, and tapped into the squad level comms. 'Sergeant Chronus, we got a slight change of plans...'

...

He had been riding hard across the wasteland for most of the night. With the help of the Ranok guard captain, he had been able to speed through the check points without too much trouble and past the Kursk battle line trenches. The no man's land was devoid of life for kilometers on, nothing but wrecked trukks and bykes, which had been burned to a hollow husk weeks before.

The dust plains were littered with the refuse of war and the craters of artillery, made all the harder to navigate in the dark of the night. Had Trevin been any less of a skilled rider, the strider would have broken a leg by now. The going had been slower then, but beyond the debris field it had been nothing but a straight shot towards the canyon that formed Thunder Ridge.

The strider's speedy pace had eaten up the kilometers much quicker than Trevin had expected. The equine was truly a marvelous specimen, but even for its breed, the pace of the gallop was taking its toll. As the young sergeant dismounted to give it a rest, he noticed signs of its exhaustion. The mount's mouth was frothing at its edges and a thickening layer of sweat had accumulated along its flank and haunches. He knew he couldn't keep driving the beast onwards like this without risking its life.

'Common girl, stay with me.' He stroked its neck affectionately but the horse's glazed eyes simply added to his guilt. The strider wasn't responding, and any Persephonian worth his salt knew it was a bad sign. Trevin tried to make it drink some water but the mount also refused. She was heat stricken from her long sprint through the dry wasteland of Kursk.

At least the night air had done some good for the strider's endurance but it also brought on its own complications. He guided the horse into a safer spot, between rolling hillocks to hide it from sight, and began cleaning the frothy sweat from her body. If they stayed put for too long, the air would cool the sweat to the point of freezing. The poor creature would never get moving then.

'You know, I don't even know your name,' Trevin spoke to the horse as well as to himself. 'A mighty ride like you needs to be remembered good and proper like, even if they just end up shooting me for stealing you.'

He did his best to ease the horse into a more comfortable state, keeping it from freezing up while relaxing her tense muscles from the long gallop. He tried name after name, seeing which would attract her attention. Finally, the strider reacted, her eyes sharper and looking at the source of the questing voice.

'Arabella? You like that one huh, alright then,' he smiled, trying again to convince her to drink some water. When she did, he nearly teared up with relief, and quickly added some salts to help her vigor. Had she not decided to drink, his suicide mission would have ended right there and then. Stranded behind enemy lines, which with all the blessings of the Emperor's saints, were so clearly empty of Orks.

Fitting name then, Trevin thought, for his father had once told him Arabella meant the beautiful altar, and his self-appointed task was clearly hanging on nothing but a prayer.

...

Morning was starting to make itself seen and Captain Olivar of the Ranok 568th artillery battery was waiting for his firing orders impatiently. He had expected the Persephonian battalion to have made enemy contact by now but still, he waited after command to relay the firing coordinate of this last ill-fated attempt to deny the greenskins.

The self-propelled guns were all lined up, the Basilisks' long cannons raised high saluting the sky, or as Olivar liked to think, the Emperor and his throne on Terra. The last of the powerful earth shaker armor piercing rounds were at the ready by the loaders, each and every man under his command checking and triple checking the guns' readiness. They scurried about the artillery pieces of the battery with rolled up sleeves and open collars, despite the chill of the dying night's air.

Olivar stood on his own Basilisk, the _Hell Raiser_, and panned his magnoculars over the western horizon. With the added height of the self-propelled gun, he could easily look over the sunken bunkers and ad-hoc constructions of the Thunder Ridge plateau and down its slopes. What worried him was the lack of any enemy signs. If this Ork contraption was so massive, why couldn't he see it yet, and more importantly, if he couldn't even see a dust or smog cloud from here, then he doubted his guns had the range to hit it, despite the Basilisk accurately being able to hit a target at 20 kilometers.

Danzer, the officer of 4th section clambered up the side of the _Hell Raiser_ and joined Olivar with a crisp salute, and heaved breathlessly. 'Firing orders?' asked the battery captain eagerly.

The man shook his head and gulped down some air to speak. 'No sir, still in the dark as far as that's concerned, but you won't believe what my man just spotted coming up the ridge's eastern flank.'

Olivar raised an eyebrow in curiosity. He really didn't have time for this kind of distraction when the fate the operation was so close to being decided. But the look on Danzer's face was hard to deny. 'Alright, but this better be good.'

...

'What do you mean I won't believe what just arrived at the base, are you wasting my time captain Olivar?' Petra snapped back into the vox thief of the comms station. The duty officer beside him shirked away from the irritable colonel, his chair's wheels squealing on badly maintained bearings. Petra didn't notice how much of the strategium was now paying attention to his conversation, instead of their duties.

'I don't have time for this captain, you mind your guns and I'll decide what I do and do not believe. Now sit tight and wait for your firing orders!'

Colonel Petra turned around looking for Commissar Carver and finally noticed all the eyes in the room looking at him. 'What!'

The command staff quickly returned to their duties.

'Where the hell is Carver?' he asked to no one in particular as he searched the room. 'Never a Commissar around when you actually want one' he grumbled.

The comms officer coughed discreetly at the colonel's side and Petra turn on him like an angry bear. The last few hours had not been easy for the commander of the doomed garrison.

'I believe I might be able to raise him on the channels sir, what should I tell him?' chanced the officer.

'Tell him one of his Persephonians just rode into base on a half dead horse claiming he has a message for me, captain Tavko's daughter, and asking permission to fight with his unit. Tell him I don't have the time right now, to sort it out, and that I don't care how he does it!'

The duty officer nodded to his colonel and turned to his console, trying the commissariat channels, and voicing a sullen prayer for the poor fool who would have to deal with the commissar.


	15. Chapter 12

12.

It was quite the unbelievable scene. Carver walked down the western slope of the ravaged defenses unhurriedly. The grounds were still littered with the dead, although the dying had since been moved or tended to. Almost a day, to the hour, he noted, since the Persephonians had set out on their brave gambit and here was this straggler. Men and women of the Ranok regiment clustered around him, out of the trenches, up the dirt glacis, and even standing knee deep in craters that had turned to mud. All this to see who this man was, and why he had ridden to Thunder Ridge on a horse, a damn big one at that.

The crowd parted slowly to let him pass, their awe overcoming the fear of the uniform he wore. That was to be expected though, these guardsmen had all but accepted their inevitable end and so his office was bound to lose some of its presence. After pushing a few soldiers out of the way, and yelling to the others move along, he finally arrived at the rider's side.

The man was haloed by the hazy illumination of the Kursk dawn, giving him a certain appeal that would have been better suited to an oil painting than a battlefield. His horse was suffering visibly, even to the Commissar's untrained eye, and he could easily imagine the mount having been pushed to the brink. It had crossed the wasteland and the precarious land bridges that spanned the canyon at its narrowest parts. All of which was unwelcoming at best and downright lethal at its worst. Carver imagined it took a brave man to chance a drop of hundreds of meters into bubbling magma, let alone on a skittish beast. The rider was speaking to a female trooper whose face was drawn with barely controlled emotions, as if hearing the best news of her life, on the day which would most likely be her last.

It was time he found out who this man was, and why he was here.

'You're causing quite a ruckus in my camp guardsman,' said Carver as he placed his hands on the red sash along his waist.

The rider quickly dismounted and offered the Commissar a crisp salute. His combat uniform marked him as a sergeant of the 3rd company, noble born of house Trevin, but with a non-commission officer rank. If Carver was right, the last time he had seen this trooper he had been in a much less favorable state, yet lucky enough to have troopers and an officer willing to rescue him and watch his back.

'Apologies, sir!' Augustus Trevin said loudly in a parade tone. 'It was not my intention to do so. I come offering the best wishes of theater command and those soldiers whose hearts go out to their embattled comrades!'

Carver raised a hand to fend off any further theatrics. 'At ease soldier, you're Misfit's squad leader.' It was more of a statement than a question. 'I ought to have known.'

'Pardon, sir?' Trevin stood at ease in front of the black clad political officer, as much as that was possible anyway. 'I don't grasp your meaning.'

Carver's eyes moved over Trevin covertly, hidden behind the canted visor of the commissar's cap. Even a junior commissar couldn't miss all the signs and incongruity posed by this trooper. 'You're brazen disrespect of authority is something I have come to find runs rampart in your unit sergeant. Even your lieutenant seems touched by it. Yes, I know who you and your Misfits are. I already had the pleasure of presiding over an improvised execution trial.'

Trevin swallowed dryly, it would be a shame to come all this way and not get to fight with his men before biting the bullet. It was time to milk every shred of charm he was known for.

Carver continued, 'a men found in the condition you were when we took this ridge would never have been discharged from the medicae rehab facilities this soon.'

'I heal quickly,' offered Trevin.

'He surely would not have been entrusted with what I can only assume is a senior commander's pet. Which by the looks of it, that horse clearly is...'

'Colonel Lazarus knew of my impeccable riding record and didn't want me to attract too much greenskin attention on my way here.'

'What of that, on your kit bag, is that one of those Pangean tribal scarves, not exactly up to Persephonian dress code is it?'

Trevin nodded proudly, 'I have been made an honorary member of the Ung tribe, sir! As it is custom to wear pins of our breeding and status, I believed it was fitting to show the honor that was bestowed on me.'

Carver pointed to the Ranok power sword issued to their officers, 'And a messenger, sure as the Emperor sits on the Golden Throne, certainly would not have come into the possession of another regiment's signature apparel.'

'Ahhhh' Trevin stalled for a moment, but a misty eyed trooper stepped up beside him. 'My father is guard captain Tavko in charge of check points primus, secondus, and tetrius. He wanted me to know he gives Trooper Marosh his blessings to marry me. The sword was a sign of his approval.'

Carver turned his inscrutable gaze upon her and she shrank back visibly. Why was it every time he confronted an issue regarding this man, people spontaneously came to his aide?

He stepped in close to Trevin, his words whispered for the sergeant alone. 'You are a shameful mess Trevin, and I sure as hell know that command does not give a gak about those who are about to die. So tell me what this is all about before I lose my patience and let you try your smart assed comments on his most holy majesty, right-quick like.' The Commissar stepped back slowly and canted his head indicating he expected a direct answer.

Trevin unhooked the Ranok officer's sword, handing it over to trooper Tavko, thanking her for her help. 'Truth be told sir, I was told this would be my men's last march. Word of their fate has been making its way around Crystal Shore HQ. It didn't feel right not to be there just because of a fluke.'

'Falling out of a Valkyrie assault carrier during a combat drop is far from being a fluke, sergeant.'

'I would have been dead then if not for them, I just can't sit comfortably behind friendly lines when they're fighting for their lives.'

'So you have come to die, guardsman?'

Trevin shrugged, 'I would rather think, that I have come to fight for what I believe in.'

The Commissar seemed to ponder Trevin's answer for a breathless moment. 'Well, my job is not to keep guardsmen from the front; it's to keep them there. Your unit is engaging an Ork force about 30 clicks west, so off with you then,' Carver made to leave but turned back after a few paces.

'Do me a favor sergeant Trevin. Come back alive, will you? It will be easier to untangle the mess your arrival here entails,' said Carver.

'I'll do my best Commissar!' Trevin swore he could almost see Carver's lips curl at their edge before the man turned and walked towards the plateau.

Trevin returned his attention to the Strider, checking if it could manage the last leg of this difficult trek. Arabella nuzzled his face as he came to feed and water her some more. Around them, troopers began digging through their kit and offering Trevin supplies for himself and the men he would join. It was mostly food and drink rations, with bandages and tabac sticks.

'I'm surprised he didn't threaten to shoot me,' shared Trevin with a trooper lighting him a smoke.

'What, Carver? Nah, he wouldn't have,' said the stocky Ranok trooper.

'Oh?' questioned Trevin, 'Is he one of those mythical Commissars with a conscience?'

Troopers near him guffawed loudly, the Ranok shook his head. 'Not even close, Carver just ran out of bolt shells a while ago.'

'Oh,' said Trevin again as he tightened Arabella's saddle, sobered by the revelation. Stuff like this was why the boys called him 'lucky' Gus, maybe there was something to it after all, he thought.

Iva Tavko stood beside Trevin with her father's power sword in her open palm. 'I would be honored if you took it into battle sergeant. Quake take me, but I think you will need it more than Colonel Petra.'

With a solemn nod, Trevin cinched the hefty blade to his combat webbing. Words failed him. So actions would have to make up for it.

...

'Five rounds rapid, on my order!' Van Helger bellowed, waving his cavalry saber to punctuate the command. 'First rank fire! Second rank fire! Pick your targets gentlemen, now fire at will!' The newly reformed ranks of guardsmen obeyed with alacrity, firing disciplined volleys on command and maximizing the casualties they caused the green tide.

Captain van Helger stood straighter than he wanted to, making himself a tempting target for their enemy, but he insisted on holding the line with his company. Dead Orks littered the slope of the hillock, and quite a few mingled with the Persephonian casualties that had withstood their charge. Van Helger had quickly ordered his ranks anew and they were now ready to support Della and De la Croix's flanks.

Thanks to the timely intervention of lieutenant Prizler and his scouts, many of the Ork transports and heavy armor were disabled into the killbox the guardsmen had made. Without the sabotage, the mission would have likely been over for them already. That being said, the ravenous horde of green flesh still managed to make it up to van Helger's position and momentarily disperse his force. Even at range, some of the guns and mortar mounted on the giant tracked mountain of scrap metal managed to reach the imperial positions. Puckered craters remained where men had stood moments ago, and scything fire made it hard to keep the ground atop the hillock, which was the only advantage the Imperials could boast.

His saber flashed in the air above him as he bellowed again. 'Reload! Aim! Ready fire!' van Helger spared a glance at his sides, his two remaining lieutenant Falks and Visher desperately mimicking his orders. It was a miracle they still held firm, bloodied and battered, Visher clearly having lost use of her right eye to an Ork choppa but still fighting to remain conscious. Good officers those two, it was a shame they would most likely not survive.

'Five rounds rapid, same as before gents! First rank fire! Second rank Fire! Fire until your cells are dry guardsmen!' If van Helger's boys let up even for a moment, De la Croix would not be able to cover the north side of the siege breaker and those brave galvans wouldn't stand a chance. It was time to repay the favor.

...

Della fired her pistol into the seething mass of gretchin with wild abandon. Those damn ugly Orks were using their smaller cousins as meat shields, prodding them forward with large clamping teeth on the end of long poles. The runt herders themselves were driving the bulbous headed gretchin forward, a wall of flashing teeth and claw. Firing discipline was falling apart and the blood thirsty Orks were closing to melee range behind the sacrificial grots. Della needed to salvage the situation but her guardsmen were struggling for their lives.

Ramsey and Honig were gunning away at the horde by her side while Siggurd was wadding into the mass swinging his chain sword two handed. The veteran sergeant was making for the closest grunt herder and snapped the Ork's poled prong with his motorized weapon. Clearly that upset the Xeno, who fell into a crouch to howl spittle his way.

Siggurd didn't give time for the Ork to finish its posturing and swung the heavy mechanized blade at its thickly corded neck, the blade sheering inches in an instant before the whirling blades chewed their way through the creature's spine. Screaming his hate at the top of his lungs, the veteran leaned into the blade and used his body weight to overcome the last of the flesh's resistance, the Ork's head finally rolling to the ground in a great wave of stinking blood.

With their herder decapitated, the cowardly gretchin quickly lost their impetus and scattered in every direction, the 'ard humie clearly more intimidating than their butchered bully. The fleeing gretchin gave Della the breathing room that she needed. Sparing a thankful nod to the gore covered Siggurd, she grabbed Honig by her vox set.

'Get Lomis and Wessler to form on my position. This is not a retreat! Make that clear, I want them to crouch low coming over the hillock. Then have their unit form up behind me and lend their support.' Della turned to Siggurd pointing at a line in the sand.

'I want a narrow firing line there, sergeant, we are going to bait the greenskins and lay into them as soon as they get in our sights.' Siggurd immediately gathered men by their kits or collars and instructed them on their orders. Specialist Zephinas assisted, making sure the men were firm on their feet and aiming with steady hands. She had fought hard and well, Della was thankful for her help.

'Its times like these I miss _Charger_, his multi las turret would really even out the odds.' Ramsey said plaintively.

Della switched power cells on her laspistol, 'and its armor! Well this is one we have to weather without a chimera Ramsey, now shut up and sight up.'

Ramsey lifted his rifle to his shoulder,' maybe Siggurd will take a few more of those Pole waving Orks, that seemed to have worked well.'

Della raised her pistol as guardsmen started pouring down the hillock in less than orderly order, 'Ramsey, shut up!'

Honig readied her rifle and joined Della and Ramsey, having finished relaying the order. 'Wessler reports Nobs behind his forces, ma'am.'

Della sighed, 'great,' she squared her shoulders. 'On my mark, pick your targets,' she waited a few more seconds to see the charging Orks, waving sluggas and choppas at her guardsmen, 'Lay them low, troopers!' she screamed.

...

De la Croix hoped he had done his duty. Sure, he had stumbled and come close to dishonoring himself and the regiment with his drinking habit, but still, he hoped he had given a good account for himself. At least he was dying sober, that was worth something.

He cringed as he repositioned himself against the rock he laid against. His hand was hopelessly trying to keep his innards inside. Blood seeped between his fingers, pumping with every beat of his heart. Still he tried to raise his bolt pistol, firing at the giant slabs of green flesh that crowded his blurring sight.

De la Croix really wished he had seen that choppa coming, thought of the rusty, jagged cleaver ripping through his guts put his teeth on edge, it was a damn unpleasant feeling. One minute his flank was covered by that Macharian, what was his name, Fargo, Farlo? The next the man was a bleeding pulp under a Nob's boot and he was folded in two over his killer's choppa. By the lack of pain bellow his navel, he guessed that it had nicked his spine too. Well at least the ugly oaf lay crumpled in front of him, it's tusked, emperor forsaken face, blow off by the point blank bolt shot.

Had he the strength, he would spit on it. No, on second thought he would not. It was a damn unsightly thing to imagine a Persephonian officer flinging sputum about. Damn unsightly.

He was pleased to know his men were still fighting hard around him, fending off the Xenos in the name of duty. His greatest regret was that he would never again feel the warmth of Palina's body, the beauty whose long legs had tamed his heart. He had set out to break her wild soul and had instead found the love of his life. How many suitors had she rejected, waiting for that one perfect match? And they said chivalry was dead. None sense. He still loved her as much as the day he laid his eyes on her. Palina, his prized Strider.

As he slumped slowly to his side, bright arterial blood smeared the ochre rock. A shadow leaned over him. Its great proportions leaving no doubt as to what would come next.

...

Prizler and his scouts cleared the battlements of the siege breaker's north side. They were spread over three levels on gantries bolted to the ramshackle hull. Turrets with chugging slug throwers bristled along its flank, with cannons, and mortar, some sheltered under corrugated roofs and others in niches simply too small for a man to get to. None the less, the scouts disabled them all with shots of their powerful longlas rifles or tube charges.

Prizler didn't intend to get mowed down as he and his men abandoned the construct. It had been fairly easy to dispatch the gretchin manning the defenses, since few Orks had remained on board, preferring to join the fight with the Persephonians. It had only taken a few shots and grenades to clear the walkway of turrets.

He sent his sergeant, Chronus, rappelling down with the first squad to clear the ground around the tracks, and was calling over the second squad to follow down when the body of a scout flew past his head to land in a broken heap by the tracks.

He registered Chronus pointing above him and instinctively rolled to the side, having fought with the veteran sergeant long enough not to question the gesture. The metal mesh walkway buckled, bolts riveting it to the hull popping, as the tremendous weight of a massive ten foot tall Nob hit the structure. Half a dozen more Nobz followed suit, butchering his overwatch squad. Prizler barely got to his feet on time to dodge a vicious mechanical claw that spat fat sparks. Where it struck the metal structures around him, superheated metal drooled in clumps.

'Powered? Its gakking powered?' cursed Prizler as he escaped along the gangway wanting as much space between him and the warboss.

With a roar that put other orks to shame, the goggle wearing Nob that shredded the walkway with his indiscriminate swinging, stomped towards the lieutenant. Thick cables ran from the claw weapon to the Nob's back, where a machine sparked and shot electric arcs, which grounded into other metal bits and devices festooned over his armor.

Prizler back pedaled and leaped out of the way of the Nob, dropping onto the jagged metal battlements a level below. The Nob's reach was incredible and with a surprising jump, the Ork managed to drop down beside the scout, slicing through his calf and exposing bone.

Hissing as he tried to haul himself up using a bolted iron handhold, Prizler faltered, and slid over the battlements, skidding down the hull's slanted armor, his leg refused to obey him.

The Ork warboss, for what else could it be, snarled angrily as the humie wormed away. It began to climb down the slanted hull as its back mounted generator buzzed loudly, his claw weapon crackling with electric energy.

'Kome' ere humie, Ratchet-Fixa's gunna make you pay for stompin' all uver his ride!' snarled the warboss as he launched himself from stanchions and walkway support one handed like a monstrous primate. It was only able to shadow Prizler's escape as its greater bulk denied it easy hand holes.

Most of the other Nobz knew better then to get between Rachet-Fixa and his fun, so they launched themselves at the other scouts along the meshed walkways. They were like Grox in a ceramic shop, the Nobz wrecking the adjoining structures with large two handed battle axes or blasting chunks out of steel plates with canon like pistols. The galvan scouts fell back onto their training, harassing the Nobz and splitting them up as they fled back into the siege breaker or climbed down in haste.

Suddenly, explosions rippled deep within the construct, tremors running along the shivering metal hull. The super structure groaned and shook loudly as metal plates broke loose and fell along its flanks, its point defenses being slowly gutted by flames. A strange warbling sound echoed and silenced the battle waged on its mantel.

Fire belched from hatches and corridors, superheated air and over pressure blasting out the scouts who had moments before sought shelter within. Chunks of burned greenskins rained down, having been torn from the bones of those gretchin and snotlings responsible for the maintenance of its innards.

Prizler was blasted from his perched and rammed hard against the metal bars acting as a sort of safety rail for the last walkway, although safety was probably a latent effect of their placement, they had indeed stopped him from toppling over and breaking his neck.

As black smoke billowed out of the siege breaker, Prizler fought to suck air into his stricken lungs. His head ached and the mounting heat from fires lit inside the hull were quickly spreading outwards and setting off secondary explosions. He had to get out of here, and fast.

A terrible howl of pain echoed, one of rage and despair, like that of a parent losing a child.

'Wuuuu?' screamed Ratchet-Fixa, his tusk filled maw deforming the words. He reached up with his flesh and blood hand and pulled the goggles from his face, his shoulders heaving with his rapid, beastly breathing. His every muscle twitched with violence as he scanned the length of his prized contraption. Spinning on himself incredulously, Rachet-fixa settled on Prizler who had gotten up and clipped his rappel harness on the metal rigging. As Prizler flung himself bodily over the rail, hoping not to crack his skull open against the hull, the Ork warboss peered over the edge of his siege breaker's mantel and saw those responsible for his great kill kannon's state.

'Itz youuuu, humies, I'll stomp all yuz gits, as Gork and Mork seez me, yuz all dead!'

Without thought of harm, Ratchet-Fixa followed Prizler's lead and launched himself over the side of his beloved machine; only, he wasn't tied to anything to slow his fall down.

...

'Finally!' cried Captain Olivar as he snatched the order wafer from his gunnery sergeant. He read off the coordinates he needed to fire upon and frowned. 'That's no good, the target was supposed to be much closer by now.'

He glared at the sergeant accusingly, as if the messenger was to blame, and then sighed resignedly. 'Inform colonel Petra that these coordinates are beyond our range. Ask permission to move the battery west ten clicks and confirm new firing coordinates.'

He prayed to all the saints he knew that the Persephonians would be able to survive long enough to get into firing range. Picking up the vox thief from _Hell Raiser_'s firing console, he ordered all guns ready for mobilization and received a chorus of affirmatives.

By his estimations, they would be ready to fire in as little as 30 minutes, assuming HQ didn't have anything to say about it. Those boys in blue were as good as dead.

...

This battle was turning into a tug of war. Back and forth the tides of battle had ebbed and flowed. As the colossal orkish contraption blew out gouts of flame tens of meters high, and its battlement guns faltered, the Persephonian contingent had surged forward with a cheer of renewed fury. Indeed, with the loss of their long range support, the orks had lost heart and given up assaulting the high ground that the guard desperately needed to pour fire on their enemy.

Twice now the Galvans had saved this entire operation from falling apart and although the siege breaker was not out of commission per say, it would be a sitting target for the Ranok Battery to pound.

'Why is that thing not blown to bits already?' grumbled van Helger as he regrouped with Della atop the hillock. The forces that were left were too few to be viable, they had to form up. 'And where is De la Croix at that? My man can't raise him'

Della wiped her bloodied forehead with a forearm, her gun still clenched in her hand. 'No idea sir, but here comes his command squad.' She threw a nod in their direction.

Guardsmen were being ordered by their sergeants to fire upon the retreating Orks, who ran for the burned out carcasses of their transports halfway to the crippled siege breaker. The soldiers avenged their fallen brothers-in-arms with cathartic vitriol, taking great joy in seeing the horde of greenskins mill confusedly in their sights.

A broad shouldered storm trooper carried the supine body of Captain De la Croix, the man, just shy of an ork in girth, easily carried the weight of the blood drenched officer. Immediately, Della called for her medicae auxilia, and trooper Steld quickly set to work.

The captains didn't have the time to spare, De la Croix would either already be dead, or he would most likely die in the next few moments.

'They'll come again,' van Helger said, and Della knew he was right.

'We can't hold them, our wounded and dead outnumber the living and our ammo must be all but spent by now.'

'Where is that artillery support,' van Helger growled again to himself. Hadn't they done everything they could? None of them had expected to survive this mission but it was frustrating to be so close to surviving, and still watch guardsmen die in droves.

Specialist Zephina padded up to the captains, her carapace hammered out of shape by ork slugs, her helmet's face plate abandoned. She sported a livid bruise that swelled along her eye and mouth, no doubt having taken a hit to the face.

'What are your orders captains? Staying here is as good as a death sentence.' Said the Macharian "death wing" trooper. She didn't doubt they had already come to that conclusion and it irked her that they were still just standing there.

'Thank you for your keen observation specialist. We were just wondering where the rest of our support was,' answered van Helger irritably.

Zephina spit a bloodied tooth out, sticking a finger along her gum to check for loose pieces. 'My guess is, they are just now realizing that the adepts of Petra's strategium were wrong about the expected position of the siege breaker.'

Della did a double take,' wait, what?'

'I'm guessing command didn't know about those Pangeans' stalling the thing, which means they didn't form a force to escort the Basilisk battery out of Thunder Ridge. A crack shot can land a shell with an earth shaker canon at 30 klicks. We're far beyond that,' explained Zephina nonchalantly.

'And you did not think to mention this specialist!' barked van Helger furiously. Zephina didn't seem impressed.

'It wouldn't have changed our orders or the mission parameters. We fight and stall until it blows up, or we are dead.'

'That's for us to decide specialist, the interpretation of orders is an officer's prerogative!' snapped back the Persephonian noble.

'Sorry to interrupt,' Steld's voice struggled to be heard over the crack of lasguns and the officer's yelling. Her hands were red with De la Croix's blood and the large storm trooper was stemming the worst of the bleeding with wads of rapidly soiled bandages. 'The captain still lives, but we can't move him. His injuries are far too severe. If we are forced from this position we won't be able to take him with us.'

'Well we sure as hell won't leave him behind' countered van Helger as he stomped with his augmented foot. It had a habit of firing off when he got angry, crossed wires he guessed.

Della didn't waste any more time, she could see the Orks were rallying.

'I'll take my men and push forward, if we don't have ground to lose then it's time we take some.'

It was a foolishly brave sentiment, Della knew, but there wasn't any other choice. They needed to buy more time. The _Tactica Imperialis_ was clear on the subject, it's millennia of military treatise held the answer to nearly all military situation, if one knew where to look. Luckily for Della, when imperial forces had their back against the wall, the answer was invariably the same, attack. Fast, hard, and until you or your enemy died.

Zephina tapped her squad mate on the shoulder. 'Come on Brensel, leave the nursing to those more qualified.'

The large storm trooper made sure the medic knew he was leaving, and being dismissed with a nod, he gathered his hellgun and helmet. He set off after his friend, Della, and her men.

Jack Brensel had long lost the ability to recognize when he should feel fear, but he guessed this situation was truly worthy of the sentiment. But for the life of him, all he could feel was giddy excitement at the thought of walking into death's waiting maw. It was just a shame their buddy Farlo had already been clobbered to death keeping De la Croix breathing long enough for Jack to find the officer.

'This might just be it, heh Zeph?' Jack teased.

'Yeah, looks like it just might be,' answer his partner.

...

Rachet-Fixa wasn't giving up. Despite the galvan scout's best effort, he was doggedly pursuing lieutenant Prizler, the no good monkey wrenching git. At least that's what Prizler could make out of the Mek boy's bellowing rant. Realizing that this Ork had a ridiculously long attention span, at least compared to his subordinates, Prizler had ordered his men to scatter with deft hand gestures. If Rachet-Fixa was hell bent on catching him, he would lead the damned Ork on a merry chase and grant his men the time needed to evade the other Nobz that pursued them.

The scout officer weaved at a sprinting pace between the wrecks of the sabotaged vehicles. He hoped the billowing oil smoke would hamper the grotesquely large Mek Boy. The battle field was pure carnage and despite the fact that the galvans were as well trained as any light infantry regiment, their strength laid in not being in the thick of it. Unfortunately for Prizler, the situation couldn't get any thicker.

The bellowing Ork boss rampaged through the wrecks, pushing them aside with his massive bulk. Ducking low, Prizler tried to get his bearings. His rapid dash had left him with little to orient himself and the wasteland looked nothing like it had hours before. Not to mention his hamstringed leg, which could very well cost him his life if he slackened the pace. Greenskin bodies littered the dusty red ground and fires from burning carcasses or smoldering motorized wrecks twisted the air with deceptive heat hazes. A battle was taking place no more than a few hundred meters away, that much he could tell by the sound of dying fighters and berserk Orks. He used the massive form of the siege breaker when the winds parted the curtain of smoke, at least he could tell in which general direction to head.

A sudden impact sent him scrambling to the ground as the cover he was using was smashed aside. The skeletal frame of the wartrukk had literally catapulted him aside when Ratchet-Fixa burst through its engine compartment, sending its content sprawling.

'Yuz can't hide from me all see'ing nubbinz! No one can!' Ratchet-Fixa cackled manically as he jabbed a thick filth encrusted claw against his skull. The bleeping red orb which replaced his left eye cycled and thrummed, locking onto the prone shape of his quarry. Prizler shook the cobwebs loose from his sense, thankful to have survived the Mek boy's pursuit so far.

The scout had to think quickly on his feet, he was alone, surrounded, faced with a living battering ram, and he had long lost his helmet. His long las was useless in a close up fight and cinched tightly onto his back anyways. His pistol wouldn't even make a dent on the mad cybork and the result of a blow from that crackling power klaw wasn't even worth thinking about. By whatever means that piece of Ork tech worked, the only hope he had was to confuse it. If Ratchet-Fixa wanted to match wits, then Prizler would acquiesce.

The scout stood up confidently and spat grit from his mouth. 'You know that big piece of junk of yours isn't going to last much longer, right? Even as we speak, our guns are getting ready to shell the crap out of it.'

The Cybork chortled as he squared himself against the scout mere strides away. 'Dem big gunz are right nice, I'll giv ya dat humie, but my trench scrapper d'ere ain't so puny! I'll roll all uv'a yuz by nite' fall. I'll be fixin' it nice and Orky like or my name ain't Rachet-Fixa!'

If that thing was as easily repaired as the Mek claimed, Prizler didn't want to imagine what the standard Ork doomsday weapon was like.

'That so? Well let's see then,' grinned Prizler as he nodded at the Siege breaker behind the hulking greenskin.

Rachet-Fixa took the bait. In the moment it took for him to look over his shoulder and see that his trench scrapper, as he called it, wasn't being blown to bits, Prizler had already darted towards a burning orkish open-topped flat bed. With a bruised ego, the cybork roared and pounded after the offending humie, his strides eating up the distance between them.

At the last possible moment, Prizler brought up his arms to shield him from the inferno that surged from the hollow of the vehicle, and leapt like a spear cast by the warriors of old.

The brief leap through the flames felt like an eternity of agonizing pain as the flames licked at his unprotected flesh. He landed in a roll and gritted his teeth as he padded at his face and hair. His skin crinkled and blistered where the grease fire had found purchase. He snapped his head up as he heard Rachet-Fixa plow into the wrecked wartrukk impotently. He roared at his denial.

His massive frame could not pass through the metal skeleton of the wreck, nor could his mass be brought to bear properly to push it aside. The Cybork sliced at the wreck with his power klaw, the flames climbing up his tattered piece-meal armor, barely a nuisance to his thick hide.

Quickly, Prizler ignored the pain of his leg and exhaled the breath he was unwittingly holding from his plunge in the inferno. Sprinting as fast as he could, he made use of the handful of seconds his costly stunt had afforded him, and hope that the heat would play havoc with the greenskin's bionic, if not disable it out right, at least, for his sake.


	16. Chapter 13

13.

The secured lifter beneath the general HQ hummed like the well maintained piece of machinery it was. If only the people under his command could be like those hidden mechanism, mused Von Richter. As the heavy shutter gate opened the smell of sweat, stress, and cold recaff hit his senses. He couldn't help but wrinkle his nose at the odor that was so endemic to the strategium. He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom of the glow strips, as they oscillated annoyingly.

'General in attendance!' snapped the duty officer when he saw von Richter walk up to the command dais. The entire room stopped moving as men and women stood ramrod straight and saluted their commander-in-chief.

'At ease gentlemen,' said the general as he took his place between his officers. He offered a hand to Hendricks, signaling his desire for the most recent priority field reports.

His young aid organized the files rapidly and handed them over. Von Richter quickly assessed the situations along the many fronts of this campaign. He was an old hand at tasking commands. Still, even he needed to be filled in on the more obscure assessments brought to his attention by his field officers. It rankle him that he had to listen to the dribble of men who thought their judgments were required to wage war.

'Why is major Tiamat asking to retask her armoured battalion to Thunder Ridge?' muttered the general to himself.

Hendricks shifted his gaze to his neighbor, a Ranok captain seconded to the general staff for his logistical acuity. The man stepped forward with a sharp crack of his heel in a text book stance of readiness.

'General, sir,' said the captain as his regimental passion was stirred into action. 'It has been weeks since the foe has attempted a serious push against the Kursk battle line and the curtain wall. It is her belief that her battalion can make due haste to the ridge to offer support for a fighting retreat, sir!'

Von Richter raised his eyes from the open file in his hands. 'The question was rhetorical captain Pike, I don't care what Tiamat thinks, I'm simply wondering why she preservers despite her request being denied... how many times already Hendricks?'

The young attaché lowered his head, as if shamed to hand his superior officer the ammunition he needed to riddle this honorable request to death.

'Six times sir, not accounting this one.' He relented.

'Well then, inform Tiamat that it makes seven, and if she asks again I'm putting her up on charges for wasting my damn time. Let's see how she likes arguing with the commissariat.'

The Ranok captain clenched his jaw tightly but nodded, stepping back as crisply as he had presented himself.

Von Richter flipped through the sheaf of paper. 'Order Colonel Madox and his Galvan 5th to redouble their efforts in Green Klaw marsh, if they can't find and kill that bastard kommando boss then they are ordered to torch the jungle. Deny the request for more Pangean hunter-killer sentinels and send in the hell hounds to torch the marsh, if it comes to it.'

The duty officer nodded and took the folder he was passed. Hendricks bit his tongue. The marsh was a torn in the general's arse but to just torch it was ridiculous. Despite all the complications the imperial force had suffered at the hands of the Ork kommandos in the jungle-marsh, it was a source of vital medicinal compounds and fresh comestibles for the troops. It balanced their diet and offered something more than rations to eat. Not to mention it was the only viable piece of land that was not parched and dust filled, like the rest of this planet's wasteland. Hendricks couldn't help but think that none of these decisions affected the daily routine of the general, which was why they were handled so decisively and thoughtlessly.

The sound of von Richter contemplating a piece of datum with surprise brought Hendricks' thoughts back to the current matter. The general was looking over the reports of Colonel Petra and the doomed forces at Thunder Ridge.

'Well, well, well, what do we have here?' To his credit, von Richter shuffled the reports on the ridge back and forth as he studied the events that the HQ had just recently received.

'As of sun rise today, we have not received further signs of life from the galvan and pangean detachment. Although the Ork warboss of this area has not been identified or eliminated yet, a massive siege engine is expected to be in firing range of the ridge by 09:00. Under these conditions the garrison force of Persephonian 1st has volunteered to set out to locate and incapacitate the Ork Siege weapon. We will deliver the last of our ordinance on the foe and commend our souls to the emperor. Colonel Ivan Petra of the 568th Ranok regiment wishes to recommend each and every guardsman under his command at Thunder Ridge for valor and service with honor, transmission over.'

The general nodded his head in quiet respect. The fact that he had given these men no other alternative then to die this way did not seem to bother him. What he did know however is that the operation at Thunder Ridge had outlived his every expectation and confirmed the viability of his overall strategy for this campaign.

'Brave men one and all, that's how a guardsman dies.' He turned to the naval officer of his staff, 'have a Valkyrie with optics survey the area around Thunder Ridge and confirm the fall of the base,' finished the General with no more regret than a man who sends back an undercooked grox steak at a fine eatery.

Hendricks was struggling to remain composed. 'Will that be all general, a prayer and an aerial recon?' His fists were balled up painfully, but he kept his outer demeanor passive.

'Yes, lieutenant, that will be all. Their sacrifice have garnered us vital intelligence that might have won us our primary objective here on Kursk,' said von Richter as he flipped on to the next item in his hands, his eyes never leaving the facts and figures in the reports.

The tone of the commander was warning enough for most officers of the staff, which quickly set themselves to the tasks and orders they had been given. All but Hendricks and the duty officer remained. The latter having no choice in the matter, as the strategium dais was his post. Hendricks pushed the issue.

'What_ is _our objective on Kursk, general? You have been rather vague on the subject, I noticed.'

The duty officer sighed with resignation. Clearly he had seen this coming and hoped the young aide had enough sense to let sleeping dogs lie. Much to his disappointment, the youth had shown no such insight, or simply didn't care. Both were hazardous and prone to cause collateral damage.

Von Richter turned to Hendricks and snapped the files shut.

'That is between me and Lord General Venerati,' said the commander with a tone that brokered no argument, his eyes challenging Hendricks to tempt his wrath despite the fact.

...

Blood poured from Della's arm, making her grip over her masterfully crafted laspistol tenuous. She tried to fend off the surrounding greenskins with wild swings of her officer's sword. The Orks circled her and gurgled like drunken thugs, high on bloodshed and driven to kill by animalistic instinct. The acrid smell of fyceline, or something like it, hung in the air from the excessive discharge of greenskin weapons. The thunderous barking had already claimed her hearing, tinnitus ringing endlessly from the close quarter shoot out that had preceded the melee. At least she would go out fighting, thought Della as she lunged forward and screamed her hatred of those who would claim her living blood.

The Orks were growing bored. They flung their lesser into the ranks of the guardsmen. The gretchin screeching as they dropped down on the disciplined formations with their improvised blades, flailing all the while.

One such living projectile was cut messily in half as it sailed at Della's head. Defiant to the end, Siggurd hacked and tore into any greenskin foolish enough to approach him or his commanding officer.

Zephina and Brensel watched her back, high powered hellgun blasts charring a trio of rushing Ork boyz. 'I'm out!' warned Zephina as she pulled a wickedly sharp combat blade from her shoulder rigging.

'You always had poor firing discipline,' chided the larger storm trooper. Brensel was moments away from exhausting his high-yield backpack power source too, which was a hefty 15 kilogram and took up half his back, but he didn't let Zephina know that. When she didn't answer, Brensel chanced a glance her way, and saw that she was struggling with an Ork. It had thrown itself into her from her flank, the powerful tackle taking her to the ground.

Brensel swiftly unclipped a frag grenade and tossed it towards the greenskins trying to encircle him. He was already unsheathing a compact machete from his thigh when the grenade exploded. Then, before the Orks could get back up, he brought the heavy blade down atop Zephina's Ork, cracking its skull open on the third blow.

Zephina rolled from under the heavy corpse, covered in blood. Her knife was drenched in rancid Ork fluid and it dribbled from her hand and wrist. Brensel laughed behind his helmet's face plate, the girl had already eviscerated the creature's throat before he had even got to it. With a proffered hand, he helped his counterpart up and they regrouped with Della and Siggurd to close rank.

The vice was tightening yet again. Everywhere along its edges, guardsmen fought not for their life, but for their honor, and were reaping a handsome tally. An impressive feat in and of itself, considering a close quarter tussle with an Ork usually ended badly from its victim.

Up on the hillock behind them, those Orks that could not engage with the Persephonians swarmed towards van Helger and his firing line. The Orks didn't have nearly enough numbers to resist the powerful downpour of las fire. None made it up to their position, although they tried on three separate attempts.

As the remnants of Della's company struggled for breathing space, the last of the Orks charging the hillock fell. Circling his cavalry saber in a broad arc, van Helger ordered a charge, and the remaining soldiers of the 5th and 8th Company joined the fray with cried of duty and honor on their lips.

The last hour of fighting had been a brutal mix of melee and carefully arranged infantry fire that had allowed the guardsmen to survive a while longer. It had been a game of feints, retreats, flanking fire, and sacrificial counter charges. To the credit of the Persephonians, no soldier had faltered at the demands of their commanders. They had willingly fought with great pride until death claimed them, unbowed and defiant. What had begun as a doomed march in the name of duty had danced along the knife's edge of hope. Hope they may succeed to see the siege engine destroyed, hope that they may yet survive, and hope that they may actually defeat their relentless foe.

But that hope had been constantly crushed, only to be rallied, and crushed again. Without the Orkish tanks, they may have succeeded in their mission. Without the fire support along the siege breaker's parapets, they may have survived. Without the Ork warboss, they might have actually won the day.

That last foolish hope died the moment the orks boss shoved his way along his Boyz to stand before the last of the defiant guardsmen. Every second had been bought with imperial lives, and now the bell told. Lashing out with chain swords, fixed bayonets, and whatever crude implements troopers had taken from fallen Orks, The last of the Persephonians fought for breathing room or clutched at mortal wounds. The greenskins backed off slowly, their cruel eyes gleamed with the knowledge of their victory. They postured and bellowed, rolling knotted shoulders and bunching up corded muscles, but none of the slobbering horde broke the circle they formed.

Ratchet-Fixa hurled the bent and broken body of a savaged Galvan scout at their collective feet. 'Dis iz wut you get when yuz cross Ratchet-fixa!' growled the massive ork. He stood head and shoulder above the biggest of his Nobz. His right arm was replaced by a bionic that resembled heavy duty sheers which crackled with buzzing power field. It was painted garishly with orkish glyph and chevron with white and yellow stripes. Other bits of him were replaced by cybernetic parts that begged their use. A large pulsing orb replaced one of his eyes and it glared at the humies hatefully. He hunched like some over muscled simian, and on his back, rattled a loud power source that vomited fat smoke from blackened stacks.

Whoever the mangled galvan was, he hadn't stood a chance. 'Now I wantz dem gitz responsible for wreckin' me ride!' Rachet-Fixa screamed in broken gothic. He surged forward at the knot of soldiers that led the humies and hit them with all he had.

As the great Ork stomped through ranks of his guardsmen, van Helger finally admitted to himself that it was over. A single sweep of that energized klaw had disemboweled, decapitated, or otherwise eviscerated an entire fire team. Five men dead just like that. He was still struggling with the realization when the Emperor forsaken creature barreled towards him and swiped at him. A bone jarring impact threw him to the ground meters away and electric pain shot up his false leg in agonizing jolts.

Without a second thought, the anonymous guardsmen that had tackled him to the ground got to his feet and fired his lasgun at the warboss, singing its shoulder harmlessly. 'We got your back sir!' the trooper yelled back at van Helger, 'Just stay down and leave it to us!'

The old captain felt shame burn in his guts. How could he have given up on these men? Even for a second. They hadn't given up on him. He would be damned if he didn't give them his all. Unto his last breath, and beyond, if it came to it. The trooper disappeared from his field of vision and van Helger tried to get up unsuccessfully. His augmented leg was spitting fat angry sparks where the war boss' sheers had sliced it open. The malfunctioning actuators whirled pointlessly and painful shocks made him scream out.

'Fine then!' He berated himself angrily, and pulled out his side arm. Cold sweat was running down his face as his body struggled with shock. The damaged augmentic was spliced into his nervous system, and it was running amok. Nausea threatened to overcome him and before he could line up a shot he turned to his side to empty the content of his stomach in painful acidic streams. Spiting the last of it, he took a deep breath and tried to line up his pistol again. He would be damned if he didn't give his boys his all, he reminded himself. He focused on the thought, fighting his failing body. Van Helger wouldn't stand for the disgrace, and shot at the angry war boss as his men died to protect him.

...

All this scuffling around was kicking up a hell of a dust cloud. It was getting in Siggurds' eyes and chocked his lungs as he fought to keep himself from getting diced. The war boss had cleared the space around him of troopers and his boyz were taking the rest of the guardsmen apart. Only he, the storm trooper duo and Della circled him now. Van Helger had been contemptuously brushed aside after a fatal hit, which he had survived with the graces of the Emperor and the timely intervention of corporal Melot. Misfit was lost in the chaos of the fight, like most squads, they were fighting the clock trying to make the greenskins bleed for each life they took.

Siggurd darted forward and slashed the buzzing chain sword along the armored ribs of the war boss Rachet-Fixa. The teeth caught and as Siggurd ducked under a return backswing, he ripped a plate of the Ork's ad-hock armor. It was hard to tell what was armor, cybernetics, or flesh. This Cybork was practically more machine than ork.

Taking advantage of the veteran sergeant's darting strike, the two storm troopers intimately familiar with each other's methods after a life time of training, moved in. Zephina went low and stabbed her combat knife in the joint of the Ork's knee. Its thighs were as thick as Brensel's torso and its sinew as taunt and hard as steel. Zephina's knife barely nicked the dense sinew and she quickly paced away out of reach. Brensel circled around and when the war boss swiped at Zephina, he charged and leapt at its mechanical arm. He clung on the thrumming appendage for dear life, its hydraulic pistons sliding along with every flick of his power klaw.

Ratchet-Fixa hadn't even noticed and continued to swing at the humies around him with terrible gusto. Della was at a loss, both Zephina and Siggurd danced around the massive Ork, distracting it from landing a fatal blow on one or the other. With Brensel latched onto the creatures' mechanical arm, she didn't dare fire at it. She even noticed the prone figure of Captain van Helger wavering as he lowered his aim. She rushed to his side and dropped to her knees.

'Are you ok sir? I don't think we can be much help here.' He nodded in agreement and grimaced in pain.

'Get me up Josephine, please. I'd rather die standing on my one good leg.' Della helped him up, looping his arm around her neck to bear his weight on her shoulder. They both held their service pistols and loosed opportunistic shots at the mass of orks swarming over their guardsmen. Close by, she spied trooper Ramirez firing wildly in a cluster of greenskins. At his side, corporal Honig was angrily fighting off gretchin who were clinging to her back mounted vox set. She finally pulled one off her back and threw it at her feet. She then slipped the heavy set from its harness, and swiftly brought it down on her attacker's head. Strung out on adrenaline, Honig turned on herself breathlessly, and kicked a knife wielding grot which was moments away from plunging its blade into her kidney. The ugly little greenskin flew meters away before landing out of sight behind its brutish cousins.

'That's it!' exclaimed Della suddenly, realization striking.

'Nonsense girl! We fight until we die; it's not over until it's over. We owe the Emperor that much, and we owe our men that too!' countered Van Helger, face twitching with electric jolts and loss of nerve control.

'No, you misunderstand sir. The Mek boy's backpack, it's his power supply!' said Della as she craned her neck towards the warboss. 'Siggurd,' she yelled, hoping she didn't distract him at a vital moment. 'Target the power supply, his modifications must run on it!'

The veteran sergeant caught on and flagged her with a thumbs up as he reared back to barely evade the meters long ork klaw. He wasn't the only one who had caught on. A whirring device bolted to Ratchet-Fixa's skull spun inordinately and he turned towards Della with a fang filled grin.

'Oye! yuz da boss then heh,' bellowed Ratchet-fixa above the tumult of the battlefield, he examined Della and scoffed disdainfully. 'Shud' ave known yuz humies wuld hav' tiny gitz fur bosses.' Finally realizing he had a storm trooper attached to his mecha bit, he reached across himself with his fleshy hand and grabbed the black clad specialist. With little effort, the Mek boy threw him bodily over his shoulder. As Bensel was wrenched away an arc of electric lightning shot out after him. The mechanical arm shuddered and jerked before spitting sparks and drooling thick oily gunk.

Ratchet-Fixa stared at his mecha arm furiously and lifted it before his eyes to inspect, seeing the squig sticker that the humie had lodge in the koolin' tube. 'Yuz gitz wreck eve' thing, dat waz Kustom made. Now Iz mad, realz mad,' roared the warboss.

The massive Ork sprung towards Della with his unpowered Klaw. She was startled at the speed the Ork could manage despite is unbelievably large bulk. She braced herself and stood her ground. She knew well her body would barely slow the creature down, but she refused to leave van Helger to an ignoble end only to save herself. She had meant it when she said they would stand and die together.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as the warboss thundered towards her. It might have been all in Della's head but she became keenly aware of her surroundings. Van Helger was pale and limp at her side, his thick perfectly groomed mustache twitching from microshocked facial muscles. Guardsmen in the sky blue of Persephonie were falling all around, protecting by their comrades, or fending off the horde for a few more heartbeats. Siggurd rushed after the ork warboss, his mangled face contorted in a scream of denial as the greenskin outpaced him easily. Behind them, Zephina helped Bensel up before grabbing a fallen guardsmen's las rifle and taking a kneeling position to fire accurate rounds of lasfire at the charging ork's back.

It was all so surreal; the kicked up reddish dust of Kursk's soil billowed in swirls, and beyond it she could make out the coalescing outline of a figure from persephonian myth. He flitted in and out of her peripheral vision; his war blade raised high in a wordless cry, his cloak whipping at his back. On Persephonie, the old men were fond of the saying "you can't outrun the Rider," its meaning simple, when death came for you the Rider would catch up to you no matter where you fled. She was surprised that such an old folks' tale had come half way across the galaxy to reap his due.

As ratchet-Fixa raised his sheering digits to end van Helger and her, the Rider burst out of the dust cloud and tackled the towering ork with his steed. With a deft maneuver, the Rider brought the weight of his steed to bear and slammed the warboss off balance, making it dig its razored claws into the ground beyond the officers. With Rachet-Fixa's mechanical arm over Della and van Helger's shoulders, they were face to face with the monstrous greenskin and its tusked maw.

With a powerful howl of frustration, which slathered the officers in fetid slobber, Rachet-Fixa ignored the persephonian and turned to his new attacker. The Rider urged his steed on itself to face the monstrous ork anew, at his side came the bewildered veteran sergeant and the storm troopers.

The Rider wore thick sand goggles and had a colorful scarf wrapped over his nose and mouth to fend off the grating dust. It was knotted behind his head and its untied length whipped madly in the wind. He spun a heavy ended Ranok power sword, challenging the cybork a top his majestic persephonian Long Strider. Though it was clear it had seen better days, it pawed the dusty ground with an eager hoof. Its solid brown coat was marred with days' worth of ruddy dust that no amount of brushing would ever clean, which made it look out of place, as well as its Rider.

The moment of her impending doom postponed, Della could clearly see the rider was no figure of myth. She chided herself for having believed the old men's superstitious stories had come true.

She quickly took the opportunity to get the hobbling van Helger and herself to relative safety, which at the moment was somewhere between an encroaching greenskin horde and it's juggernaut of a leader.

Siggurd looked up at the rider, clearly disquieted and all the more confused. The rider wore the dirty combat uniform of a persephonian with the class pin of a noble son of house Trevin but his shoulder insignia marked him as a sergeant. Only one man in the entire Persephonian 1st held that dubious honor.

'Trevin, is that you?' asked Siggurd incredulously.

'Nice to see you too Ziggy. 'So,' the rider paused as his steed paced in place. 'What now?' asked Sergeant Augustus Trevin.

...

Captain Olivar reached for _Hell Raiser_'s vox set and signaled all call signs. 'All batteries halt. Prepare for massed volley. Calculating coordinates, stand by.' They had finally arrived at the minimum distance required for a volley. He climbed out of the Basilisk's hull and stepped onto the firing platform. His gun chief and his crew had stayed top side during the 30 minute dash so they could prepare the earth shaker canon as soon as they got into position.

That time had come.

To Olivar's flanks the other Basilisk of his battery rolled into position along the dusty plains of the wasteland, a perfectly distanced wedge that would create an efficient spread to saturate their targeted area without putting the advance force of persephonians in too much danger. At least he hoped.

His loader inspected the canon's breach for obstruction with a deft eye and then loaded the first and only armor piercing high explosive shell they had. These shells were the last ones they had, their Hail Mary shot, which were capable of damaging what the reports claim was a super heavy firing platform. An impossible rolling fortress made thick with steel plates.

The captain's adjutant popped up from the Basilisk hull's top hatch and handed him a set of calculated coordinates from the last known position of the Siege breaker. It hadn't moved.

'Are you sure about this, lad?' questioned Olivar with a raised eyebrow. 'We won't get a second shot at this.'

The young junior officer shrugged, 'It's what HQ gave me, grid for grid, meter for meter, it hasn't moved. Colonel Petra even said there's a valkyrie sent by Crystal lake general HQ that has visual on it.'

Olivar groaned, in his experience this kind of static target opportunity just didn't happen. It was always harder to hit a moving target and if the enemy had mobile capability, they usually used it to effect. 'Alright then, it is in the Emperor's hands now, blessed be his light.' The battery captain cleared his throat and prepared himself to vox the firing orders.

'All call signs, this is Captain Olivar, I will give the targeting coordinates in a moment. I want you all to take the next few moments to think about what this volley is going to mean. Out there is a force of brave guardsmen, who have given their very lives to keep the monster that threaten every life at Thunder Ridge at bay.' He paused to take a breath.

'Against all odds they have manage to give us a static target. It does not get any better than this, boys. Except that we only have one shot at blowing this motorized nightmare sky high. So I want you to watch your auspex, double check, no, triple check your instruments, and make this the best shot you have ever taken. Your lives depend on this shot, and that of thousands of our regimental comrades. It's a danger close volley boys, if any of those Persy's are going to see another day it's going to be because of you, so let's try and not take any of them out along with the orks. It would be a damn shame.'

Olivar swallowed to ease his dry throat. He had never been this damn tense about a fire mission before, not in his entire career. Slowly, making sure he enunciated every number perfectly, he gave his battery the targeting coordinates.

...

'Now?' answered Siggurd as he watched the great ork get ready for another devastating charge. 'Now, we need to take that power source on his back out if we want to live beyond the next ten seconds.'

Trevin agreed, but it was easier said than done. Ratchet-Fixa took a few ponderous steps towards the group of humies and then sprung into a charge worthy of a mounted cavalry. Quickly, Siggurd signaled the storm troopers to flank to the orks' left and threw himself into a defensive roll as the warboss barreled pass.

Trevin urged Arabelle into a canted stride that scarcely side-stepped the massive Ork. The strider was visibly panicked by the close call and it took every bit of skill Trevin had mastered during his years to not have her bolt away under him.

Zephina and Bensel fired at Ratchet-Fixa with crisp disciplined accuracy. Every round discharged from their side arms were aimed at harassing the war boss and taking its attention away from Siggurd and the Persephonian rider. They shot on the move, their steps certain and smooth, hitting the ork with frightening synchronicity. Their shoulders loose to absorb the recoil and compensating instantly to keep their aim unwaveringly precise.

Ratchet-Fixa threw up with mechanized arm to fend off the lasbolts as they pelted his cranial implants and unaugmented flesh. Although the rounds seem to annoy him more than wound him, they succeeded in taking the ork's eyes off Siggurd and the rider.

Bellowing angrily, the war boss reached for a device that had gone unnoticed next to his overly large industrial sheers. Firing under the bionic arm he used as a shield, the Ork unleashed a series of jagged energy bolts that twisted in the air and hit the ground around the storm troopers with massive kinetic force. It was like an explosive bolt of lightning and sent both specialists to the ground reeling from concussive shock.

Siggurd stepped in, sweeping the heavy chain sword upwards under the ork's meaty forearm. He twisted his entire body, using every muscle in his shoulder, arms, and back to lend the biting teeth more purchase in the flesh of the greenskin. As the blade ripped into the musculature of the war boss' forearm, it bucked at the resistance offered by the xeno's unnaturally hard tissue and refused to gnaw through the rock hard bone beneath.

Roaring at this new and irritating pain, Ratchet-Fixa flicked his mechanized wrist's actuator and tried to sheer Siggurd in half. The sergeant abandoned his weapon, which had become gunked with greenskin gore and leapt away. But Ratchet-Fixa had been quicker. The three top klaws of sharpened steel racked across Siggurd's chest and opened large gushing wounds.

Before the war boss could step in and finish the wounded sergeant, the storm trooper duo thumbed the power setting of their hell pistols to maximum setting and reinitiated their fire. Now back on their feet, they spread out, all the while providing covering fire for the fallen sergeant. They wouldn't be caught bunching up again, and turned their irritating fire into painful puckered burns across the war boss' hide.

Trevin had his window, and took it. He spurred Arabelle into motion and galloped towards his enemy's unprotected back. He stood, leaning forward in the saddle, and straightened his sword arm before him. Aiming at the crackling contraption that powered the cybork's industrial grade augments, he shouted at the top of his lungs. He timed the war mount's powerful thrusting stride and bent his elbow at exactly the right moment to absorb the shock of the tremendous charge. The Ranok power sword's blue aura burst into brilliant light as the high frequency weapon pierced the power source's thick metal skin and wretched sideways to tear a melting swath across the contraption. Arabelle's momentum drove Trevin beyond the Ork war boss and he rolled his shoulder backwards to let the force of the stride pull the power sword out.

The damaged power pack overloaded moments after, crackling energy shooting out in sheet lightning. The core burned powerfully and Ratchet-Fixa's eyes widened in painful realization. Suddenly, his back burst into flame and covered him with fire as explosive pyrotechnics bloomed. But his torment had just begun.

Howling in rage and tortured agony, the crackling hide of Ratchet-Fixa blacked as coronas of arcing lighting jumped from one augmentic to the next, burning out synapses and neurons. His auger arrays and optics shattered as deep implants burst and expanded. Great gouts of orkish fluids spewed from his remaining orifices and flowed between his tusked maw unabated. Ratchet-Fixa's body was tearing itself apart from the inside out as fire devoured his fat laced muscle tissue, crackling and popping loudly.

The war boss collapsed with a ground shaking tremor, displacing air and fluids that caught alight. The Orks stopped fighting almost immediately, as if aware that the mightiest of their kind had fallen. They milled around instead of finishing off wounded guardsmen and searched around themselves, instinctively needing another to lead their _waaagh_. With confused grunts and growls, the Ork horde lost all momentum. Their confusion was short lived.

A high pitched whistling heralded the end of their offensive and the victory the persephonians had dearly bled for. The sky lit up in a flash of light and the world came undone.

The artillery had been right on target. Staggered series of shells fell in a beautiful symphony of death and destruction. They ripped through the layers of hardened steel protecting the Ork siege breaker and buried deep into its bowels before unleashing their devastating air-fuel mix to scorch the rolling fortress from inside out. The force of the expanding gases inside its segmented shell put rivets and seems to the test as unbearable pressures tore outwards, spewing gouts of flame and propelling entire segments of the great construct outwards.

Had the guardsmen looked on instead of hitting the dirt, they would have witnessed the budding of a metal flower whose heart spit molten steel high into the air. Then, they would have gone blind as the excess energy of the detonation transformed into brilliant light, deafening thunder, and bowel loosening shockwaves.

As it were, most just soiled themselves involuntarily as their entire body loss control in the wake of the concussive blast. The orks, too stupid or brave to know any better, were blown off their feet, shredded by flying shrapnel the size of tanks, or incinerated by the heat unleashed by the great tracked behemoths' fuel reserve and the APHE basilisk shells. Those who survived turned tail and ran, convince that the mighty orkish deities, Gork and Mork, had voiced their displeasure at the _waaagh's_ meekness.

When the worst of it had subsided, the guardsmen of the Persephonian 1st rose to their feet, dusted themselves off, and cheered the way only doomed men seeing a new day could. They had, for the lack of a better word, skirted doom, faced death unflinchingly, and had been pulled from the cold watery depth of despaired by the Master of Mankind himself to live yet another day. The air sang with jubilation and oaths of service and love to the Emperor.

Brothers in arms clapped each other roughly and embraced. They raised their weapon in the air and hollered as the mountain of wrecked metal burned in a flickering haze of heat. It took some time for exhaustion to return, but it did with a vengeance.

...

It took hours to tally up the losses, find the dead, and treat the dying and wounded. Della and van Helger had been as surprised and as heartened as their men when the promised artillery salvo finally hit and obliterated the Ork horde poised to drown them in their blood, but an officer's duty did not end when the battle was won. The two remaining company commanders did what they could to organize a triage. Then they would need to reform the scattered and gutted remnants of their units.

Of nearly three full companies sent to battle, 300 men give or take, barely a platoon's worth remained. Most junior officers were dead and at least half the NCOs. Luckily the medics had been spared and those few that could be saved, were. The guardsmen here would all have scars to show and stories to tell, of that there was no doubt.

The question of sergeant Trevin's timely arrival was belayed in favor of his immediate help in organizing the survivors. Della wondered how he had once again managed to surprise her. He always seemed to appear where he was least expected, but this time, she wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. She still felt childish for having confused him for the death rider of myth but she tallied it to battle fatigue and a near death experience. Strange how the mind could work in those extreme moments when everything you knew was falling apart.

A tech savvy corporal managed to switch off the receptors to captain Jordan van Helger's damaged leg. For which he was very grateful. He promised the man a bottle of his finest when they returned to their billet. Medic auxilia Steld had confided in Della that it had most likely saved the old cavalier's life, as such constant and traumatic pain would have made his heart burst, more or less.

Siggurd was stabilized and quickly bandaged to stem the blood loss. By luck or grit, the stern veteran had survived the Mek boy's klaw, though his rib cage was little more than tatters. Any deeper and the sheers would have sliced through his heart and lungs, ending his military career. His recovery however, would be long and painful. Along the same lines, captain Arthur De la Croix had somehow miraculously survived his disemboweling. Both he and Siggurd were unconscious and heavily sedated with pain balms and counter biotics, waiting to be air lifted to the HQ medicaes, and long hours of surgery.

As for Lieutenant Della and the two remaining storm troopers of the Macharian "Death Wing", they had weathered the storm with superficial wounds. Della credited specialist Savana Zephira for her stroke of luck.

As soon as Honig and Ramirez found her, she sent a vox report to the Basilisk battery and Thunder Ridge command, announcing the unlikely success of the mission. Needless to say, there was much relief from the Ranok battalion manning the defenses. Father Jonas loudly proclaimed the hand of the Emperor in play and hurried, a rare sight for the languid preacher, to prepare a ceremony of thanks and offering for the Emperor's blessing. Commissar Carver just regretted being lenient with the men on what he thought would be their last hours, but he kept that too himself, hindsight was the critic of many great commanders after all.

...

Far from Thunder Ridge and the blasted wasteland of Kursk's eternally dry and dusty soil, images from the battle filtered through the strategium of general von Richter. Great cheers went up when the siege breaker disappeared in a shower of high explosive retribution. After which, the valkyrie had struggled with the tumultuous aftershock that nearly sent it crashing to the ground. The pilot confirmed the total destruction of the enemy engine and the survival of ground infantry, albeit by the skin of their teeth. Having no reason to deny them their just desert, von Richter authorized an extraction by assault carrier for the survivors and their wounded.

Patricius Hendricks noted that the General did not seem overly joyous at the heroic last stand and its success. That they lived or died, it was all the same for the general. The man had gotten what he wanted, but Hendricks still couldn't quite figure what the general's end game was. He was still hell bent on discovering why so many had died in the name of logistical simplicity. The brave persephonians were coming home however, and that meant preparations were in order to facilitate their arrival and support. They had gone beyond the call of duty already, no sense in bogging down their return in red tape. Hendricks watched the general retreat from the underground strategium, and took the liberty of using the general's authority as his aide to smooth his valiant regiment's return home.


	17. Chapter 14

14.

The hollow throb inside the valkyrie compartment woke Siggurd up. Pain set his back on fire and he tried to shift his weight off it. He couldn't, he was strapped to a gurney, he couldn't remember how he got there but he felt the weightless vertigo of powerful pain balms cloud his thoughts. The memory of digging his chain sword in a massive ork flitted into his memory but before he could grasp it, it dissipated in the fog of his intoxicated mind.

Beside him, Laura Steld, 3rd platoon's auxilia medic stared at him with her painfully empty eyes. He tried to speak but his throat was too dry and he croaked uselessly in the cacophonous red lit compartment of the assault carrier. Laura reached into her hip satchel and pulled out a syringe, then a small clear bottle of undiluted narcotic. Even from here Siggurd could see she was drawing an exaggeratedly large dose.

He tried to fight his bindings, speak again, tell her he could manage the pain, that he didn't need any more morphia but it was useless. He was too exhausted and broken to put up more than a pathetic squirm.

Laura leaned in to his ear, speaking loud enough for him to hear despite the noisy echoes bouncing around.

'I remember where I saw those eyes now. Those kind eyes, those guilt ridden eyes, they stared at me from the face of my father's murderer on that night.'

She flicked the syringe, watching the air bubbles rise to the top. She stuck it into the valve of the plastek tubing running into his veins and watched him groan, then cease to squirm. Her cold dead eyes never left Siggurds.

...

The business of war has always been a difficult thing. It took a special breed of citizen to actively seek the life of a guardsman. The call to raise regiments has always been the purview of the administratum and its specialized branch, the departmento munitorum, and to enlist in the guard from the planetary defense forces led to only one thing. To travel the stars and fight the manifold enemies of the Emperor. Guardsmen who left their homes would most likely never return to the world that had given them birth, and to those who they loved.

Beyond the toil and terror of a soldier's life in the Emperor's guard, one also had to realize that victory often came with the bitter taste of sacrifice. The guardsmen of the combined regiments fighting on Kursk had just now, after nearly a year, come to truly appreciate what that meant. As the survivors of Thunder Ridge were rotated back behind the safety of the Kursk curtain wall, they struggled with the guilt of having outlived their friends, the shock of such a close call, and the true cost of such a victory. Many would never be the same, not in mind nor in body. For those who had been wounded, the grueling rehabilitation at the medicae station of Crystal Lake was just the beginning. Many had lost limbs or the ability to hear and see. Other would have to live with the tormenting dreams and psychological trauma that followed the battle.

For those who could attend, a great ceremony was held along the tropical shores of the general HQ. The fires of war had forged a unique bond in those who had set out and heroically saved their brethren. The galvan, persephonian, and pagean regiments shared a common bond of sacrifice. Even the usually stoic and bombastic Ranok, who for the longest time had claimed that Kursk was held mostly in part by the toil and sweet of their regiment, now found a new respect for the great deeds of their supporting allies. Granted, it was their fortification and their men that manned the majority of the worst fought over trenches, but it had been the actions of their allies that had ultimately saved Thunder Ridge and the thousand ranok siege specialists that had built its formidable defenses.

The colonels of each regiment were present at the memorial ceremony. Maddox of the 5th Galvan, Ma'Tang of the 364th Pangean, Petra of the 568th Ranok, and even the rarely seen Orcha Lazarus of the Persephonian 1st gave homage to the memory of the fallen. Even general von Richter expressed a few choice words. Hendricks had not forgotten the cold detachment with which the general had send his comrades to death, but chose not to make an issue of it during such a solemn time. Needless to say, the great many rows of guardsmen in attendance found the ceremony a soothing balm to the wounds that the regiments had suffered. Soldiers needed to bury their dead, and remember why they fought. The Ecclesiarchy's usual fire and brimstone speeches were toned down and many found the words of comfort offered by father Jonas and his peers of great spiritual help.

Joined to the event were the many commendations and medals, each handed out by the pristine general, as well as the battlefield commissions that inevitably followed such a devastating set of engagements. Della received official command of the 3rd company as their newly minted captain and gratefully accepted the warrant of Honored Sergeant for Siggurd in his steed. The cheers and handclapping that accompanied her decoration was politely overwhelming, much of which came from the ranks of her fellow officers and the men she had commanded, Misfit being the loudest. Whatever schism had grown between her and Misfit since the Manticore incident had been healed by the singular event of their miraculous survival and the vacuum created by old "zigzag's" promotion, which left Augustus Trevin as the only real choice to replace him as veteran sergeant of Della's old commands. Although he only found that out weeks after the ceremony, Siggurd had actually rescinded his previous suggestions against Trevin's rise in rank stating that war had made him into a decent man, despite any and all other flaws he might have.

Who would lead them as their new officer was still up for debate, but Jensen Melot netted himself a position as Misfit's squad leader seconded by a newly promoted corporal Lancer.

It was a time of bitter sweet goodbyes as the decimated companies of the 3rd, 5th, and 8th company would be reshuffled with the survivors of other Persephonian battalions. Normally their companies would have been dissolved or relegated to administrative duties, but it would not have been fitting for such a heroic cohort and so the senior staff decided to fold lesser units into them. A fact that left captain van Helger and De la Croix endlessly pleased, as well as Della, who still felt she had a lot to prove.

In honor of what the rank and file took to calling "the three braves", for those companies who had stood against the Siege Breaker and its master, Major Tiamat organized an informal ball to be held at the officer's club from which the general staff commanded the war. The resort, as many liked to call it for its ostentatious decoration and refined architecture, was a truly fitting place to let the Persephonian elites cavort. Colonel Lazarus was seen enjoying himself greatly, which was a rare sight in itself, as the colonel had been forced into his position and wanted to be nowhere near this hell hole of a war. He was celebrating the victory of his regiment as much as the mysterious return of his prized long strider. He had let the matter of her disappearance die despite the steed's strange behavior. For some reason, she had become hell to ride, refusing him as a rider. None the less he was happy to have her back.

Decked out in their finest, the officers of the Persephonian 1st celebrated as if they were back home. By flaunting priceless silks, brocaded vests, bejeweled accessories, and all the fine dining traditionally enjoyed by the aristocratic houses from which they came. It was a private affair and it did moral good to let the trappings of war fall for an evening of conservative delight. Even the dour stoned face Tiamat cracked a smile, another rare sight for the officer they had dubbed "the destroyer." The moniker had stuck for her cold fury on the battle field and the utter annihilation of the enemy's forces, and this, in every engagement she had commanded.

The Persephonians weren't the only ones to have a celebration however. The Pangeans had taken over the beach that night. Huddled around empty fuel drums filled with flammables, they had performed their own brand of folk rites. It was not a somber thing; in fact the death worlders cackled and laughed, daring each other to feats of endurance and friendly bouts of bare knuckle fighting. They had come to celebrate the end of Captain Ri'zal dreaming. He and his men had surely earned their placed beside the great warrior, the Emperor, and it was a reason to rejoice. No longer would they wander aimlessly, they had awoken and would serve the master of mankind in all their warrior glory.

Many danced in drug fueled rituals and though they were impossibly loud, few would dare berate the death worlders, least of all the hundreds spread along the beach. Most of which were already beating each other senseless. Trevin had slipped from the ball late in the evening and joined Ung'Bak as an honorary member of his tribe. He had even managed to get Lancer and Melot into the festivities. It was much to their likings, seeing as Jensen had been a rural boy and Frederick the black sheep of his family.

The Galvans kept to themselves. Being accustomed to long stints on the field and quiet scouting missions, partying ran counter to their instincts. The Long Cloaks were an introverted bunch, and befitting their sensibilities, Veteran Sergeant Nathan Chronus eloped from the tidy confines of the Crystal Lake compound and found a quiet place to drink a stout from his home world. Nathan made sure to share his bottle with the soil of the world that had claimed his close friend. It was customary of the wandering people of Galva to pour a drink to the deceased as it was impossible under normal circumstances to carry their dead over their long journeys. No, the soil where one died was where they found the spirits of their dead. Despite the Church's admonishment of such habits, as wrongly representing the benefaction of the Emperor's servants, Galva had not abandoned this tradition, which was closest to their hearts. Nathan shared a few choice words and as the hours passed, more bottles were shared and more heartfelt sentiments as well. He watched the rising light, for no true sun could ever be seen on Kursk, and remembered the times the two friends had spent together without the artificiality of ranks. To the brother he had found in the bosom of war, he toasted his last and padded back to base feeling lighter for having made his goodbyes.

The weeks after their return were of healing, but some wounds were harder to heal then others.

...

Siggurd had not expected to wake up, but he had. An auxilia named Miella had cleaned his wounds dutifully over the days that followed, the wounds seeping and refusing to knit. He had been given treatments for blood poisoning and metal detoxification to help. The wounds across his chest were prone to infections and they always swelled painfully so he had taken to sleeping on his back. Had it been simply that, Siggurd would not have minded but the nagging last words of Laura Steld gnawed at him. The fact she sporadically came to see him had not helped.

From time to time he saw her watching him from the ward door. She hadn't spoken to him nor even come closer than the threshold she hovered around. Her silent vigils seemed as painful as Siggurd's wounds. She dared not take the steps that would lead her to his bed and ask the question he knew he couldn't answer. He dreamt of her staring at him with those empty eyes. At times she was the young girl that had watched the murderer of her father being dragged away in the hall of her ancestral home. But the eyes were always the same. It chilled him to imagine such world weary eyes glare at him from an infant's face. She wanted to know why, he wanted to tell her. Neither had the strength to cross that threshold.

'You owe me,' were the words she had spoken to him as he slumbered.

Laura had finally found the courage. He groggily turned his head to her. It had taken him being asleep and vulnerable, but she had finally come to get her due.

'I don't owe you gak,' he muttered, regretting it as soon as he heard himself. She was sitting by his bed side in the open ward. Despite the hundred other war casualties around them, they inhabited the lonely world of the guilty. It felt like he was trapped in a cell, and she alone held the key.

'Yes you do Bellechance, and you know it.'

'Don't call me that,' he growled.

They kept silent for a few painfully long time before she sighed deeply, her body sagging from the effort of confronting him. He couldn't look her in the eyes.

'I want to know why. You killed him. Why?'

He groaned more from the weight of the question than the pain of his wounds. He could already feel his bandages soaking from his shifting. The wounds oozed pus and half congealed blood. Something on the ork war boss' weapon had upset his body's ability to clot. It was one of the reasons for his infections and why the wound would heal into an ugly gnarled mess of scar tissue. Fitting, he thought to himself.

'No, you don't Laura. You really don't, best his memory stay buried.'

'Frak that, you son of a foal,' she said angrily before looking to see if she had bothered the other sleeping patients. She leaned in with those frightfully soulless eyes of hers, stripping him of his iron will. Guilt having eaten at his spirit for long decades.

He chewed his tongue trying to defy those eyes but finally relented, looking away.

'There they are again, those same guilt ridden eyes, kind but ashamed. I've seen those same eyes a thousand times. Like those of the medicae when they give the emperor's mercy to those too badly hurt to live. What aren't you telling me Bellechance, why did you do it?'

Her voice was wavering. She was on the verge of breaking down into tears. She was clawing at the psychic wound and if he didn't stop her, she would never recover from opening that anew. So he did.

The words came painfully at first. Slowly he explained what he had found and why he had taken upon himself to end her father's life. He had had no right to and he knew it. He also knew a man of her father's power and prestige would never have been taken to task for his twisted, cruel streak. It would have gone unabated. Laura listened and the anger, the betrayal she felt, slowly melted away. Her dead stare wavered and was replaced by horror. It was the first inkling of a soul he had ever seen in the young medicae. A shame it had to be at the mention of what her father had done to that poor servant girl in the cellar. He explained how the huscarl had dragged him to that same chamber and peeled the skin of his face, carving it with a devils' relish. How the days had dragged on into a nightmarish cycle of beatings and slicing. The huscarl had designed the torture to keep Siggurd alive, but make him plead for death, letting the mad man try his hand at ingenious new methods of making him suffer.

They both gave in then; Laura slumped back in her chair and buried her face in her hands while Siggurd felt the first tugging of long denied emotions, visceral and raw.

'How did you survive?' She asked with a mixture of pity and anger. Siggurd wasn't sure he truly had, Bellechance certainly hadn't. It was someone else entirely who had left that chamber. In those long years after the death of the lord Steld, he often wondered who that was.

'Providence? I don't rightly know Laura. I remember the armored carapace of an Arbiter, the loud blast of a shotgun in that tiny room, and the blood of the huscarl splatter warmly over my raw flesh. How the Adeptus Arbites had known I was there and what was happening, they never told me. All I know, is the arbiter got me to an Ecclesiarchy alms house to be tended to. He kept my survival off the record.'

The young medicae auxilia dried her moist eyes and let out a shuddered breath. A great weight was lifted off her, he could tell by how her shoulders regained a measure of rigidity. She had made her choice. She asked him to continue. His confession having taken a life of its own, he couldn't deny her.

He kept the details vague. Siggurd wasn't proud of what the Arbiter had asked of him after that day. His life was forfeit and they both knew it, so the lawman had kept his existence a secret and given him a false identity. He had become Helden Siggurd, and this man was to tidy up some loose ends for the Emperor. He had seen it as penance and had accepted his new life dutifully.

It had turned him into a common criminal, a thug, a murderer. But then again, he had already started on that path before Arbiter Uriel had saved him, in his own way. So when the enforcer had fulfilled his purpose in the shadow of the Emperor's justice, the arbiter had released him from his service. He wished he could forget those decades of bloody deeds at the behest of the Arbites. Those powerful lords and ladies, whose political weight protected them from justice, he had murdered under order. He had become the penitent blood hound of a man, whose word was the only assurance Siggurd had, of the righteous necessity of the deeds he undertook.

When he heard the Munitorum was founding a Persephonian regiment, the first in its history, he saw it as an opportunity to leave behind the two lives he had lived there. His brutish appearance and set of unique skills had earmarked him for a position as a drill sergeant and then as a veteran NCO. Not that he had told the Munitorum of his particular talents, but the Imperium recognized a murderer when it saw one. It knew its own. It also knew how best to put them to use.

...

Patricius Hendricks sighed as he checked that all the reports were filed in order of dispatch in his attaché case. The painfully bright light in the bunker lift was specially designed to trouble a passenger's eye sight so that in the event of an assault, enemies would be at a disadvantage while assaulting the darkened command strategium. It also had the unfortunate side effect of giving him a head ache when he was tired, like now, at the end of his sixteen hour shift. He rolled his shoulders to release some of the tension as the lift's doors opened unto the Resorts' senior staff wing. Dutiful Macharian storm troopers flanked the exit as he let his feet guide him down the familiar corridors to the general's private quarters.

Reports of readiness filled his case, which he had reviewed, as was his purview; to synthesize a concise data file for von Richter. The general did not like having his rituals of self-indulgence interrupted. It was something Hendricks had come to hate about the man, one of many. It clashed with everything he had come to expect about imperial leadership, even despite his aristocratic upbringing. Where was the gravitas, the smoldering hatred for the foe, the inspirational presence? No, von Richter was a shrewd, calculative, heartless regicide player with utter contempt for the nobility of a soldier's purpose, or his life.

The chandeliers sparkled overhead in the recess of the vaulted ceiling. It was night time on Kursk and the proximity to the sea made the air uncharacteristically stuffy as the Resort's processors struggled to keep the humid chill at bay. Instead, it was warm and humid, a state little better, in its own way. Hendricks passed a few tired munitorum adepts that shuffled down the halls on the way to their assigned wing. They offered halfhearted salutes, which was more then they needed to do, considering they were technically civilians. Not that Kursk had any cities, or in deed any kind of indigenous life beyond the Guard compound.

Hendricks finally entered the inner sanctum of the wing, that area reserved for the senior officers and von Richter himself. It was like stepping into another world. Where the Resort was luxurious in an affable, yet touristic way, the inner sanctum was decked with tapestries and oil paintings the size of two men abreast and easily as tall. Battle honors, standards, busts of von Richter family patriarchs and commemorative campaign awards lined the walls in alcoves and junctional resting areas where corridors met.

Hendricks stopped at appointed check points without needing to be being asked. Storm troopers stood stock still, like the statues lining the finely appointed halls, while hidden augurs and weapon systems tracked him. After a brief moment he was waved pass by a black armored sergeant, his pageantry marking him as a veteran of many battles. These check points were a regular occurrence for Hendricks, who needed to pass them multiple times a day because the general could not be bothered to spend his time in the strategium, unless a priority operation involving multiple battalions was at hand. Even then, the general's aide always felt nervous at the intense scrutiny he was subjected to at these safety checks. He let out a breath he hadn't noticed he was holding.

Hendricks finally arrived at von Richter's quarters where he was subjected to yet another inspection, this time it was a full body pat down and a visual search of his attaché case. He always found it interesting that despite such rigorous security protocol he was always allowed to retain his loaded sidearm when attending the general. He supposed the guard detail was confident enough of their reaction speed to terminate any threat. Or that a man with a laspistol simply couldn't wreck that much havoc. He wasn't sure which was more troubling. That he would be put down before being able to get a shot off, or that he didn't know what surprise they had in store for a would be assassin that made them so confident a las round wouldn't threaten their commander-in-chief.

Stepping across the threshold he saw that von Richter was sipping a glass of vintage amasec at his stately bureau. The soft gloom from outside was timidly held at bay with ensconced oil lamps that flickered in their glass receptacle. They gave the marble sheeted walls a glazed appearance that projected antiquity and wisdom in equal measure. Combined with the strange luminosity of Kursk's surrounding gas nebula, the night was lit a timid, subdued indigo, which blanketed everything with its indiscriminate brand of diffused light. Like its days, Kursk's nights were a monotonous blanket hinting at a light source that was never truly seen. Hendricks deposited his files and the annotated data slate besides von Richter's half eaten supper.

'Evening lieutenant, I trust the 21:00s are ordered in your usual fastidious manner?' the general said without looking up from his copy of _the 1001 Journeys of the Cypracartha_.

'Yes sir, as always, the reports have been collated. Ordered by priority prefixes and abridged to your specifications.'

'Good man, please take the refuse of my supper with you on your way out.' He flicked a page yellowed with age and smiled to himself. 'These navy boys are so full of superstitions.'

'Of course your lordship, if I may?' asked Hendricks.

'It explains why they're officers are so terribly eccentric. Look here, the moons at the far side of the Kursk system. Did you know the voids men call them the beholder because of the geometric positioning of the main planetoid and its twelve moons? They believe it's a bad omen.'

'Sir?' Hendricks pressed.

Von Richter looked up for the first time and folded his book on his desk, carefully taking his reading lenses off and adopting the mien of the stonewalling officer once more. 'What is it this time lieutenant?'

Hendricks shifted uncomfortably. He gathered his courage and once again set to chipping at the glacial demeanor of his commander. 'The regimental officers are asking for tasking orders. They are wondering when they should have their forces prepared for a consolidating push further into the Ork territory.'

'They have their orders lieutenant. There is nothing to push for and nothing to consolidate at this time. A good soldier knows how to follow orders.' Von Richter appraised him for a moment. 'Where have you gotten that restless spirit of yours, Patricius? I don't remember your grandfather ever being this obstinate about questioning his superior officers...'

'I'd wager it came from my mother's side. My father said I was always more Figaro than Hendricks. None the less sir, many men died taking Thunder Ridge. Surely there was a reason for their sacrifice other than securing a firing position for our batteries. They are, after all, vulnerable that far out without us moving our lines.'

The general sighed and waved a hand dismissingly at Hendricks. 'You know your _tactica _well Patricus, but there is more at play than simple battle formations here. Trust in my judgment lieutenant, dismissed.'

When the young lieutenant made no move to leave, von Richter raised an eyebrow questioningly.

'We have a saying on Persephonie sir, "good men die for no good reasons".'

'I was under the impression that little folk ditty went "In the Guard, no good man die without good reason," did it not?'

Hendricks shifted again, he was skirting dangerously close to a punishable offence regarding proscribed doctrines of thought and that meant treading on the Commissariat's playground. 'That's the redacted version allowed by the political office, sir.'

The general stood up and smoothed his immaculately clean uniform, creased in all the right places and stiff from over used cleaning starches. He folded his hands behind his back and tensed his jaw. He clearly knew where Hendricks was taking this and von Richter never abided insubordination, or the second guessing of his stratagems.

'I have had enough of your naive ideological jabs Hendricks. Get out of my sight and be thankful my debt of honor to old Ravion is the only thing keeping you in my service, and not in front of a firing line. Other officers would die to have the opportunity to be groomed within a general staff. Other men _have_ died for the chance. Now, you are _dismissed_ lieutenant!'

Hendricks stiffened his spine like an iron rod. He lifted his chin and adopted a formal tone. 'Then I must officially resign from my post as your aide my lord, If my grandfather's name is all that keeps me here, then you no longer need to honor whatever arrangements you had.'

Von Richter's humors darkened slowly, his frown deepening alarmingly. 'Spare me your righteous indignation you little shit! Pearls before swine, that's what you are, nothing but a swine!'

The stony facade crumbled as surely as a bastion under artillery fire. Spittle flew from his mouth as he heaped insults on the young officer, who blinkered from this unprecedented loss of control. Storm troopers burst in and leveled their weapons at Hendricks as he stood like a reed in a storm.

'Yours, is not to question. Yours, is to obey. From the scum of the guard to the regimental colonels, yours is to die for the emperor. In your millions and in your billions, to be bled by bullet and blade until the last of you fall, for the Emperor, blessed be his eternal rule, that your betters may rule in his name!'

The general rounded around his desk as Hendricks stood frozen before the rage he had unleashed. Even the storm troopers held back and lowered their aim. With a belittling back hand, he sent Hendricks to the ground. The general seethed with fury, towering over the stupefied junior. Then, it ended as quickly as it had begun. The spark that had kindled von Richter's aggression died down to simmering ambers. Composing himself anew, the general straightened his overly decorated uniform.

'No one rejects my benefaction Hendricks. No one. If you ache for martyrdom, you can join the rabble and die in the trenches. I never want to hear your name again Hendricks, your career is over!'

Von Richter turned to his guard detail and massaged his hand absent mindedly. 'Take this wretch to the stockades and inform the Commissariat that he is charged with derision of command. I expect the full weight of punishment to be heaped upon him, short of execution. Death, he can find on his own!"

Without looking back, von Richter walked back to his seat and sat down to pick up his reading where he left off. Lieutenant Patricius Hendricks was unceremoniously pacified with the stock of a rifle and dragged bodily away from the general's sight.

Before the door could close, a man in billowing robes of dark green slipped in. Although his presence was in no way furtive, he did not attract anyone's attention. His skin was clinging gauntly to his emaciated skull and tattooed with an assortment of hermetic symbols drawn from the most ancient and forbidden tomes, reserved for the most feared servants of the Emperor.

He folded his hands within his dangling sleeves. Woven along them were charms of platinum and tarnished bone which jangled ominously. Every stitch was made with a greater pattern in mind. Every fiber reinforced with esoteric materials of no discernible origins. At his waist a utility belt was cinched denuded of its H harness. Its many pockets and pouches filled with things no guardsmen should ever have, or dare to carry. The shrouded man closed his eyes and muttered incomprehensively before a sharp crackle of static electricity elicited a startled curse from von Richter.

'Emperor damn you, man! I'm not in the mood for your theatrics, Malachor.' The general angrily closed his book and slammed it onto his desk, which set the silverware at his side clattering on the polished serving tray. He pinched the ridge of his nose as he breathed deeply. He hated the witch's dramatics, even more so than his existence.

'My apologies my lord, it is done.' The psyker said simply.

'Done?' von Richter practically jumped out of his chair; his eyes alight with a desperate need. He stroked his trimmed goatee and paced around while the psyker simply eyed the floor demurely. 'You have seen it, my victory... we will draw him here?'

Malachor nodded, meeting his lord's gaze. 'I have seen the Emperor's will. By the three fold figures of his tarot, the crusher of worlds will turn his gaze upon Kursk and destroy all.'


	18. Third interstice

Interstitial

The sound of his chamber's paneled doors opening followed by the subtle clatter of heels told Augustus all he needed to know.

'Brace yourself, young lady,' he said with a smirk as he put down his empty glass. Serenity was surprised at the sudden pause in his narrative but soon realized his words had nothing to do with it. A handsome woman of indeterminate age walked into the room they were occupying. She had the glow of expensive rejuvenat treatments about her, matching the lord generals. She was dressed in a garment of exquisitely tailored diamonds, its threads woven seamlessly to fool the eye. She commanded attention the instant she approached the two by the fireplace. Her delicate aristocratic features could not be mistaken. They were heightened even, by the remarkably complex interwoven mesh of silvery blond hair that sat atop her head. It was a traditional coiffure in the timeless traditions of the noble circles, just like her, graceful, powerful, beautiful, and ageless.

'So this is the young morsel that has taken my husband's attention for the last few hours,' her tone was playful but laced with steel. Both Augustus and Serenity stood up, the former tucking his brass hand behind his back and bringing the lady's affectionately his lips, the latter curtsying with feminine grace.

'Josephine, this is the woman I spoke to you about. She will be the writer of my memoirs,' said the lord general. Serenity's sharp mind caught on quickly, confirming her suspicion of the storm grey eyes that peered back at her.

'My sincerest adoration lady Della, I have heard much about you already. I am honored to be in your presence.'

'What rubbish has he told you? Does he have me coming down from the heavens, fluttering my white wings, to gift him with the Emperor's sword? Or is it something even sillier?' Josephina shook her head, for all the lady's attempt at humor, Serenity could still sense the ease with which command crept into her rich voice.

'That comes later my love; we are just about to conclude our foray on Kursk.' Augustus guided his wife away from the fireplace and towards their private sanctum. It was difficult for Serenity to reconcile the thought of them ever being at odds with the affectionate couple she saw walking away now. Then again, they also had proven themselves hardened veterans with scores of deaths to their name, or so the memoirs were shaping them to be. Could such nobility and poise hide cold hearted killers beneath?

'Why you insist on recalling such dreadful times, I simply cannot fathom Augustus.' Josephina was straightening his collar as she spoke, smoothing her hands down his open jacket. The lord general took her hands in his, putting an end to her idle fussing over his appearance.

'If not I, then who? The historians will only glorify, the reports confound the uninitiated, and the powerful will have it censured. Those who died without justice clamor for their story to be told. You and I are the last of the survivors my dear. I will not face the dead with excuses at my appointed hour.'

'Oh Gus, I swear, if you could take the Emperor's place on his eternal vigil, you would gladly sacrifice your soul to keep his light burning.'

'Hush now, let's not take his name in vain. The commissars would froth at the mouth.'

'I pity the fool who draws a weapon on me.'

'So do I, my love. So do I. I will be with you soon enough, were almost done for today.'

Josephine Della-Trevin turned to Serenity, who had quietly stood by the fire place observing the elders. Her eyes captured Serenity essence at a glance, or so it felt for the young writer.

'Careful with this one young lady, he has a way with words. He'll promise to sweep you away astride his majestic steed and take you to Terra's pastures. But remember, riding second in the saddle only means you are more likely to fall off the strider's rear end.'

The couple shared a secretive smile before the lady retired. Augustus settled back down and lit his pipe, its stem clicking between his teeth as he fed the fire with a lengthy pull. Quiet moments passed as Serenity settled herself down and notice that the plates of delicacies had disappeared and their drinks were refreshed. She looked about the chamber but saw no traces of the servants.

'Eerie isn't it?' smiled Augustus. 'They have a way about them. They could be temple assassins for all their skills.' He mumbled to himself, drawing on his pipe, its rich exotic scent wafting in the air lazily. 'I suspect one might actually be, I suppose I'll find out tonight, depending on how heretical they find our exchange.'

Serenity was about to laugh at the lord general's jest when his eyes betrayed the truth of his words. No man was out of reach of the High Lords of Terra. Even a lord general might find his life cut short if he displeased his masters. The more power you held in the Imperium the more enemies you made. To assassinate a man for speaking his mind was not unheard of, but to do so for a memoir, when the record could easily be designated _prohibitum literarum_, seemed a bit excessive. She decided to abandon that train of thought. What did she know of the motivations of men whose single word could burn entire sectors to ash?

'So, where were we?' asked Augustus as he stared into the dancing flames at his side.

Serenity briefly access the memory coil to relive the moments before the lord general's wife had entered the room. With a calming breath she returned to the present moment. 'It was after the battle with the Siege Breaker and the dismissal of Lieutenant Hendricks.' Dismissal was putting it lightly, but it was not her place to judge, simply to bare witness to the testimony.

'Poor Hendricks, if only we had known what would come of it. Perhaps we would have acted differently. Time makes wise men of even the most ignorant. All these things I told you, of Steld, and Siggurd, of those battles so long ago, I have been privy by din of my friendship with those guardsmen. Kursk has haunted me for many years my dear, always, I was drawn back to that faithful year. What I had not been told, I pieced together from reports I had the right to access when I ascended to the rank of general. I left Kursk, but it never left me.

You see, those adepts of the Munitorum, they kept detailed records of everything. Apart for the last days of our tenure on the world, everything was available back at segmentum command. Even after the terrible loss we suffered, many continued to keep records as they wandered the wastes. Scribbling on anything they could find that would hold their data, even their flesh. A true servant of the Imperium does not serve for the promise of payment, but for the knowledge that he has done his duty to the master of mankind. Blessed be his light that protects us from the mutant, the witch, and the heretic.'

'I now know why everything transpired as it did. It does not give me succor, but it is one more step along the journey. Everything von Richter did, he did to grant the Imperium a victory, one that the fallen on Kursk would never see, or indeed understand. It was his method that still leaves me stricken with the strange guilt of a survivor. But I learned a valuable lesson from him. There is a difference between a commander, and a leader.'


	19. Chapter 15

_**Falling sky**_

15.

The arcane trappings of his calling were spread across his private sanctum. Charts and ancient authored tomes, copied and rewritten hundreds of times, lay open to facilitate the grueling interpretation of upcoming events. Augury was never an absolute science; it was an intuitive art, comprised of many symbolic factors and their hidden meanings. Malachor was bent over his studium, as he had been for the last few days, trying to pierce the mystery of the threefold three. The general was not a patient man, and with the fate of his entire bid resting on the coming of the world crusher, Malachor was hard pressed to produce practical intelligence from the malleable signs he had pulled out of the aetheric currents of the warp.

Barely touched meals were scattered over his sanctum, the servants bringing him sustenance but not daring to interrupt the witch's work. Psykers were hated and feared. It was only understandable, and Malachor did not begrudge their whispered curses and their fearful glances. Since the dawn of their existence, psykers had been both reviled and needed. Even today, pre-compliant worlds without imperial rule worshiped their shamanic or hermetic cousins, those able to foretell the turning of seasons, curse with but a hateful eye, or abjure the spirits and daemons that plagued their people. Witches, warlocks, thaumaturgist, and seer were desperately needed but always kept at arm's length. The pariahs that safeguarded the primitive cultures were their greatest protection against the dark, and their most potent threats.

For what could pierce the veil into the Sea of Souls, and draw for it the impossible, was also a gateway for the malicious denizens of the warp to come through. A weak mind gifted with power often became an easy passageway into the physical realm and horrors, deep, dark, sanity blasting, and soul starved, came to feed on those they found. Worlds could fall. Worlds _had_ fallen.

But Malachor was not such a mind. Taken by the black ships of the inquisition at a young age for the Scholastia Psykana, he had traveled the stars to holy Terra. He had been tested and trained during his voyage through the hellish currents of the warp, and not found wanting. He was bound to the Emperor's light, the Astronomicon, which shone at the cost of ten thousand souls a day and sustained the desiccated physical form of the mightiest psyker in human history. The master of mankind himself, the Emperor, on his golden throne.

A potent Psyker in his own right, Malachor was a high level Epsilon grade practitioner. Had he been able to develop talents beyond divination and pyrokenesis, he may have been graded higher, but he had very little inherit capacity for the other disciplines of his kind. His foresight however, rivaled his Gamma level peers, who often mastered multiple disciplines with equal ease. It was his special niche, and the reason he was so often seconded to high echelon commanders like general von Richter.

All this meant nothing to the military master of the war on Kursk. He measured usefulness with practical results, and now was the time to prove Malachor's worth. Least he be discarded in the upcoming massacre, which ironically, he had foreseen for the general's forces. He almost had the threefold three elucidated. That was the key. He sprawled the many personnel files over his writing desk, looking for the proper symbols and conjunctions that hinted to the confluence of fate. He cleared his mind using the time honored exercises learned in his time on the black ships. A clear and open mind could see much farther than any collation cogitator. At least a mind as powerful as his, which he bent to the manipulation of the Emperor's Tarot, cards laced with psycho reactive crystals that channelled His divine will.

_Three is the key._

_The maiden queen, reversed. She who dependent on others._

_The fool, upright. He who has a child's freedom and spontaneity._

_The wheel of fortune, upright. The lucky herald of a pivotal event._

_The knight of swords, upright. Hasty in action and impulsive, opinionated warrior._

_Tied by the three swords, reversed. The release of pain and guilt._

Always the same cards, no matter how many times he undertook the reading. Von Richter's master strategy depended on those three major cards, the queen being a clue to finding the trio, the minor arcana the condition for their success. He crossed referenced the significance of the three on his ancient charts, used by pre-imperial numerologist who deciphered the patterns of the universe with the scrutiny of impossible coincidence in infinite numbers. He brushed his day old meal away and opened two tomes and a manuscript to use as a reference with the massive numerology chart.

Three was the creative child, who never judges and sees the world with different eyes. It had to be multiples of the three, which was the key; it had to be six and nine. Six was the motherly protector, who would sacrifice her life for those of her loved ones. And the nine, the worldly philanthropist, who fights for the greater whole of humanity and would sacrifice himself for the betterment of all. Threefold three, that made nine, the main attributes of the major arcana pulled from the tarot. The fool would be the three, which was easy enough to see, the attributes were far too similar. The wheel would be the six, a wheel was circular, it denoted a group, and it meant its influence was restrained to a formation. And the knight would be the nine, he who follows an ideal and fights for others without regard or discrimination, fights for a noble purpose, and dies for a cause which all can gain from.

There was of course, many cards surrounding the epicenter of the three. This endeavor would require more than simply three souls. To retain the purity of the appointed number, the multiples would be of three. Twelve was close to the standard number of a Guard squad. But it would not be enough for this endeavor. Two squads would equal twenty-four, which was suitable, but twenty-seven on the other hand, which was a mere three numbers away was the supreme number in ancient Terran numerology. It meant that two squads had too few conjunctions to function properly in this reading; it would have to be one very special unit with surrounding attributes mirroring the minor cards of the tarot and summing the number twenty seven.

Malachor picked at a piece of dry bread as he settled into his spartan seat. This was becoming insufferably complicated. He reached for the personnel files for all three regiments deploy in this war, three again, he mused. It was definitely the key. Now he had to figure out what it unlocked.

...

The ghostly projection on the holocaster flickered as it appeared in front of general von Richter. In the dim light of the underground strategium, it was a beacon of eerie green light. An imperious looking man stood for all to see, his navy uniform a sharp contrast to the Guards, even more decorated and patriarchal, rivaling the general's own even though the ranks differed greatly.

'Commodore Alabaster, it is a pleasure to see you once again,' said von Richter in way of greeting. The luminous specter bowed its head, his physical form hundreds of thousands of kilometers away aboard his ship, _Kalaga's Grace_.

'Likewise general, I had my reservations that your force would still be intact after an entire Terran standard year, especially with the task the lord general had put to you.

'It will take more than a few barbarous Xeno to undo my forces commodore.'

'Yes,' said Alabaster, his visage hardening suddenly. 'I have to be the bearer of bad news general. Our surveyors have detected a sizable Xeno force passing through the accursed Beholder. They will no doubt reach Kursk in a matter of days and my squadron is rimward. We won't be able to make planet fall before they arrive, general.'

Von Richter smiled slowly. He assured himself that his command staff was too busy at their post to overhear too much of the conversation. Rightly so, his dais was not the center of attention in the military nerve center he occupied.

'Nonsense commodore, that is wonderful news. It only proves the rectitude of my course and the gambit I have offered to play for Lord General Venerati.' He affected a nonplussed demeanor that caught the naval commander off guard.

'Von Richter, my good man, I don't believe you understand the measure of that which I impart to you. Their ships number in the dozen, my squadron numbers three, and their abominable rocks are hurtling towards your position. Naval intelligence estimates a force of _millions_, and I tend to agree with their calculations. There are even whispers that it is the personal _waaaagh_ of the orkish warlord besieging this sub-sector.' The commodore spoke with a soft tone, one officers often used when announcing the death of a guardsmen to his next of kin. Von Richter wanted to laugh at the misplaced concern of his naval ally. Surely, many would die, if not his entire force, but von Richter wouldn't. He had made sure of that.

'Thank you for your concern, Alabaster, will it be possible to spirit a small contingent from Kursk away onto your ships. When the time arrives, that is.'

The Commodore frowned. 'I suppose it is possible, but we will not be able to proceed with a full evacuation general. Only a very small number of men could be realistically saved.'

Von Richter clapped his hands together, happy to hear the news, just as he had expected. 'That is all I require of you my dear Alabaster. I look forward to dinning with you on _Kalaga's Grace _in a few days' time.'

'I see,' the naval man said, 'different battlefields, different rules I take it. I'll make all the necessary arrangement for the rescue operation.'

The link was cut between the two officers. Von Richter reviewed the latest reports; it seemed the Galvan 5th finally had scored a victory to their names down in Green Klaw marsh. Ironic, now that it didn't matter anymore.

Far away, on an Imperial cruiser, a different breed of officer leaned back into the command throne of his starship. It was far too impolite to question another commander in their specialized field of operation. He supposed the guard played by different rules. Here, on a ship, it was all for one and one for all. They were literally in the same boat. The faults of another could spell the doom of all those aboard. It was only natural that voidsmen lived by a different code. It was not unknown of men to weather plasma core breaches to access manual safety overrides, leaving only melted corpse behind, to save the ship and their comrades.

'Still,' Commodore Alabaster muttered, 'he's a snake if I ever saw one.' He didn't look forward to eating with a man with so much blood on his hands.

...

The next few days brought with it a flurry or orders. Troopers milled about their positions, reserves were drawn up, and positions reinforced and repaired. The air was brimming with barely contained energy. The survivors of the first year on Kursk, knew the signs, an attack was coming. Camp followers were forced back into their sector between Crystal Shores and the curtail wall of the Kursk battle line. Leaves were canceled and supplies distributed generously to every unit, depot, and motor pools along the hundred kilometer stretch between the HQ and the Front. Troopers on punitive details were released to their units, and those in the stockades were given leave of their incarceration pending their return from the front to fulfill their penitence.

It took the scout vehicle Trevin had borrowed a while to get to his destinations. Leaving from the curtain wall, he had been caught behind a battalion's worth of troopers in large open topped cargo-8 transports. That in itself was not a problem but the galvans were being swarmed every few meters by crowds of camp followers. They lined the transit lane paved when the Imperium had landed a year ago. Seeing that the civilians were all confined to their stretch of land, the road had become somewhat clogged with vendors and whores plying their wares.

These entrepreneurs could normally be counted to get out of the way of a military convoy, but today was different. Today, Colonel Maddox of the Galvan 5th was returning from Green Klaw marsh with the monstrous head of the infamous Nob Kommando, whose name the marsh wore since the first day of battle with his horde.

Today, everyone wanted to bask in the glory of a victorious imperial force returning home after a long and difficult game of cat and mouse across the southern peninsula. They crowded the trucks wanting to touch the guardsmen who had triumphed. Gifts of trinkets and sweets were offered up to the troopers, who were still draped in the jungle flora used to camouflage them. They deserved a few luxuries, thought the camp followers; after all they had survived off the land for so long, eating bugs, lizards, and roots. Pretty courtesans winked and showed their shapely legs to the weary soldiers, trying to secure customers for when the galvans would invariably get some leave time. Children ran along the convoy shooting imaginary las guns at the meter thick head of the dead ork boss and dreamt of joining the Guard when they grew up.

As enjoyable as the impromptu parade was, Trevin had business to attend to and he was running late. That business brought Veteran Sergeant Trevin to the stockade today. He disembarked from the Salamander scouting vehicle and presented his requisition form to the bored ranok trooper. With a dismissive grunt the trooper let Trevin go on. The stockades were a multi-purpose tool for the commissariat. It held offending troopers in captivity for their numerous breaches of the military code penned by the Munitorum. It also served as public humiliation, as it was in the sight of the Crystal Shore beaches, and all those troopers who found themselves held within its wooden barred cages were easily identified. It also reminded those who were without the price of ill-discipline. It was a passive aggressive form of torture, with interrupted sleep cycles, forced hygiene sessions at the hands of high powered hoses, and the occasional missed meals that could, and often did, last the prisoner's entire stay. It also left flogged troopers in the broiling heat or alternatively, in the aching cold of the night, which only served to heighten the unpleasantness of staying within its facilities.

Misfit squad knew well its delights, some members more than others.

Trevin crossed paths with the specter of death himself, Commissar Carver, who escorted a ragged looking trooper. He had a shaggy beard and dulled eyes, the kind a man had after enduring the unendurable. Despite his sun baked skin and the reek of days old sweat, the man walked with a quiet dignity that marked him as not only an officer, but a Persephonian. Trevin could spot his kind from a mile away. So, not a trooper then. The sergeant couldn't begin to imagine what the man could have done to force his superiors to disgrace him so.

Carver exchanged a knowing nod with Trevin as he walked by. Either the man knew something he didn't or he was a mind reader. Both possibilities didn't bode very well. He pushed the thought aside as he arrived at one of the stockade cages.

'Hey, hey, if it isn't my lucky star!' yelled out Jensen. It seemed his time in the stockade hadn't worn down his usual bluster. The Misfit squad leader slipped his hands through the cross beams of his cage and leaned against them. 'What brings you to my domain, Gus?'

Trevin shook his hand heartily, even after his promotion to Veteran Sergeant in Siggurds' place; Misfit had remained a tight knit family. 'I'm here to fetch you, seems the guard can't bare to function without you. You're penitence is to be postponed until after the next engagement. Guess you're the lucky one today.'

Jensen seemed to take the news in stride. It was all an act, Trevin could tell he was relieved. He just couldn't put down his gambler's persona, all smoke and mirrors that one. As Trevin waved a commissar-cadet over to open the cage, he spotted a Pangean crouching in a corner.

'Ung'Bak, is that you?'

The man unfurled, the light cascading over him revealing the length at which the commissariat had gone to make their point. He was beaten black and purple, not an inch of him looked its normal swarthy self. 'Heh? Is that you, _lu'in b'ein_?'

'What, you know this guy?' asked Jensen.

'Yeah I do,' he answered Jensen as he tried to get a better look at Ung'Bak. 'What the hell did you do to deserve this?' he reached into the cage to help the Pangean closer. Despite the abuse to his body, Ung'Bak's eyes still glimmer with mischief.

'Nah thing, mein. Nah a damn thing.' The Pangean squeezed Trevin's forearm in greeting, his grip was still strong.

Jensen watched the cadet start to look for the key to the cage, one of many on a large iron ring. 'Your buddy there decided to mouth off at Carver. It's a bad idea any day of the week, worst for trying to cover it up.'

'Nah mein, just Pangean greeting for _lu'in b'ein_. Just say hi, that all.' He chuckled, it looked painful by the way he winced. Not that Ung'Bak, or any Pangean for the matter, ever admit to pain or weakness.

'What did you call him, Ung?' asked Trevin in a serious tone that meant he knew better than that. After all, _Lu'in b'ein_ was not exactly a term of endearment to begin with, except between Ung'Bak and Trevin.

'I just say hi, wacha'lo'kinat, that all, I swear!' decried Ung'Bak in his totally insincere defense.

Trevin mouthed the words, heavy with the Pangean accent, and then caught on. He laughed. 'You got balls Ung'Bak, calling out a commissar like that, Carver no less.

The young cadet finally unlocked the wooden cage, none too happy with the subject of conversation. He would most likely report to Carver all that was said. It explained why all the Pangean were greeting the other regiments with that rapid string of words, which he now understood, it was no doubt a sign of solidarity. Pangean's were tight knit like that, their tribal ways never compromised. Jensen and Ung'Bak only made it worst as they parted way, raising their hands in salutation.

'What are you looking at,' said Jensen laughing.

'Wacha'lo'kinat,' answered Ung'bak with a smile.

The humor of the moment quickly melted away. The cadet commissar dropped his ring of keys with a heavy thud. He was staring at the sky. Trevin noticed it was a few shades redder then its usual vermillion. Then, streaking meteoroids were falling as far as the eye could see. Soon, larger asteroids could be seen. They fell in groups and were all heading far west of the HQ camp, but there was no mistaking their unnatural formations and certainly not their numbers. The sky, for all those who set their eyes upon it, looked like was falling.

...

'Hell of an entrance these heathen Xenos made heh Hans?' Colonel Lazarus was having his usual Ten-day breakfast with the general. As usual, three times a Terran standard month, all the senior officers attended the dedicated service given by the Ministorum appointed lector. After which, like clockwork, he and von Richter would retire to the general's private gallery and have a breakfast of poached grox eggs, fried Oakwood swine, and the renowned starch products of the Weatherwinds. All imported of course, for nothing palatable grew on Kursk.

'I'll give you that Orcha, it was a pretty little light show.' Von Richter sipped his recaff silently, preferring a slightly less gluttonous fare than Lazarus, which meant he often spent at least a quarter of an hour listening to the man babble on between mouthfuls. The general folded his reports together and moved on to the next one, never caring to set his sights on the colonel. It was a shame, von Richter had often remarked, that this man was the closest thing to an equal he had found during this campaign.

'Speaking of which, Orcha my friend, the Orks are going to throw themselves at our walls again, no doubt.'

'Let them!' Lazarus laughed, covering his mouth with a silk napkin. 'These thundering idiots still haven't learned. How many have we killed since the beginning of our little war, a million? Two, perhaps? It will take longer to clean up the mess than put them down, I'll wager.'

Von Richter nodded softly, ' regardless, they will come in substantially larger numbers this time. I have it on good authority, Commodore Alabaster, in fact.'

Ocha Lazarus stopped chewing and was wondering what Hans was getting at. 'Oh? How many more?' he probed.

'Substantially more.' Von Richter sipped his recaff, letting the words hang. 'Nothing to worry about, I assure you. But I will need you to make an appearance in the ranks, for moral's sake, you understand.'

Colonel Lazarus almost choked on his breakfast. 'Is this a farce Hans? You know very well the front is no place for a gentleman. A man's liable to get killed out there!' The Persephonian commander was gesticulating with his cutlery, still wondering if this was all a stab at his expense.

The general leveled his stare at Lazarus for the first time in their conversation. This was no jest. Lazarus knew that now.

'You know very well I never asked for this Hans. It was all forced on me, the minute I inherited the old cow's fortune my siblings maneuvered me into joining the Guard despite my immunity. I'd have ended dead in my sheets otherwise!' Lazarus bemoaned, like he often did.

'I'm an administrator, damn it, you know that von Richter!' Lazarus was starting to redden, panic gripping him at the thought of being stuck out there with the rabble and the Xenos.

'I am not asking you as your peer Orcha, I'm telling you as your commander-in-chief. All senior officers will be ordered into their regiment in the defense of our installations. Put yourself where ever you want within those parameters, but I want all seniors to be present with their men, they will need the incentive, believe me.'

Colonel Lazarus swallowed his last bite sideways, having reflexively continued to stuff his face during the short exchange. He almost choked to death before a servant rescued him. Von Richter scowled as he sipped his now cold recaff.

...

A second lieutenant was standing by the Resort's briefing room, flanked by two Macharian storm troopers. He was checking his data slate as they waited. By the press of his uniform and the youthful features of his face, Trevin guess he was an aid in the general staff. This briefing was of an order of magnitude higher than he had expected.

'Veteran Sergeant Augustus Trevin, Persephonian 1st, 2nd battalion, 3rd company. Here we are. Please enter and seat yourself in the far end rows. The briefing is about to begin,' instructed the lieutenant.

Trevin saluted and was allowed to enter, his sidearm held for him after a vigorous pat down. It was another sign of the severity of the situation. He knew it was going to be something special the minute he was told to present himself at the Resort, what the grunts called the lavishly luxurious general HQ, but to be disarmed, that suggested the top brass in attendance.

The briefing room was a small amphitheatre designed to draw attention to the speeker. Its traditional domed architecture was ribbed and made to reflect the speaker's voice to every corner of the room without the aid of amplifying tech. The seats were divided by three alleys and furnished with rows of seats comfortable enough to sit through an opera. It was a far cry from the usual tin tables supported by thin load struts.

Trevin spotted Siggurd and Della at the far end and sat next to them. The antagonistic relationship between the three had died down over the trials and tribulations of the last year, but there was no easy camaraderie between them.

'Any idea what this is about?' Asked Trevin. Captain Della simply shook her head. Siggurd scoffed.

'What do you think briefings are for Trevin?'

'Happy to see you too, ziggy,' that earn a sneering growl from the honored sergeant. Della pre-empted the argument with a glacial stare. The two settled down like good soldiers.

If there had ever been a more motley assembly, Trevin had never seen one. Half a dozen people were spread out along the rows along regimental and combat role lines. Savana Zephina was sitting with Jack Bensel midways to the speaker's dais, exchanging what passed for idle chatter between the stone faced storm troopers. Two loners sat at opposed ends of the room. Trevin was pleasantly surprised to see Ung'Bak, who was still a mass of bruised flesh smiling back at him. The other was a bearded man in galvan colors, by the stripes on his arm he was a veteran sergeant too. He seemed intensely brooding, bringing his own gloom to sulk in. Oblivious to everything was also an enginseer, which was busy tapping along his data slate with superlative speed. As uninterested as the techpriest, Commissar Carver sat a few seat away, seemingly unsettled at having troopers behind him, out of his sight, a vulnerable position for any executioner to be in.

The staff door opened once again and in walked a lieutenant in Persephonian blue. Trevin didn't recognize him and he sat a few seats away from the rest of his regiment with little more than a salute to Della and a short nod for the sergeants.

By the speaker podium, silent and watching, was an emaciated man in flowing imperial green robes. His liver spotted scalp was bald and his haunted eyes seemed to stare into the far distance. The man, bedecked in strange symbols and charms, seemed to be waiting too. He was not the speaker they were waiting for.

He hoped he had chosen well. For all their sakes. Malachor watched as the instruments of fate arrived one after the other. He had scrutinized their personnel files, their action reports, their contributions to the war. They were as close as the Tarot as he could have chosen, as connected by events and character as they could be, as perfect a match as he could find. His witch sight flared as he explored the surface of their minds subtly. His senses probed at their makeup, discovering more about them than even they knew about themselves.

He believed he had their numbers right. The only minor arcana he had not been able to elucidate was the card of the scholar. One missing element out of nearly two dozen was an acceptable gap in his prediction. The scholar could yet show itself during the pivotal events, fate was fickle and mysterious that way.

Malachor spied the general's presence with his otherworldly senses moments before he entered the room through the commander's archway set beside the presentation dais. Immediately the room snapped to attention as they recognized who the speaker would be. The guardsmen rose in the blink of an eye and saluted von Richter as if he was the Emperor himself, which in this war; he was the closest representation of.

'At ease gentlemen,' von Richter commanded as he gripped the podium and scrutinized the men and woman Malachor had chosen for him. His eyes stopped on the unknown lieutenant by the Persephonian group. He turned and shot Malachor an unhappy look. Malachor nodded sagely which seemed to mollify the general, if only a little.

'You have been chosen for a very special assignment. As you surely know, a sizable Ork force has landed 369 kilometer west of our lines. They will arrive within striking range within the next twenty-four standard Terran hours.' He let the confirmation of what everyone in the room suspected sink in. Turning supposition into cold calculating focus. Von Richter approved of what he saw, these guardsmen obviously were made of sterner stuff than he had expected. They knew when the end game was in reach.

'I know soldiers of your calibers will no doubt want to be with your brothers-in-arms at this decisive engagement, but I ask a great service of you instead.' The assembly was leaning in almost to a man; they were eating in his palm. Hans von Richter knew how to spur soldiers on, and it was in his nature to dress the briefing in a way that would fire them up and make them ready to give their last breath for the completion of their objective.

'You have been handpicked and approved by myself for your stellar performance during this campaign and your unique attributes. I trust that you will not fail the Emperor in this most vital of hour. Know that you quite literally hold the fate of this campaign in your hands. Without a proper chain of command, we hold no hope of defeating the foe that besets up.

'You!' he emphasized powerfully, 'will be my personnel protection detail. The last line of defense we have, the best, the toughest, and most bloodied guardsmen of this most holy crusade to cleanse the stars of the filthy Xeno. That is all; questions will be directed to Psyker Primaris Malachor. I thank you in advance for your service.'

With that, the general walked off the dais as promptly as he had arrived on it, and disappeared down the arched hallways. The psyker slowly approached the podium and slipped his gnarled hands from his voluminous sleeves. He inclined his head sideways in a disturbing way before settling into a more orthodox posture. 'Questions?'

Captain Della stood up and waited for the psyker to acknowledge her right to speak. 'What forces and positions will we be expected to coordinate with? I take it we will be more than just half a dozen specialists.'

'Quite so, captain,' Malachor said, his voice strangely hushed but clear for all to hear. 'You will have the support of your Misfit squad, also chosen for their achievements. In addition, you will have the services of your vox officer and chimera operator. All you will be required to do, in the event that it becomes necessary, is protect the general during his transit from the strategium to the waiting valkyrie by Crystal Shore launch site A-3. For that purpose you will be given clearance to access the schematics of the HQ and given priority passage along the route to the VTOL launch pad.'

'One squad, that's it?' she asked for confirmation.

'That is all that will be needed. The rest of the forces will be fighting off the Orks. We don't plan on losing ground in the first place,' Malachor smiled reassuringly. The sight of his yellowed teeth did the exact opposite.

Specialist Zephina lifted her hand. 'No offense intended, but why aren't the rest of the storm trooper in this security detail?'

The psyker was not offended, but the insinuation was not directed at him either. 'Your unit's special skill will be required for hit and run operations and air assaults of the enemy rear echelon. The two of you are overly qualified for bodyguard duty, which means you can make up any slack if it is needed.'

That seemed to please specialist Bensel, so Zephina didn't push the issue. Strom troopers were not known for thinking outside the box, just getting the job done. Their skills however, were undeniable; they would shore up Misfit squad nicely while still allowing for the far more flexible unit of miscreants to do what they did best, innovate.

'Why me, mein?' interrupted Ung'bak unceremoniously. All eyes turned to the death worlder. The psyker laughed at the temerity of the small man, it sounded more like a cackle.

'Who best than a man who comes from a world where death is a constant shadow to safeguard another from its grasp? I believe the intuitive senses of your foreign mind will be of great asset.

Ung'Bak looked around, Trevin seeing the telltale glimmer of mischief in his eyes. 'From where I stand, you all look like the foreigners.'

'Discipline, trooper Bak,' growled Carver from his seat. The threatening words sent shivers down Trevin's spine. Ung'Bak didn't miss a beat.

'Oh, did not see ya there comi-sar, wacha'lo'kinat!' smiled the battered Pangean.

'For the sake of brevity, I will not return to that particular offense, but remember that after this operation is finished you return to my care until the end of your penitence.'

Before the situation could worsen the techpriest interjected with his kind's unilaterally flat false-voice. 'Statement: I wish to inform command that this assignment does not require the services of an enginseer. There is only a 3.745% chance that my proficiencies will be required in the short time from mission activation to completion.'

Malachor seemed silenced by the statistic. 'I ah, do not have sufficient data to contest that statement Enginseer Olwen. Let's just say I have a gut feeling you might be needed.

The techpriest screeched in a clipped, second and a half binary spurt of techna lingua, before remembering none of the assembly had been modified to the elevated state of the machine god's followers. 'Interrogative: are you referring to your extra-sensorial psycho-transmutative capacities?'

'Perhaps I am enginseer,' the psyker offered.

'Answer rejected: that is not an appropriate response to the question.'

'I do not wish to answer that question then, due to the complex nature of the variables involved.'

'Affirmative: then you should simply have said that,' Informed Olwen.

'I really should have,' agreed Malachor. 'If that is all, then you will all find the appropriate information supplied with Lieutenant Pike at the exit.'

The small assembly filed out, murmurs could be heard about how _fubar_ the situation was looking. Lieutenant Pike distributed their orders and assignment intel packages in the waiting room in front of the briefing room. It was a rounded room with a tall ceiling and panels after panels of frescos. At the center was a rounded sitting area. Both the doors to and from the hallways adjoining the waiting room were closed. Della quickly realized why, from her package, it was clear they were all under her direct command. She expected that, to some extent, but imagined the extra regimental support would be used in an "inform and advise" capacity for her Persephonian units. No, they were all under her direct command, which made things awkward. She guessed the general wanted that to be the first thing to be taken care of, why else trap them in a room like this.

'Listen up,' Della called for attention.' A fare number of us are familiar with each other, so I'll be addressing those who aren't, but what I say goes for everyone. Zephina, Bensel, it's a pleasure to fight beside you again; I want you two to stick to the general like his shadow. Whatever comes at us, I know you'll be able to buy us the time we will need to counter the Orks if they get close enough to pose a threat.'

She turned to the Galvan scout. 'Sergeant Chronus, I remember you were part of the action against the Siege Breaker. My condolences for your lieutenant, his sacrifice, in no uncertain way, saved us all and your experience will be well used, I promise you. I'll want you topside on the Resort to best use your abilities as a scout.' Nathaniel Chronus nodded silently, mention of Prizzler made him twitch. Della would remember that the hurt still hadn't settled and would keep an eye on him.

'Trooper Bak,' started Della before he interrupted her.

'Ung, trooper Ung, Munitorum always get it wrong.'

'What?' she doubled check the file, was this the right man?

Trevin stepped in to offer some explanation, it was a pretty standard thing with the Pangeans, and people didn't understand their culture much. He on the other hand had spent more time than most with the tough little buggers.

'Ung is their tribal name, the one of their ancestor. It is placed in a place of honor m'am, hence Ung'Bak. They often have additional names for their actual parent group and their coming of age name, since few make it that far.' Trevin made it sound as academic as he could, to make sure he didn't erode Della's authority with this new unit. She picked up on it.

'Good enough, Ung'Bak, I want you with Trevin's mob since you two will most likely get each other's way of thinking. Limit miscommunication. I understand Pangean's have a thing for narcotics and combat stimms, so please refrain for the duration of this assignment.'

'No prob, mein, I dream true without the fire or the smoke.' Whatever the Pangean meant, he seemed to have understood the prohibition, so Della moved on.

'Enginseer Olwen, I take it you will have no objections to ministering to my chimera and making sure everything is in order for the assignment? You will be tending to it on mission time also.'

The techpriest, which had not taken a seat, bowed low. 'Confirmation: mission parameters uploaded, no logic error detected, I will requisition servitor MB-71 for assistance.'

'Commissar Carver,' she paused. 'I will not presume to tell a member of the Emperor's most devout commissariat what to do. Especially not one as famous as you, I simply trust that you will no doubt do your utmost to assure the success of this most important of assignment. With so few guardsmen at my disposal, I am reassured that your presence will exalt them in their performance.

As well worded as it was, Carver understood clearly what the captain was attempting to impart. If she believed that he would zealously enforce summary executions during this sensitive mission, then all the better. That meant that her subordinates would also, as with any good commissar, his mere presence would do half the work and these men and women would fight all the harder for it. He tipped his visored peaked hat in understanding.

She addressed the whole of the group again. 'We will also have psyker primaris Malachor for support, but that means an extra seat taken in the Chimera. With general von Richter and his shadows, Olwen and his servitor, adjutant Honig and my driver Ramzey, that leaves room for only a fire team in the APC. I will be taking care of that element with Honored Sergeant Siggurd. That means that the rest of misfit will have to find alternative transportation. Will that be a problem veteran sergeant?'

'Not at all captain, Misfit likes rolling with the punches,' joked Trevin. Della knew that despite the casual posturing of the sergeant, he had proven efficient and spectacularly well timed in the past. She didn't need to worry.

The Persephonian lieutenant stepped forward. 'What about me ma'am? I noticed you didn't have anything in that list for me.

Della snapped the file closed. 'Two officers in such a small unit will clutter things more than anything. But these orders are straight from the top man so I'm not going to question the wisdom of his lordship. You will be leading the second element of Misfit, assisted by sergeant Trevin.'

The Lieutenant saluted.

Della walked to the double doors leading into the wing they had come through before the briefing. But before she could knock, two sharp looking servants opened the doors for her and the group filled out. 'Return to your units, gear up, and present yourself to the curtain wall motor pool east-4 for 13:00. That's two hours, so hop to it.'

As the guardsmen went their separate way she tossed the lieutenant a look, he was almost as old as she was. 'Hendricks was it, walk with me.'

Lieutenant Hendricks fell into step with his new captain. Siggurd lagged behind out of ear shot but continued to follow the pair. So this was going to be off the record, realized Hendricks.

'I'll be frank Patricius. Your file said you were transferred from the front a few months back and assigned as the general's aid, is that correct?'

'That is,' answered Hendricks.

'And now here you are, after a spectacularly short tenure in one of the most coveted position a junior officer could wish for.'

'Is there a question somewhere in there, captain?'

'Right, being frank. What the hell did you do to be thrown to those black clad wolves? The files says insubordination, did you over cook his eggs, or are you a trouble maker?'

'No m'am, my insubordination was only limited to ideological differences between myself and his lordship, general von Richter. Oh, and the fact I wouldn't shut up about it.'

Della smiled to herself; she couldn't encourage schisms in the functioning of the Imperial Guard, but any man willing to stand up to a general for what he believed in surely had redeeming qualities. As a son of Persephony, a real S.O.P, she could easily imagine what those differences could have been.

'If that's the worst you did, I think you'll get along right as rain with Misfit then.'


	20. Chapter 16

16.

Warlord Wurld Krusher, boss of the Goff tribe, stood atop his fallen rock and oversaw his boyz. A sea of green milled at the base of the crater where they had crashed, or landed, depending on how you understood orkish logic. They had carved a furrow a hundred meter deep and many kilometers long, and all along its length his _waaagh_ was assembling. Fighta-bomba wings flew overhead, having come down from this dirt ball's orbit where the rest of his fleet awaited his commands. Vast columns of orky armor and wartrukks kicked up dirt and dust as they rolled out. This was only one of the rocks that had made it to the ground in a relatively safe way. Many more war bosses were gathering their horde and they would all obeyed him, if they knew what was good for 'em. He had come looking for a fight, and his weird boyz promised this world would have it.

From across the sub sektor the weird boyz had felt the death of orks on this world, and his warp head, Blitzy Brain, had promised a waaagh to end all waaaaghs. For his sake, Wurld Krusher hoped he would find a humie good nuff to match him. He was the biggest, baddest, strongest ork, and the smartiest, his massive mega nob armor made him into a juggernaut, a battering ram, a walking tank. His suit was a thick metal plated exoskeleton, piston driven limbs with motors and sub actuators increasing his already tremendous strength. Kill markers and lordly glyphs adorned its battered surface, none more terrible than his bone skirt, which boasted a skull from every world he had destroyed. From his squig leather belt down to his knees, some two meters down, rattled the bones of his victims. The suit enhanced his already frighteningly powerful combat abilities, which enabled him to tear tank turrets from their setting with ease. Wurld Krusher was a two-and-a-half ton avatar of ork fury, and he had come here to stomp some humie gitz.

Maybe, if he was lucky, he would get to stomp some space marines, they were always real good fun. A ruckus drew his attention, far below the shattered rock, the boyz were freeing the squiggoths from their pens. His favorite, Chompa, was barreling over dozens of stupid boyz who didn't know better than to get out of the way. Chompa was a real good pet, as big as a humie super heavy tank, he charged back and forth through the horde, his massive flat bottom hooves turning them to paste. Three large horns grew from his thick jaw, curving, piercing, goring, and upturning trukks in the area.

'Git'em boy, ah, dat's it, stomp stomp, chomp chomp!' the warlord guffawed loudly, distracting the herders below and causing more of them to get eaten by Chompa.

His metal shod boots crushed the stone beneath him to gravel as he made his way down. A Weird boy with a crackling corona of green lighting around his head was jumping from foot to foot at the ravage caused by the loose squiggoth. His minderz quickly cracked him over the head before his excitement unleashed random burst of psykic energy. The weird boy quickly calmed down and nodded a sort of thanks to his bodyguards. Finally, the ponderous warlord made his way to Chompa and bellowed for its attention. The hundred ton beast turned to him, pawing at the ground and setting itself for a charge. Wurld Krusher gave it a big bug eyed stare. It seemed to hesitate, but the killer orkoid instinct took over and it thundered towards him. He grabbed at its shovel like horns as it smash into him, trapping one under his arm. Their momentum bled out eight or so meters later as the squiggoth pushed its master knee deep in the upturned soil. Wurld Krusher then howled, large bulging veins throbbing in his neck as he manhandled the beast onto its side, using the horns as leverage. The synthetic cables and piston limbs pounded and whined but the beast was finally subdued. Dozens of pigdoks and herders jumped at the opportunity to coral the beast back into submission.

The warlord smacked his heavy metal hands free of dust and soaked up the cheers of his boyz. Then, for good measure, he glared at the crowd over the large saw toothed gob affixed to his gorget and hurled insults at them.

'Wot you waiting for! We got us _waaagh_ to make. C'on yuz gitz, before I feed y'all to Chompa!'

The orks stopped cheering and got back to work muttering. With orks, might makes right. It was better to have his boyz afraid of him. That way they wouldn't try and take wot was his.

'Now wo'se got me boss pole? Can't go to _waaagh _wit out me boss pole! Git it for me!" he yelled into the crowd.

...

The green tide rolled out in its millions. They ate up the kilometers from their landing sites and swarmed towards the imperial lines. First to feel their wrath was Thunder Ridge. Once again, it was besieged. The imperial griffon AA guns stopped the greenskins from obliterating them outright with their fighter-bombers, but that was little compensation for the fight they would be force to put up. Whoever was commanding the enemy forces was smarter than the average ork. Instead of storming the choke point at the base of the ridge's position, the forward artillery position was locked into an artillery duel. The majority of the ork horde simply sidestepped the base, finding paths to the south and north of the magma canyons which Thunder Ridge was based around. The reports were manic and grim. Although the imperial Basilisks were far more accurate than the orks, and its operators better trained, for every gun they had the enemy had ten. The Ork bombast cannoneers threw tons of ordinance their way, so much that it flattened most of its defensive earthworks. The only thing the ranok artillery could do was wait for the smoky cough of their bombast and try to zero in on their position for retaliatory strikes. It was a losing proposition. From the onset, Thunder Ridge was taken out of the fight for Kusk. They would not be able to shell the enemy as they moved unhindered towards the Battle line. The guardsmen died to a man, days later.

...

The Ork warlord, in his howdah atop Chompa, lined his horde along the Kursk battle line and its curtain wall. Despite the devastating Basilisk barrages, the orks held their positions, far more afraid of his wrath than of a few explosions. With the blaring of a hundred thousand battle horns, the Ork _waaagh_ charged.

'This is a no contest, general. We're sending a live vid feed. I know sir, but I request permission to order a fighting withdrawal, the only thing we can achieve here is dying, it is not tactically viable.' Colonel Petra of the Ranok 568th grinded his teeth as he listened to the general's answer. 'Yes, sir. Understood. You as well, Emperor protects.'

Petra slammed the vox transmitter down so hard his adjutant, which carried the vox set strapped to his back, grunted as he almost fell backwards. 'Bastard!' Petra raged.

The orks were pushing his forces back in every sector, already, despite the greenskins literally throwing themselves at mines and razor wire; they had taken over all but the reserve trenches. Those weren't even meant to be fought in, just give protection for men on the front from shelling, a place to sleep, or carry the wounded and dying. The imperial forces had been rolled over in minutes. A measly ten-thousand against Emperor knew how many. All that the officer could see was a tide of green flesh pounding at the curtain wall like waves against the shore. Worst yet, the greenskins had these large reptiles like creatures that soaked up fire like sponges. A guardsman couldn't even hope for a lucky shot, at a vehicle's munitions or fuel storage. They simply walked over the trenches and were presently delivering orks to the ramparts. The orks simply leapt from the howdahs on the beasts' backs, some bounced off the walls but most gripped the ledges of the curtain wall with grappling hooks or their bare hands and vaulted over to lay into his men.

It was a massacre. Orkish air units kept their support pinned by sheer numbers. The griffon quad anti air guns were overheating from all the flak they threw up in the air and still, the greenskins came. With no support, a rapidly disintegrating battle line, and total chaos on the vox from units trying to get orders, Petra had asked, and been denied, his only hope of regrouping and fight back. Today was the day the Ranok 568th would die.

'Colonel,' captain Joshua yelled at his side, 'Orks have made it on the walls and the connecting tunnels within. Their coming up on both sides, this defense tower is lost!' Petra wanted to tell him the entire war was lost, but defeatism was not the Ranok way. No matter how unlikely you would find quake survivors, you digged, and you kept digging until all the bodies were found. Once in a while, blessed be the Emperor, you would find someone who had managed to survived weeks beneath the rubble.

'Captain, get some flamers on those walls, scour them of all ork forces!' Petra ordered over the din of combat. Orks were literally climbing up the block house tower and jumping in through the viewing ports, straight into his command post.

'Sir, there are still men on the walls fighting,' Captain Joshua informed him.

'We will commend their souls to the Emperor and join them later, captain. General's orders, we hold, and we die!' Petra relayed his orders to all wall sectors. Hold the line. His artillery was going to be overrun by the orks that jumped the curtain wall and kept on sprinting past his defenses. They were looking for a fight, and there was not enough guardsmen on the walls to satiate their blood lust. He would have desperately loved to have his armor pull up but they had been ordered by command to stay behind the flak wall of the griffons. He couldn't even use all his resources due to that damn rat bastard, von Richter.

Petra charged an ork that was trying to fit himself through a viewing port and knocked him back down the tower. Pulling his bolt pistol free, he fired down the view port at its kin, trying to do the same as the ill-fated ork had before him. The rockrete blockhouse was chipping away bit by bit under the greenskins' barrage of high caliber rounds. Far below, ork looters with deff guns, large shoulder mounted rigs that spewed torrents of lead, blanketed his view port and pushed him back. Stone chips exploded and dug into his face.

Petra wheeled back and swept the blood from his eyes, which poured from multiple cuts on his brow. A pyro trooper with a flamer took his place and hid under the view port's lip. He slung out his flamer and set the outer wall of the blockhouse beneath him in scorching fire. It stank of cooked ork. 'Colonel,' Petra's vox officer called as he knelt by his commander. 'Colonel Ma'Tang of the Pangean for you.'

'Petra here,' he yelled into the transmitter, still trying to get the stinging blood from blinding him.

'Ho, Ranok chief, I come with hellhounds to support. Where do you want 'em?'

By the throne it was good to hear the small woman's clip slang. 'Ma, Emperor bless you. Line them up behind the wall; light up any orks that make it past us, there are plenty, you'll see. Pull back when you can't anymore, the line's fallen, it's over for us.'

'I see that, ya mein, you done. Soon you wake to Emperor's side, good day for you. Okay, I send flame tank to you, sentinel go with galvan to help hit and run support. General not want me to move, but I no listen. Emperor called, he said you need me.'

Petra almost laughed at the blasphemy of Ma'Tang's statement. 'Time to let the greenskins know what were made of. Listen, when this place goes to hell, I want you to order your hounds to torch the place. There are munition wells beneath us; it will take a bunch of the Xeno bastards with us.'

'Good plan, big bangs, even Emperor see it from Terra, I envy you,' Ma'Tang praised.

The conversation was cut short when an ork nob kicked a trooper from the rampart access. The greenskins were pouring from both north and south entrances and from the tunnel access below. Petra drew his power sword, the heavy ended blade perfect for hacking; the energy field flickered into life, wreathing it in a bluish crackling flame.

'Come and get it, you ugly whoresons! For the Emperor, for Ranok, for retribution!' The colonel charged the slobbering ork head on, screaming his oath as loud as his lungs could.

...

Ma'Tang's hellhounds were rolling over the ork boyz by the dozen, their heavy tracks reducing the xenos to paste. They came in three separate wedge formation, their hell canons spewing blazing promethium jelly in streams of nearly fifty meters long. The flame tanks were cleaning up the stragglers that had made it pass the curtain wall, they were so many that they could not avoid them, so they crushed them beneath their threads. A hundred meters away, the curtain wall half stood, half crumbled as ork ordinance and rokkits pounded into it long after it had been won.

Other squadrons were roving the roads and passages of the camp follower's scrap city. Her sentinel detachment were helping the Galvan 5th draw groups of the enemy into traps and harassing their flanks on both shores of the budding peninsula that was home to the imperials since land fall. Brave men, those galvans, but wholly outclassed in a straight fight. Ma'Tang popped her turret hatch and took a look at the devastation her Pangean's were wreaking, a cloud of spiced narcotic herbs billowed gently out of the hatch. She flung the roach of her wrapped narcotic lho stick into the blazing pyre of ork dead littering the battleground.

All around her, orks tried to climb her hellhound, their rounds spanking off its thick armor. They tried to snipe at her but she was unafraid, the chieftain returned a rude gesture at the nob that clambered up the front glacis of her tank before swiveling the flaming snout of her canon to engulf him in flames. Barely ash remained by the time he stopped flailing and hollering. Ma'Tang set her eyes on the block house colonel Petra had made his last transmission from. They were now thirty meters from the wall, ork bones popping and cracking beneath her threads. The live ones screeching in agony as they ran about the battlefield like living torches.

'You give da Great Warrior a good word for me, Petra mein.' She saluted the blockhouse and then trained the tank's hell canon at the proper elevation. She bathed it, and all the filthy xeno scurrying all over its surface, in liquid fire. Watching the wrath of the Emperor set the Ranok men's soul to rest. She didn't believe in their afterlife, but she would honor them with their request.

'All right, all hounds, full reverse! We lit 'em up t'ill we run out of fuel. Then we get out and show Great Warrior we deserve right to be by him. Ya? Ok!' her squadrons yelled back their affirmatives on her vox head set. The curtain wall exploded minutes after, the flames having licked the munition depot. The explosion and its secondary detonations rocked the entire fortification, sector by sector, and sent Orks raining down across the battle field.

It was time to finish the dream and wake to reality.

...

Warlord Wurld Krusher was disappointed, very disappointed. His horde was sweeping all the humies position without much difficulty. This fight had not been worth the trip. There were no space marines, or the big machines the humies called titans. Nothing to stop him, to challenge him. The Mekboy at his side shimmed away, sensing his boss' foul mood. He pretended to adjust the chortling generator that shielded Chompa from incoming fire.

The warlord could see right through his dimwitted teknician's facade. 'D'em the humies that stomped boss ghazgut? That stomped Green Klaw and his Kommandos? Stomped even Ratchet-fixa? Iz not believe it,' he raged.

'Maybe da bosses stomped most of'em before croaking, boss,' appeased the mekboy.

'Did iz ask youz?' Wurld Krusher admonished, cuffing the Teknicien for emphasis. 'Tell speed freak boss Fitzafisle he best find me sumpting to stomp before I git hiz arse down from d'em fighta-bomba and stomp him!'

'Right, boss,' answered the mekboyz as he scrambled over to the voice horn to call the wing boss.

Suddenly, large fireballs shot into the air tens of meters high. Light and heat washed over Wurld Krusher's howdah. His eyes grew wide as he took in the sight. The curtain wall was crumbling in front of his eyes, taking part of his force with it.

'Sneaky gits,' he smiled through saliva drenched tusks. 'Maybe, d'is gets fun after 'all.'

...

The galvans had been drawing enemy forces away from the main push down the center thorough way. If the Orks could blitzkrieg their way to the general HQ, that would be the end of any coordinated defense on the Guard's part. Scout companies had, along both north and south shores of the peninsula, presented the blood thirsty orks with targets. Then, they had retreated further away to the sandy beaches. Thanks to the Pangean's sentinel support, colonel Maddox lost fewer men then he had expected. Whenever the orks risked over running his guardsmen, the sentinels would swoop in, fleet and sure of foot, to disable enemy fast attack vehicles or hose down slobbering enemy mobs.

Working painstakingly to coordinated the various companies over the vox, Maddox's strategy was about to pay off. All along the sandy beaches, snipers and heavy weapon teams were camouflage into the sand. It made for easy and quick stealth positions and the enemy, now broken into smaller groups and uncoordinated, stumbled upon the beaches to be fired upon. His men were delivering death with swift and terrible vengeance. Better yet, they were doing it invisibly, as the panicked gretchin and orks struggled to understand what was going on.

As successful as his maneuvers were, Maddox knew that it was just taking the pressure off the defenders, and that the main assault was rolling over them. He kept track of the overall battle with his vox officers, his command squad having taken shelter behind some jutting rock formations out in the shallows. It was wet and salty, not good for the equipment at all, but safe, and allowed him to focus on coordinating his forces instead of ducking enemy fire. He knew he would soon have to make the call. His forces were not designed for a straight up tussle, and if he retreated further along the peninsula, he and his men would share the certain death that was steadily creeping along the battle lines.

Maddox was no coward. Asymmetrical warfare like hit and runs, ambushes, jungle insurgent styled tactics, that was his forte. Fight, overwhelm, and run to fight another day. No, he was no coward. Even if the guard would fall here today he would take his men, exfiltrate from the battle zone far from the enemy and keep fighting until the day each and every galvan had given up their lives for the Emperor. Even if it took generations, even if the children of their children would have to take up the fight. With that in mind, and the inevitable fall of general HQ, he picked up the vox and set a plan into motion.

...

The strategium couldn't be busier. Junior officers, warrant officers, and munitorum adepts yelled out reports and strategic intel back and forth. Designated aides brought the collated information to the general who stood impassively, like a stone monument in the grips of a typhoon. He reviewed the reports while simultaneously relaying his orders to his many battalions across the entire peninsula. For once, he was dressed completely in battle gear, webbing and kit packed with ammunition and battlefield supplies. His uniform was from a long demobilized regiment he had served in. The effect was palpable. He was on a war footing, and his subordinates struggled to follow his staggering pace of orders.

He made, and continued to make very unpopular choices, they seemed to be disastrous on a tactical scale, but no one doubted that his keen mind was maneuvering towards an unseen end game. They had faith in his command and in his Emperor appointed right to do as he willed with the soldiers under him. The orks were hitting the leading edges of the camp followers and their shanty town. Despite colonel Ma'Tang's disobeying his direct order not to engage, which had cost the Pangean most of their forces to come to the rescue of the doomed Ranok, general van Richter continued to reassess the battle zone and buy as much time to maneuver as was humanly possible. Without the flak wall the griffons were putting up, the ork fighta-bomba's had picked her overstretched hellhounds apart from on high.

'Enemy forces reaching the terminal line now assessed to 26 minutes general,' called his aid, lieutenant Pike.

'Confirmed lieutenant, is the Pangean colonel still not answering her vox?' von Richter asked without a shred of emotion.

'Yes, sir, she is unaccounted for. It is possible she perished with the bomber's air raid.'

'Good riddance,' was all the general had to say. 'It seem quantity truly has a quality all of its own. Damnable orks.'

From behind it all, out of the way, captain Della and her NCO, Siggurd, waited patiently for the order to move out, which seemed to become more of a possibility by the minute. They both seemed restless, which was understandable considering the casualty rates being displayed on the over head vid screens. Soon it would be the Persephonian's turn to hold back the green tide. Many of their friends and comrades would die then.

Von Richter flicked his fingers to call Malachor, who made himself available to his commander. Hushed words were exchanged and the general returned to his rapid firing of orders. Malachor shuffled back to get out of the way and fixed his watery eyes on Della's storm grey.

'All is as it should be,' he simply offered. 'Victory is within reach,' Della thought he sounded a little too unsure for her liking.

...

Colonel Lazarus couldn't believe his luck. From the back of his command chimera, he was following the progress, was progress truly the word to use for the enemy's constant advance? The regression of his forces, yes, regression. What could his two battalions be able to do, that ten Ranok battalions had failed to? Hans had thrown him to the wolves, that's what had happened, just like his siblings, like all the rotten aristocratic swine that had forced him onto the road that lead him here.

Civilians were pouring in droves past his checkpoint. There was no stopping the mad rabble, they were just ignoring his commands to halt and desist. Well, let Hans take care of them then, let them run into his thrice damned Resort and swamp _his_ defenses. Peons always got in the way, and here he was in reaching distance of the unkempt mob. He could practically smell the sweat of their nervous panic. It choked his refined senses.

'Major Tiamat request permission to advance her forces to support the last of the ranok armor down the central transit way, sir.' Lazarus' first sergeant waited by the Chimera's vox array to relay the answer.

'What?' Lazarus was snapped out of his rabble induced musing. 'Why?'

The first sergeant shrugged, as if it was obvious. 'No doubt she intends to fight the enemy, sir. The armor will stand a much better chance with infantry support. It will give more time for the civilians to make it to safety.

That was a preposterous idea. The civilians, what safety? Who would fight to protect whores and trinket vendors? 'Fine, fine. Let her at it. The woman's a powder keg waiting to explode anyway. Damn unladylike, if you ask me.'

The command grid was choked with contacts relayed to his array by vox. His regiment was encircled and fighting a losing battle in the shanty town. It was utter chaos, how was he supposed to administrate all this mess. There, an icon surged forward towards the orks.

'Whose that, there!' Lazarus pointed on the command unit. His sergeant leaned over.

'That would be Van Helger's company, sir.'

'What is he doing?'

The first sergeant simply sighed.

...

Van Helger could barely breathe with all the smoke. Scrap town was going up in flames and he and his men were clearing dwellings of civilians who had hidden. To stay put was to die, but they didn't know that. He waved with his pistol, keeping low, as he escorted a family out of the choking engine smoke. Not a kilometer away, Major Tiamat had engaged ork forces in a gambit to buy more time. The thundering bark of the Leman Russ' battle canons pierced the billowing shroud from time to time. It was a hell of an engine duel out there.

'Out, Out!' he bellowed as a woman clutched her newborn against her chest. 'Head for the Chimera's with the men signaling. They will take you to safety!' He barely got them out of the corrugated sheet metal hobble that an ork looted tank rolled by, smashing it to the ground. He rolled away, getting back up and staggering. His new leg didn't quite fix the neurological issue he had suffered while fighting Rachet-Fixa. It would occasionally send pain shooting up his leg and spine like lightening. He gritted his teeth against the pain and limped to another house. His men were dragging injured civilians out of the burning house. One man had a face raw with blisters from thermal burns.

He could hear the bellowing orks running between the makeshift alleys of the shanty town, engaging his troopers with shootas and choppas. His honored sergeant ran to him, bent in half with his rifle tucked against his midriff. 'Captain, sir! Your vox officer has been trying to contact you,' Hektor informed him. They both crouched next to the burned out wreck of a Leman Russ.

Damn it, his comm bead must have been unable to pick a signal in all this jumble. Explosives and haywire electrics tended to scramble the short range communication devices. Long live the guard, he grumbled. 'What is it?

Hektor signaled with battle cantus as he spoke to make sure the message got through despite the carnage of detonating tanks and mass las fire. 'Word from command is that we hold our line as long as possible, die fighting if needs be, but colonel Maddox of the Galvan 5th has another idea. He suggests redirecting the civilians north to the shore. He says he can get people out, his scouts already have a route figured out.'

'That would be disobeying a direct order sergeant!' retorted van Helger. Then again, it was twice that the general had ordered him and his men to die. And for what? If they all fled to the far side of the peninsula, they would be pushed into the sea by the ork horde.

'I'm just the messenger, sir,' Hektor said as he took a target down with an opportunistic shot. The gretchin had been shot through the head, frying his brains, and sending his cowardly counterparts into a blazing wreck of a household.

'Damn it, I don't mind dying for the Emperor, but I'm not doing this again for his lordship. If he won't give us an inkling of what game he's playing at, I'll take my chances with the commissars. Alright, order all civilian escorts to divert to the northern beaches and contact Maddox. Tell him you'll be leading the survivors to his position, and that he better be right.'

'What about you, sir?' the sergeant fired more shots, seemingly able to do so in the middle of an already difficult conversation as if it was second nature.

'Enough conscripts have died already. It's time the officers did their share.'

Hektor stared his captain down. 'No sir, I respectfully refuse that order. We stand and die together. _"Let no good man die for no good reason"_, remember?'

'Don't give me that barstool dribble sergeant. We're buying time for the citizens of the Imperium to live. There _is _no better reason!'

Honored sergeant Hektor was not a man prone to sentimentality, but Jorden van Helger exemplified all that was noble and right about the aristocratic class he had been brought up to serve. He saluted briskly and set off to ensure his captain's last orders would be honored. He tried to convince himself his eyes were tearing because of the acrid smoke, but he knew better.

...

Orders be damned, thought Arthur De la Croix. No more civilian convoys were coming his way. Major Tiama could no longer be reached; even van Helger had gone dark. 'I'll be joining you soon enough Jordan, just wait for me at His side.'

The horizon was a wall of billowing smoke, black with engine oil. The wall had fallen, the ranok were broken, the pangeans were throwing themselves at the orks like feral barbarians, their communal death wish fulfilled, and the only officer in any position to give him orders was that oaf Lazarus. The guard had failed. Failed at what, De la Croix still had no clue. They had not come for the world's resources. Kursk was an empty dust ball and the peninsula was the only habitable part. It wasn't even a pleasant bit to live on either. Had they come to strike at the orks before they could get off world, they would have left after the last war boss and his monstrous siege breaker had been defeated. This entire campaign, and how it was run, had been nothing but insensible and wasteful.

Captain De la Croix banged on the top of his driver's position on the Chimera's hull. It was the signal had agreed to with his operator, time to pull back. The captain ordered his half company, all that was left of the 6th, to roundabout and make for the general HQ. He could hear the noisy fighta-bomba wings of the enemy making their way towards his forces. They were flying over the burning shanty town, straight through the obfuscating smoke. He didn't know if it was a heedlessly foolish maneuver or a spark of genius. The navy pilots would never have done that with their Valkyries. Then again, the greenskins could have probably won the battle by simply crashing those cacophonous aeronautical into their defense, there were so many of them.

'Incoming!' he yelled into the vox needlessly, his own voice returning to him at a startling volume, and he buttoned down the hatch. The chimeras of his company spread out into a staggered formation to minimize the damage a bombing run could do. Luckily for him and his men, the fighta-bomba's fire spanked and spattered against their armored hulls. It was a short lived comfort. That the enemy could also run out of ordinance, just like the Guard, brought a smile to his lips. Damn but he could use a drink right now. He lifted his head, which he now realized he had tucked between his knees in expectation of a bombing run, and popped his hatch.

The enemy air force was breaking off at a distance, getting ready to make another strafing run when the rearguard fighter exploded. Vulture pattern valkyries streaked over his position and unleashed a salvo of air to air missiles that crippled half the ork war planes. He watched as one spun in lazy rolls with a wing afire. It crashed into the crystal clear waters far off shore. It was about time the navy boys were getting into the fight. He twisted onto himself in time to watch the dog fight devolve into random patterns. The navy pilots attached to the Guard fought off the orks from the general HQ's air space and took a holding pattern above it.

His Chimera passed a few wrecked APCs in the Persephonian blue. Quickly, he spotted the heraldry of Colonel Lazarus' personal command group. He barely had time to turn to the fore that a guardsman foolishly stood in front of De la Croix's speeding steed. The chimera's driver barely registered the impact as the trooper went under its tracks. With a sickening lurch in his stomach, the captain's head turned on a swivel as he tried to see who they had run over.

'Trooper Fernlock,' voxed De la Croix to his driver.' I believe you just ran over the Colonel.'

'Horse shit, sir, should we stop?' the nervous driver asked.

'No need trooper.' De la Croix realized the churning in his stomach abated suddenly. 'I'm sure no one will even notice. It's not like he did anything, anyway.'

Had he had been looking ahead instead, then perhaps he would have spotted the Ork Kommandos that burst out of their hiding places along the transit way to unleash their shoulder mounted rokkits at yet another convoy.

...

'It's time,' the flickering image of Commodore Alabaster said. The command center's strategium was desperately trying to coordinate the remaining forces, what few remained, to form up a last line of defense around the Crystal Shore headquarters. General von Richter simply nodded. He gathered the last of his reports to issue his last commands of this campaign. Whatever his subordinates would think, his assignment was a glorious success. Of course very few of them would be alive to think otherwise anyway.

'Priority staff is on their way. Is the way clear?' asked the self-interested commander.

'As clear as it will be for the next hour. My squadron has managed to take a few of the ork ships, what passes for them anyway, by surprise. But their ram ships are closing in and those are a great deal quicker than their dreadnaughts. We will hold position for as long as we can but that will not be long.'

'Understood, commodore. By the will of the Emperor.'

General von Richter called the watch officer, captain Milanovic, to his side and gave him the order to maintain command operation until the very last. 'I will lead our men on the front,' he had lied. But it was a lie the captain willingly swallowed. Turning on his heels, the commander-in-chief joined his escort and together they boarded the lift that would take them to the luxurious ground floor of the Resort. The silence of the thrumming elevator was broken by Della.

'Sir, our assignment was to evacuate you if it came to it. It obviously has. But if you present yourself to the troopers for a final stand, we will give our lives in your defense.'

'Nonsense captain, I know you are relatively new to company level command but as you are one of the lucky few who will be accompanying me into orbit, you should realize the naivety of fighting a losing engagement.'

Siggurd bristled at the comment. He despised self-concerned aristocrats. After his epiphany at the hands of lord Steld and his kind, he hated most things about nobles. Della however, was another breed. The kind that had conquered the stars alongside the Emperor ten-millennia past. The sentiment she had shared was not naive, it was that of a true leader, whose fate she entrusted to the hands of her men, and who knew the value of human life. One which fought the good fight.

'I thought you said you would lead the charge,' Della repeated, realization dawning on her.

'I told the man what he needed to hear so that he could continue doing his duty. Throne's sake you persephonians are an ideological bunch. You sound just like that buffoon, Hendricks. Our lot if to ensure that lesser soldiers do their duty. Theirs is to achieve victory at the cost of their lives. If you ever wish to rise in the ranks you had better remember that.'

The lift concluded its ascension and its heavily reinforced doors opened. Della's vox immediately crackled into life.

'Captain, this is Chronus, do you read?' the voice of the veteran sounded urgent.

'This is Della, I read you sergeant. What is the situation?'

'It's ugly up here; I can see signs of engagements all along the base perimeter. A Chimera just arrived at the front gates; it looks barely in working order. It's not the only thing coming our way either. I see three, no four, Ork flatbeds brimming with boyz and twice that number in outriders.'

The small escort began walking down the halls of the Resort to the appointed embarkation point. Zephina and Brensel led the way hell guns raised, while Malachor and the general followed flanked by Della and Siggurd.

'Buy us some time sergeant, we are moving to extraction point Alpha as we speak.'

Before Chronus could reply another voiced cut in onto the frequency. It was Carver. 'I will assemble what guardsmen I can find to delay the xenos. If a chimera made it back, then with any luck, I will have a unit at my disposal. While the adepts evacuate the premises, we will hold them off and join you.'

'Understood, commissar.' Della answered as she heard the sound of a high powered hot shot being discharged from a long las. That, would no doubt be sergeant Chronus engaging the enemy.


	21. Chapter 17

17.

He lined up his shot, controlling his breathing before squeezing the trigger. Another blast of his long las speared out and hit the ork transport exactly where he had intended it to. The vehicles of the orks were ramshackle, little or no protection having been built around their heavy motors. The internal combustion engine flared into a large fireball and wreathed the driver's cabin in flames. Moments after, the transport swerved off the road and went careening into the ditch, exploding violently with all its occupants. That makes three, tallied Chronus.

The veteran sergeant had prioritized the transport, they were easier to hit than the speeding bykes and swerving buggies. They also carried a much more dangerous cargo. Unfortunately, it had allowed the outriders to close the distance, and he now ducked behind the crenellated rooftop as hundreds of solid rounds chewed at the stone architecture. He threw away his last hot shot energy pack and slid in a standard clip. He waited as long as he could, displacing to another position a few meters away and leaned over the stone lip to pick his target. He quickly put a long las round between a dismounted ork's eyes. The riders were now a handful of meters away beneath him and fired at him wildly.

The shots chipped away at his cover, peppering the area around him with deadly stone shrapnel. He unhooked two frag grenades from his webbing and dumped them over the lip, quickly displacing again. It was an essential technique a guardsman learned in the Galvan 5th. Fire, move, fire, move, keep them guessing. It was a defensive maneuver that also doubled as a psychological trick. The enemy never knew how many shooters there was when they kept popping up in different places.

His grenades exploded, with the satisfying sound of an orks howling in pain. Seconds after, what could have been a buggy by the sound of the detonation, exploded taking a few more orks with it in the expanding fireball.

As good of a fight as he was putting up, it was only a matter of time before they got close enough to corner him. A handful of stikkbombs described an arc over his humble rampart and bounced off the canted copper roof behind him, rolling back down to where he hid. Chronus threw himself to the ground by instinct. The blast shot shrapnel all over the place, spanking of the metal roof and the low stone crenellations.

Chronus was dizzied by the blast, he coughed in the stone dust that had been kicked up and tried to steady his ringing head. He couldn't hear anything but the sibilant tinnitus that accompanied his overloaded senses. Rolling onto his back, he patted at himself, he knew by experience that frag wounds were deadly and could occur without the pain registering, especially when the blood was fired up and adrenaline sped through it. As it was, he saw signs of imbedded shrapnel in his thighs and chest. The bleeding was minor; his flak chest guard having taken the edge of the lethal blast. He didn't have time for more than a cursory inspection. He hefted himself up to the stone lip and sighted another enemy.

He was staring into an ork's beady red eyes. It was manning a buggies' pintle mounted rockkit launcher. Chronus's heart seized in his chest, training taking over between the moments he spotted the threat and shot. The ork dropped dead as the rokkit burned towards him in a corkscrewing motion. It crashed into the stone parapet and sent him flying into the slanted copper roof behind. The metal creaked loudly as he impacted, buckling the sheet inward. The impact fracturing the scouts' bones as he blacked out.

...

De la Croix had left most of his unit behind to man the Resorts' inner courtyard. He knew the orks were close behind and would be upon them in moments. He would be damned if he faced that horrifying fate sober. As he ransacked one of the many boudoirs' liquor cabinet, he finally found something his refined taste could stomach.

'What are you doing, captain?' came a voice from behind De la Croix. He spun quickly, hiding the bottle he had pilfered behind his back. It was Commissar Carver. Damn it, could he not have any respite, even on deaths door?

'Oh! Commissar, how wonderful to see you. I was looking for something useful for the upcoming skirmish. My men and I raced to HQ as soon as the defense faltered to bolster what objectives we could.

'You mean to say you fled, captain.' It was not a question, it was a statement.

De la Croix expected to be shot right then and there but the commissar simply waved him closer. De la Croix blindly returned the bottle back in its place before pushing off the cabinet to join Carver. They walked towards the entrance of the Resort.

'Although I swore an oath to preserve the dignity and spirit of the Imperium and I have already wavered once in my duty to do so, at Thunder Ridge, I am confident that today no one will be spared their fate. Today, true guardsmen and cowards alike will meet the Emperor. The question is, which one do you believe will be judge worthy to remain in his light?'

Was this a trick question? 'True guardsmen, of course.' De la Croix sputtered immediately.

Carver nodded solemnly. 'I will take command of your men and delay the inevitable as long as possible, which means you still have a chance to prove yourself worthy of His mercy, captain. This I will do equally for your men. Which means you will make your way to the roof and assist a certain Galvan sergeant with whom I have lost contact moments ago. Off you go.'

Carver waved the Persephonian captain away and departed. De la Croix wasn't sure exactly what was going on. Carver didn't have the reputation as a commissar that gave second chances and De la Croix damn well knew he had broken orders and retreated with his unit. Surely the political officer knew that, by the captain's mere presence at HQ, if not doubly so by being away from his troopers. Well, if carver saw fit to give him a second chance, than perhaps there was still hope that he could redeem himself. He glanced back the way they had come, towards that tempting bottle of Ythril bloom, and felt the shakes grip him.

...

'Orks are in the building,' warned Bensel as he and Zephina took firing position by a hallways' stanchion. They let loose precise bursts of fire and dropped three orks before the xenos knew they were engaged.

Della swore and patched in to the squad level vox. 'Hendricks, alpha is not viable, I need you to pick us up at embarkation point sigma.'

The lieutenant, who was in nominal command of Misfit answered promptly. 'Acknowledged captain, sigma, on our way. Be advised, greenskins are pouring all around the Resort.'

'Confirmed Hendricks, see you soon.' The storm troopers were still firing, they could have been at a training range for all the ease they showed. The orks were falling faster than they could be reinforced. Their large slab-like bodies were unable to withstand the devastating power of the hell guns, despite their legendary toughness.

Della prompted the General and Malachor down an alternative corridor to their extraction, Siggurd taking point without needing to be asked. Zephina and Bensel kept up the pressure to discourage pursuit for a few moments more and then threw grenades down the hall to mob up any survivors or hidden gretchin.

'You think the others are having as much fun as we are?' asked Jack as he jogged along beside Zephina. His bulky physique easily kept up with his partner's wiry frame.

'On Death's wings,' she said, speaking the Macharian's regimental motto.

'On Death's wings,' he agreed.

...

De la Croix exited onto the roof from the maintenance stairway. He was huffing and puffing. This was not how he imagined redemption would feel. More dignified and a tad more heroic, yes, that's what he imagined it would be. He looked around, now where was that man the commissar wanted? He jogged along the peripheral walkway between the slanted roof and the parapet until he came upon a section that had been torn to bits. Heavy steel grappling hooks were buried along the lip; they shimmied menacingly with the promise of climbing greenskins.

'Damn it all,' he muttered as he saw the prone form of a Galvan scout crumpled in arms reach of the hooks. De la Croix quickly unsheathed his cavalry saber and powered its edge with a thumbing of the activation rune below the hilt. As the first ork grabbed the stone parapet to haul himself up, the captain darted forward and severed its fingers, letting it fall back with a howl of pain and anger. A few quick strokes of his blade severed two more grappling hooks; he was right above the supine trooper's body now.

De la Croix kneeled down, still trying to catch his breath as he slapped the guardsman awake. 'Good, you're alive. It would have been a shame to climb all those stairs for a corpse.'

The dazed Galvan groaned incoherently but the captain didn't care to decypher it. Another ork manage to jump onto the roof and was coming straight for them. Before he could think, De la Croix lunged forward and stabbed the tip of his power sword into the beast's neck. The energy field burned away its meat and cooked its brain with superheated blood. The xeno dropped to its knees, cracking the stone tiles of the walkway, and folded in two.

'Now would be a good time to get back into the fight trooper!' De la Croix yelled as more greenskins made it to the roof.

'Can't,' was all the stricken soldier managed to say. Chronus gritted his teeth; the pain was overwhelming and threatened to drag him back into unconsciousness. 'Can't move my legs.'

'What about your arms, can you move those?' the captain asked as he backed away from the orks, who were now limbering their limbs and clutching oversized cleavers. 'Because if you can then I suggest you start shooting at something.'

To his credit, the Galvan picked up his rifle, evidently is a great amount of pain and shot an oncoming ork in the leg, blasting it back and tripping the creature. With another quick lunge and a retreating step, the ork was dispatched with a dismembering stroke. De la Croix cursed through clenched teeth, desperately remembering that bottle sweet Ythril.

...

The general's escort burst out of the kitchen's auxiliary exit. It was meant as a precaution in case of fire. But it was an entirely different kind of fire that threatened his party now. Shots ricochet loudly in the mess kitchen as the pursuing ork boyz charged headlong into the wide room. They fired their shootas at the storm troopers, at the escaping officers scrambling towards the exit, and at everything in between. It almost seemed like they were firing for the benefit of the sound, and if they hit something, all the better.

Zephina and Brensel, now out of grenades and halfway done with their hell gun's waist mounted charge pack, dived out of the mess kitchen and scrambled out of the enemy's line of sight. Hendrick's convoy rounded the Resort, using the roadway intended for provisional deliveries. The area was a loading bay that spanned both the cold storage module and the kitchen exit the cooks often used to smoke a lho-stick between meal shifts.

The first salamander scout vehicle, a diminutive chimera chassis with an open top, angled itself to cover road with its pintle mounted heavy bolter. The chimera pulled close to the sheltering general and dropped its embarkation ramp. The last salamander was driven by Ung'Bak, he locked the left track of the light vehicle and swerved the entire salamander into a ninety-degree turn, tearing up the concrete under his threads, and aligning its mounted heavy weapon at the kitchen exit.

Trooper Corvin manned the heavy bolter and he howled as he fired the mass reactive shells into the doorway. The storm troopers threw themselves out of the area of fire as Corvin shredded the entrance and any orks within reach of it. The 0.75 caliber rounds hit flesh and plascrete, exploding as their sensors registered resistance a fraction of a second later. The effect was devastating, as it was intended to be.

By the time everyone had mounted up, punctuated by Zephina's acrid verbal assault on Corvin, the entire western wall of the kitchen had crumbled and the service area was a mess of tangle metal and mangled xeno bodies. Freddy looked up at the elated Corvin with a shocked expression. The gunner simply nodded in his direction.

'What you waiting for Lancer, load me up.'

Corvin's grin was a chilling sight.

...

'Onwards!' roared Carver as he led the last of the Persephonian 6th Company out of the Resort entrance and into the ork. It was suicide, but they were all dead men walking anyway. Dangling ropes and lines of cable hung from the side of the resort. Carver noticed with satisfaction that orks which had begun to ascend were dropping down to enjoy the immediate brawl. He wished the best for those who were deserving of a better fate than he.

His bolt pistol bucked in his hand as he shot an ork again and again until it fell. The guardsmen at his flank, with bayonets fixed, poured into the ork outriders and those that milled around their transport waiting for their turn to close in. It was a savage close quarter exchange. Carver had liberated a power fist from the armory before the beginning of this assignment. He was putting it to good use. The energized gauntlet amplified his blows, sending destructive concussive waves with each strike. The orks were crumbling at his touch. The gauntlet drew its power from a backpack, linked by thick ribbed cables, and whined loudly with each thunderous discharge.

Carver pressed the troopers on, 'into them men, for the emperor, for the fallen, for honor!' They roared his words back and skewered gretchin and ork alike, the smaller easily dealt with but the larger needing three or four guardsmen to put down. Even so, Carver knew the orks could still get back up and into the fight. Their fortitude was unnatural. 'Take them apart guardsmen, rip their heads from their filthy shoulders.'

The orks, always looking for the best fight, grouped around him. He had been rightly identified as the leader of the opposition. All the better then, he would break their bones while the troopers did their best to make their sacrifice count. And sacrifice they did, the guardsmen were outclassed in a hand to hand fight with orks, they died in droves, cleaved or blown apart as indiscriminate fire was poured into their ranks by the orks. Callow creatures, these, the orks killed more of their own than their enemy.

Carver ducked a choppa and tore his assailant's knee out with a swipe of his power fist. Another came at him from his flank and Carver threw himself against him, punching his first into his chest cavity, which smoked and charred before his eyes. He couldn't defend himself against all of them however, and they scored a few good hits that left him limping and bleeding profusely. His thigh and gut were lacerated badly, pieces of his flak greatcoat clinging to the wounds as he struggled to move out of the lethal arcs of the primitive choppas.

He put the last of his opponents down with a crushing hammer strike to its head, the brute's thick skull withstanding the brunt of the energized impact but falling dead as the concussive wave tore its meager brains to shreds.

Still, more of them came, the bigger ones finally taking notice now that he had proven a worthy match. Two lumbering nobs flexed their bulging muscles and roared their war cry. Half a dozen guardsmen in the proud persephonian blue rallied around him.

'From here until the Emperor's mercy,' a youth said. He nodded his thanks. Slowly carver tipped his peaked cap down and covered his eyes in shadow. Guardsmen thought he did it to intimidate and unsettle them when he passed judgment. They weren't wrong. But Carver also did it to hide the fear in his eyes.

The weight of doubt was heavy for the executioners of the commissariat. For if they erred in their judgments of His justice, the innocent would pay the ultimate price. They could not be seen as men, for men were fallible, they needed to be symbols of His righteous might. Right now, Carver feared his soul would not be deserving of being ferried to the Emperor's side, and that would not do. If he doubted or feared, so would the guardsmen. For his sake, for their sake, he hid his eyes.

...

The general's convoy was finally heading for the launch pads. They hooked around the western end of the Resort to catch the road heading north to their intended target. As the convoy rushed past the orks that assaulted the HQ, Trevin spotted a man wearing a Persephonian uniform making his way out of a shattered window with a man on draped over his shoulder. He informed Lieutenant Hendricks. Quickly, Trevin organized fire support and the salamander mounted heavy bolters barked their angry retort as ork stragglers began converging on the man and his wounded comrade.

De la Croix struggled to put one foot in front of the other. He had taken a few flesh wounds on the roof when he and sergeant Chronus had fought the ork climbers. Luckily for them, Carver and the last of his 6th had engaged their would-be killers and drew their attention away. It was clear from the pained grunts that the sergeant had suffered spinal injuries. Every heavy step the doughy captain took sent jagged pain through the scout's body. There were no other alternative however, none until now. He waved a hand at the convoy, quickly putting it back on the sergeant's limb to steady him.

'What's the hold up?' Della asked from inside the chimera. From within its protective compartment, not much could be discerned. Their auspex system was woefully useless, the screen showing far too many returns as the orks swarmed everything.

'Looks like sergeant Chronus, he's injured and being carried by a captain. De la Croix I think.' Hendricks couldn't make the exact markings on the captain's uniform, as it was in a shamble of blood stained blue.

Della's pause was achingly long. 'Can we pick them up? Auspex shows a hell of a lot of orks out there.'

'Honestly, captain. We will be most likely be bogged down, we might not be able to make it back into formation. Permission to go with one salamander, we might be fast enough to bang in and bang out.'

'Denied lieutenant, we need at least one officer to keep things going in the case of a casualty. You have ten seconds to find volunteers amongst Misfit. Then we leave,' she paused again, frustration in her voice. 'General's orders,' she added.

Trevin had heard the entire exchange. He jumped out of the salamander and gave Hendricks the thumbs up as he joined his fire team. The lieutenant envied the sergeant, here was a man for which doing the right thing came naturally, without thought or doubt, despite the great personal risk. 'Alright Misfit-one, we keep on rolling; Misfit-two is under sergeant Trevin's command, The Emperor be with you men.'

...

'Nice for you to volunteer us, Gus,' complained Jensen as he gripped the salamander's open compartment for stability. Ung'Bak drove like a maniac, or a sentinel pilot, both were pretty much the same. Corvin sprayed the rushing tide of greenskin behind the lagging captain and his charge. Freddy was barely able to keep his gun feed. How did Reiner do it? He wondered as he nervously fussed over the ammo belt, clipping another serie in.

'Bah,' Trevin laughed, 'Misfit can't lose!' granted he only had half of his old squad with him, but it was the best half. Jensen, Freddy, that lunatic Corvin, Ung'Bak, and himself, they could do it. He was sure they could. Ung'Bak masterfully operated the salamander's controls, sliding into position behind De la Croix to use the bulk of the scout vehicle as solid cover. Corvin to take the orks apart with glee, launching into a tirade of insults. The trooper cackled loudly, audible only between the loud aggressive bark of the heavy bolter. Jensen, in the passenger side, leaned his lasgun against the side armor to steady his aim and added his fire to Corvin's.

Trevin leaned out of the salamander as round spanked against its armor in an angry tattoo. He helped haul the wounded Galvan into the compartment, much to his pained complaints, and pulled Captain De la Croix in after.

'We're good, go, go, go!'

The salamander spun onto itself, its tracks throwing clumps of soil into the air, and Ung'Bak gunned the engine. They sped away as quickly as the vehicle could manage, a hail of solid slugs chewing at its armor plates.

'Thanks for the rescue,' said De la Croix as he patted Trevin's shoulder. He leaned back against the compartment and sucked large mouthfuls of air.

'All in a day's work for Misfit,' answered the sergeant, he leaned down to check on Veteran Sergeant Chronus. The man was laying limp, paralyzed from the waist down, and in great pain. Searching through his webbing, he found a few ampoules of auto-injecting morphium and stabbed them into Chronus' thigh.

'Ah, the infamous Misfit squad, is that who saved my sorry hide? You boys don't look so bad. Command had you pegged as a bunch of degenerates. They obviously weren't looking at you from this side of the war.'

A round zipped by Trevin's ear, and he ducked. That had been close. He turned to the captain, pulling him down out of the firing line of the orks. De la Croix fell face first onto the hard steel compartment of the salamander. He wasn't moving.

Trevin cursed and turned the senior officer around. A round had blown out a chunk of his neck and he was bleeding profusely.

'Freddy, bandages, give me your bandages!' Trevin screamed over the roar of the heavy bolter to be heard and clamped down on the neck wound. Quickly, trooper Lancer pulled out his field dressings and shoved them under Trevin's pressing palms. The blood was everywhere, making the sergeant's hands slick. The captain's eyes were rolling back into his skull, showing only whites. The last thing De la Croix thought before he died was that he _really_ would have liked to have that last drink. But at least now, he would meet the Master of mankind sober.

...

Malachor was gripping the safety rail above him in the command chimera. Nausea washed over him in a sudden, urgent wave. Even under the red lights of the compartment, the general noticed how he blanched.

'What's the matter with you Malachor? Surely you don't have motion sickness?' his tone didn't betray any concern, only annoyance. The other passengers couldn't help but stiffen. Having a psyker around was bad enough, one within spitting distance was worst; one trapped with you in a moving box was the definition of "hell in a hand basket."

Malachor gasped, it was all he could do not to lose himself to currents of the warp. It battered the mental fortress his training had erected. It threatened to consume him, rip his spirit from its shell and send it adrift in the empyrean. Such power, such singular will, what could possibly be casting its gaze over them?

His eyes shot open and he spoke with an unearthly tremor, his voice a cascade of echoes, as if his voice had been recorded and played again and again at different intervals. 'A great mind is focusing the energy of the horde, it seeks us, its bloodlust a hunger unquenched by the thousands it has already consumed!'

His grip on the safety rail rattled the bolted metal loudly. 'Blessed Emperor, no...'

...

'Found 'em,' grunted the wizened old warp head. His mind focused the manic energies of the hundreds of thousands of orks around him. Smoldering pits of green effervescence shone from his eyes, the excess psykic energy grounded through his copper warp staff and the totems to Gork and Mork that had been erected around his cabal of weird boys.

'Bout time!' roared Wurld Krusher as he snapped the shaman from his trance with a sound clubbing. 'Git me to 'em Blitzy Brain, and iz mean now!'

The ork weird boy shook the cobwebs from his mind, the journey through the _waaaghs_' tempestuous mindscape leaving him more dazed then the massive warlord's beating. He looked up at his master and arched a thick grey eyebrow. He was the only ork that could grow facial hair, and that was just the start of how odd he was.

'It ain't gonna be safe boss. Lotz of excitement right now, the boyz' ar fired up. It'll be a ruff ride, mark my wordz.'

The warlord bent down to stare at the grizzled old warp head. 'It ain't gonna be safe for yaz either if you don't git me to the humies' boss. I ain't come all da wayz here to just sit on my arse!'

'Ahhhhh, right boss, here' we go.' If the boss wanted to risk getting chewed up by the latent mindscape of the _waaagh_ then it was all on him. At least, if Blitzy Brain did what he was told, he wouldn't get stomped. If the boss got snuffed, it was all the same to him. Either way, he still wasn't getting stomped, and that was always a good thing.

...

The general's Chimera skidded to a halt. Before them, a widening gap of turbulent green energy was spiting freakish green lighting. It blocked their way to the landing pads, and although they could go around it, Malachor had warn them against getting any nearer, as the warp lighting would likely reach out and destroy them. Besides, Ramsey and the other operators were just too dumbstruck to do anything.

From beyond the maelstrom of energy, the pounding of a thousand drums could be heard, that and the clashing, stomping rhythm of a murderous horde of orks. Malachor quickly pulled on the exit ramp's lever and staggered out of the chimera, seeing with his eyes what his witch sight had painted in agonizingly bright light. It was gargantuan, a portal through the warp held stable by the sheer force of a xeno species bent on brutalizing the aether with their will. From its gaping maw came orks by their dozens. Some ran out, but most were flung bodily out by the savage force of the maelstrom.

At the sight of enemies, the escort detail disembarked and began returning fire at the horde of frenzied xeno. Heavy bolters, multi las turrets, forward facing heavy flamers, everything that could be thrown at the enemy was being fired into the press of bodies. Malachor grasp his charms, sown to his robe, and uttered a prayer to the Emperor as he did the unthinkable. He sent his mind into the rolling portal, trying to shut it with his prodigious psychic power. It was like clenching hot red bars of iron, his entire being recoiled in pain, there was so much wild power channeled into such the potent display of warp craft.

Della yelled out her orders, the comm beads no longer functioning in proximity of the ragged wound into reality. Siggurd tightened up what was left of misfit, Reiner and Derrick expertly using their newly acquired heavy bolter to clinical use. Unlike the overzealous Corvin, not a burst was wasted as they hemmed their enemies and picked them apart. Truly, a ballet of bullets. Intent passed from Captain Della and found direction in the hands of Siggurd, her maestro. The Macharian storm troopers ached to join the fight but they knew the general, who took one look outside the APC and then closed the ramp with a curse, was their priority.

Malachor couldn't close the portal. It was powered by the great gestalt mind of the ork _waaagh_, which passively fueled their weird boyz's abilities. These in turned were directed by such an ancient and cruelly potent will that Malachor was but a gnat waiting to be crushed. His only trump card was his grasp and control of the warp. Where the orks bullied their way through its currents, he weaved wonders from its tapestry.

His skin was beginning to blister, and a great roar crashed out of the gate. Malachor could feel the mind of the warlord beginning to step in from the other side of the portal. Blood seeped from Malacor's eyes and ears; he was literally being crushed by the churning power of the gate's proximity. If he could not close the gate, they would all perish at the hands of the greenskin and their warlord. His efforts to match the malignant will of the _Waaagh_ was futile. If he couldn't usurp the vortex, than he would reverse the flow of the energy. Let them fuel its walls. Let them give it the impetus to move bodies across distances instantly. He would control the flow.

With a scream of soul flensing pain, the Psyker Primaris pushed himself from the chimera's hull and raised his staff in the air, beseeching the Emperor for the strength he needed. He pushed his entire being into the mastering of the portal's technical workings. Agony threatened to rob him of his control, but his faith in his master sustained him. A torrent of life blood, red and rich, blew from his mouth as his heart stopped. His robes flailing in the unnatural wings of the vortex as he dropped to the ground in a sizzling heap.

...

Three of Misfit squad were killed in the early moments of the engagement. Trooper Paolo, Gettingsburg, and Farcell had given their lives to keep the frenzied horde from reaching the chimera. Lieutenant Hendricks was operating their salamander, taunting the mindless orks with a target while Derrick gunned them down easily, even at high speeds. When Reiner wasn't reloading his gunner, he shot out of the open top vehicle or threw their accumulated store of grenades into the mob. The chimera finally spewed the last of it forward mounted flamer; its pintle mounted heavy bolter was also dry. Luckily, Della guessed, one of the storm troopers had manned the multi las and was still managing to reap a heavy toll on the orks. She knew Honig had been using the other weapon systems but that her aim was less than exemplary.

To her surprise, Olwen the enginseer had wadded through of a pile of ork with his crackling Opus Deus Machina. She knew the staff was a symbol of office, and a multi tool, which used its long haft as leverage for certain repair rituals, but she had no idea it was also a power axe. He and his servitor had trashed any ork who tried to put their filthy hands on his charge, the chimera. Tech priests took the sanctity of their machines very seriously. He fought with the same indifference with which he spoke, but somehow, deep beneath the calculated strikes and hand-to-hand defense protocols he no doubt followed, she could feel the ember of righteous fury burning. It was a cold fire, and all the more fierce for it.

Her distraction had cost her. A large ork slammed her into the side of the chimera and hoisted her up by the throat. She felt like a doll about to be broken simply to entertain its owner. The ork bellowed, strings of fetid saliva spraying her face, and raised his choppa. Before the blow could fall the creature howled in pain and it fell onto its side, a leg messily severed by Siggurd's chain sword. He quickly dispatched the xeno brute by hacking the blade onto the back of its neck, severing its spinal cord.

'Better watch yourself m'am, I can't be everywhere at once.'

'We can't hold them back, it's over Siggurd, we have failed.'

'It's not over until the Emperor dismisses you from service trooper! Now pick yourself up and back to the front!' Siggurd helped his captain up, giving her the glare every trooper remembered from basic training. Some tricks never failed. Della squared her shoulder and was about to join the fray again when a clap of wind deafened them all, the sound of the roaring vortex ripped the air.

The psyker, Malachor, let loose an inhuman howl. He crumbled to the ground; his flesh seemed to consume itself and sublimate before their eyes. What was left of him, had no right to be alive. But still, Malachor's chest rose and fell as the portal began to eat everything in its surrounding, devouring the greenskins closest to it with an unholy hunger.

...

Wurld Krusher flicked the bloody bits of Blitzy Brain from his gauntlet. Somehow, he had lost control of the portal, the manic energy of the_ waaagh_ mind turning back on itself and expelling his boyz back on this side of the gate. Seconds after, the assembled weird boyz started popping like over ripe fruits. As the wizened warp head struggled to cope with the psychic backlash, the warlord had done what he knew had to, he had crushed Blitzy's head with one enormous hand.

That had put an end to the portal, but not the unleashed maelstrom of energy. Green lightning arched and fizzled around any ork unlucky enough to be close by. They too burst like fleshy meat sacks. Wurld Krusher didn't know how the warp head did his mojo, but he knew when something was broke, and this portal was way past broke. He hauled on Chompa's reins and forced the thundering beast to turn from the growling ball of energy summoned from the gestalt mind of the horde. He barely had time to escape before the entire area was incinerated in the greatest explosion ever conceived by an ork. It was rather fun to look at, actually.

Although this world had been terribly boring, the humies weak, and far too few to pose a challenge, his warp head shaman had imploded from the raw might of Mork and Gork. That at least, had been a sight worth seeing. He decided he would let his boyz have their fun. Then they would set to carving this reddish hued world into sizeable pieces, each big enough to fill with orks, and send them shooting into the space on gigantic rokkits. He liked rokkits.

...

When Trevin and the rest of Misfit had seen the baleful glowing storm of energy, he had feared the worst. As they arrived on the scene, he was relieved to see there were survivors, only a handful had found the Emperor. By the look of them, it was clear they had expected to all be in His light.

'You guys alright?' Trevin asked as he jumped off the salamander. They were gathered around trooper Steld as she wrapped the figure of what used to be Malachor in gauss. It was too easy to forget about the medicae auxillary, until someone got hurt that is. Della, Hendricks, and Siggurd wore the heavy look of soldiers coming to grips with events. They all bore wounds from what must have been a hell of a grudge match. Ork bodies littered the ground everywhere, and in every state of dismemberment.

Captain Della nodded, 'we managed, but I think the psyker is the reason we are still alive. He did something and it cost him dearly.' She quickly looked over to the salamander, 'did you manage to extract De la Croix and sergeant Chronus?'

Trevin nodded and shrugged all at once. 'We did our best, got them from the orks but the captain took a round as we retreated. I think the Galvan broke his back too. He ain't doing so well.'

Siggurd got to work without needing to be told, as always, a good sergeant always knew his officer's wishes. He directed Corvin and Lancer to bring the scout to the chimera for trooper Steld to look over. Della pulled Trevin aside.

'Whatever just happened, I can't explain it, but if it's this bad this far in the rear lines. I can't imagine much of us are left fighting out there. We are a stone throw away from the launching pads and then we quit this rock.' She pointed behind them into the sky, where a trio of void ships hung in low orbit.

'I am not pretending I like where this is going but, it seems evident to me that there is no time for an orderly evacuation. That means a lot of people will get left behind. You get that?'

Trevin nodded, he didn't speak but she could tell by the set of his jaw he hadn't thought about that fact.

'We are going to roll out as soon as the wounded are transferred into the chimera. Look, the regiments are finished, all our forces are finished, and this war is finished.'

But - thought Trevin.

'I'm giving you a choice. Honig has been receiving chatter on the reserve nets. Seems that Colonel Maddox is still alive and operating out there, hugging the northern shore with the mixed elements that survived today's horse shit. He has civilians too, a lot of them from what I heard. When I get on that valkyrie with the general, if you want to go on one of those suicidal hero's quest of yours... I won't stop you Augustus.'

'And you're ok with leaving people to die here while you babysit the foal frakker that put us here and only planned for his own escape?'

'There's a lot I'm not ok with Augustus, but I can't do what you do. I can't just jump on a strider and ride to rescue. Someone has to follow orders; someone has to see this thing trough. That's me, and then there's you. You copy sergeant?'

'Loud and clear, Captain.'

...

The valkyries were waiting, prepped and ready to go. High above them, the Navy's frigates were fighting tooth and nail to keep the general's retreat possible. Their macro batteries, powerful enough to level cities from orbit, were pounding ork ships that desperately tried to close the distance between them to send boarding parties. If they succeeded, even the navy armsmen would not be able to fend off the tenacious orks in the close confines of their ships.

The valkyries weren't the only thing waiting. As the general left the command chimera to board a transport, the civilians that had been evacuated from the Crystal Shore base were straining against the small cordon of armed Ranok guardsmen. They wanted to get off this world, desperate to escape the nasty, brutish end the orks promised them. Von Richter didn't spare them a glance. With the wounded on the transports, Della waited by the boarding ramp with Siggurd. Trevin was talking with his men. He shook Hendricks hand and the lieutenant jogged to the Valkyrie, passing by Della, he shook his head.

'He isn't coming,' Della said softly.

Siggurd turned to her, he couldn't possibly have heard what she had said, but he knew. 'Want me to round him up?'

'No, Siggurd. It's his choice.'

'Just like the bastard to make me respect him in the end.'

'Why don't you join him? You have my blessings.'

'Someone has to watch your back, captain.' The old war dog tried to smile. It was the least threatening sneer she had ever seen him wear.

She laughed emptily and shook her head as she climbed into the valkyrie's belly. 'Don't quit your day job Siggurd.'

...

Augustus Trevin had not chosen this life. In fact, he had been forced into it. He would be damned however if he did not do what he thought was right, even if that sometimes called for less than sane acts. It was complicated that way. He didn't claim to understand it all, but right now he knew those people out there, those civilians, deserved a fighting chance. He climbed onto one of the waiting valkyries as the general took to the sky. He and a few of his band of misfits all agreed with him, or they simply didn't care to argue. Trevin banged on the hatch to the cock pit area and was let in by one of the two pilots.

'Are you going to tell the other ground pounders to get in or are we leaving more of you behind?'

'About that,' Trevin said apologetically. He drew his las pistol and knocked the co-pilot addressing him out cold. Before the other navy officer could manage to draw his own sidearm Trevin was by his side with the gun to his head.

'What the hell do you think you're doing?' the panicked pilot said as he lifted his hands in surrender.

'Changing the flight plan, we are taking all those civvies aboard with us.'

'What, no? Too much weight, we won't make it out the atmosphere. I know you guardsmen don't understand how it works, but we won't make it, not enough fuel or thrust. Besides, if we're not cleared to dock, the ships will just blow us out of the air.'

'That's why we will be hugging the northern coast, low and sneaky like, got it?'

'We'll be left behind sergeant, listen I outrank you, now forget about it. Don't you want to live?'

'Do you?' Trevin tapped the muzzle of the pistol against the pilot's helmet. 'Ranks don't mean anything right now and I'm the one with the gun. Besides, you've just been conscripted. Welcome to the guard, trooper.'

Trevin looked out of the armored canopy of the cock pick. From the neighboring bird, he saw Jensen giving him the thumbs up from its cock pit, every bird played out the same way. Misfit was in charge now, and the people would get what they deserved.

...

The general's valkyrie shot into the sky like an arrow aimed at the sun. Within, everyone was cinched tightly into their grav chairs, all but one. As the flyer leveled out, Hendricks lifted the restraints that had failed to clamp onto his chest. They kept passengers from being thrown around in the case their five-point buckle didn't hold. Once locked, they couldn't be disengaged until the pilot gave the all clear and activated the release from his cock pit. From the sharp maneuvers the valkyrie engaged in, it was clear the pilot was busy flying through the starship debris that was being drawn down by Kursk's gravity. They would impact, and bury themselves deeply into the earth, to rest with the dead that had fought, and those that still did.

The curious guardsmen looked on as lieutenant Hendricks tumbled about, holding on to anything he could get his hands on to steady his way up the compartment. He staggered in front of the general and held on to the overhead rigging for support.

'What are you doing lieutenant, why are you out of your seat?'

Hendricks pulled his side arm and aimed it at von Richter's chest. His aim wavered significantly as the valkyrie broke into a sharp turn, debris clanking against its hull.

'What's the meaning of this?' asked the flustered general.

Hendricks stared at the commander-in-chief blankly. 'Why?' he asked.

'Why what? You insufferable curd.'

'Lieutenant? Think about what you're doing,' Della called to him.

'I have captain, for many months, it's all I thought about. Now I will get my answers.' He turned back to the general, who was steadily turning red with suppressed anger.

'Why did they have to die? Why leave them all behind? If you knew the navy ships would be here, then why not organize an evacuation? Do you care so little for the lives of others?'

Von Richter looked around the compartment. The passengers were watching helplessly, unable to free themselves from their harnesses, a few still trying stubbornly.

'Someone shoot this man before he bores me to death with another one of his childish rants. Anyone? No? Why are you all sitting there?'

The storm troopers shared a glance. Zephina took off her helmet, her sweat slicked hair falling over her brow. 'I don't see how you want us to stop him, sir. Our weapons are stowed and we're locked in our chairs. I suggest you answer the lieutenant, and perhaps not antagonize him too much.'

'Then why the bloody hell is he armed?'

'No one asks their superior officer to disarm himself, von Richter, ever noticed that? That being said...' He reached for the general; the man scrambled against Hendricks' searching hands but could not stop the lieutenant from depriving him of his side arm.

'Did you think you could get away with getting us all killed and no one would care? Well I care, you rat bastard. You don't deserve your title. They obeyed orders; they died fighting for you, and for what? Why?' Hendricks screamed in rage.

Della couldn't stand by and let this run its course, she struggled against her harness but it wouldn't budge. By her, Siggurd shook his head, best not get involved. She looked for support, for someone to stop this madness. Steld simply watched the confrontation, painful memories surfacing anew. Olwen was as inscrutable as his servitor drone. Couldn't he beseech the machine spirit to free them?

The general chewed on his tongue, fuming at being addressed in such a way. 'I was following orders Hendricks. We all do what we are told to. Even I have to bow to the wishes of Lord General Venerati. He needed the pressure taken off the rim ward worlds. He needed their barbarian warlord distracted. We lost a world, a hundred thousand died, but we saved billions, many worlds will be won back from the greenskins now. It's all strategy boy, it's all part of the game. Stop being such a bed pisser Hendricks. This is war!'

'So much for not pissing him off,' grumbled Bensel.

'Men would have fought for that! Why didn't you tell us? We had a right to know why we shed our blood on this worthless ball of dirt.' The transport banked again, knocking Hendricks back into the wall. Von Richter tried to grasp for his pistol then, but couldn't reach. He was stretched out pathetically, like a child throwing a fit, when Hendricks smashed the butt of his pistol against the general's head. Von Richter howled his outraged, and used curses he had not remembered he knew. Finally he quieted down.

'Who are you, boy, to question your betters? What kind of scum did old Ravion breed with?'

'I wouldn't know, the man was dead before I ever met him. Whatever he asked you to do for me, for his house, it was of his own doing. I never asked for anything. I take from my mother's side anyway'

'That explains a lot,' the general growled, blood was now flowing from the side of his head. The whelp had made him bleed. 'I'll have you hung for this you dumb Persy. Mark my words.'

'Smart, your lordship, tell the man with the gun you'll have him killed,' sneered Siggurd. His voice was laced with venom. If the lieutenant didn't kill von Richter, it sounded like there would be a runner up for the chance.

'Does Persephony only breed insubordinate fools? Hold your tongue sergeant! I did what was needed, and so did the guardsmen who died. You think they would have obeyed commands knowing they were sent as lambs to the sacrificial altar? My strategy might as well as won us the sub-sector!'

'Congratulations general, I'm sure your name will be praised for centuries to come,' Hendricks spat. He staggered forward in the turbulence, the pistol pressing against von Richter's chest. The weapon went off.

The lieutenant stepped away, his hand shaking from the heresy he had committed. The room was silent but for the roar of the wind against the transport fuselage. The heat from the shot had burned a cavity in the general's chest, a flame still licking from the ragged wound.

The troopers stared at the young lieutenant, and each other, shock and disbelief plain on their features. After a tense moment Della spoke, the transport breaking through the atmosphere making the silence of the void eerily heavy for the remaining passengers. 'Alright lieutenant, it's done. You can put down the weapon now. No one will harm you, I promise.'

Hendricks laughed, despair filling him. He looked at Della with watery eyes. 'I'm afraid I can't do that captain. He deserves much worse than this. I… I am sorry it has come to this.'

Hendricks turned the weapon on himself, slipped the still hot barrel of the pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

When the transport finally reached safe haven, only one body was carried out with dignity.


	22. Epilogue

Epilogue

'Just like that,' Serenity said. They stood beside the towering armorcrys glass of the portside windows. The general leaned against the glass, he seemed tired, more than the recounting should have made him. He wore an age long burden on his shoulders, and the last few hours had only made him more aware of its weight.

'Just like that, but not quite.' He turned to her, pondering his next words, when he didn't share them Serenity prompted him.

'Is this truly the end of your tale, how you want this chapter to end?'

'No, I guess not. Much is left unanswered isn't it?'

'To say the least.'

Augustus walked back to their seats and leaned over to pick up his glass, draining it with one gulp. He watched the dregs of the thick liquid slide down the curved glass. 'The general was still breathing you know. Critically wounded but teetering on the edge of death, he clung to life. It seemed a gross injustice. Apparently someone else shared my opinion. The official report of the post mortem stated that general von Richter succumbed to his wounds hours later. Medicae statements say he fell into a coma. He had an unusually large dose of morphium coursing through his body. The equivalent of three times the prescribed amount, actually.'

Serenity stood at his side, looking up into his soft features, coming to the same conclusion Augustus had so many years ago. 'Trooper Steld,' she said simply.

'I asked her about it, once. All she said was "if my father deserved to die for his crimes, then so did he." It was as close to an admission of guilt as I ever got from her. Whatever had passed between her and Siggurd changed her. Her eyes were never the same after that day. No longer dead and cold. They were infinitely sadder. I believed she decided to confront her pain instead of bury it under a blanket of pain balms. I wonder if she ever regretted it.'

Serenity nodded solemnly. She waited politely as the lord general set about putting the glasses on the silver platter the servants used to deliver their refreshments. It seemed that if Serenity wanted to know more, she would have to ask. The indomitable confidence he had first shown when the tale began had bled out of him. He was an old man, tired, and seeking absolution for a crime he imagined he had committed. Was it surviving, or sending countless to their deaths during his tenure as a general?

'You did not tell me how you survived being marooned on Kursk.'

'That, is another chapter my dear.' The lord general took her hand in his, a simple sign of trust and affection. They had met as strangers, but they would part as trusted confidents, she knew. 'Needless to say the orks had lost their interest in us. With the masterful directions of Colonel Maddox, we survived long enough for a Rogue Trader to return with more ships, destroy the ork fleet, find us, and lay the world to waste beneath the might of the navy's macro batteries.'

Augustus walked the young lady towards the ballroom entrance. The dimmed glow globes ensconced in the walls flickered into life, sign that a new day's rotation had begun. They had talked all night.

'How long did it take?'

'Very long, Serenity, but we managed to save a few thousands, a handful in comparison to our landing numbers, but far more than von Richter would have saved.'

They were close to the large double paneled doors that marked the entrance of the general's sanctum. They groaned open, two sharp dressed servants in navy apparel waiting on each side. Serenity had so much more to ask.

'What of Malachor, and sergeant Chronus, what of his predictions, surely this was not how he had intended it to play out?'

Augustus smiled, to have that youthful thirst for life again, would be nice. 'Nathaniel Chronus received his medals, an augmented spine, and was made first sergeant to the Galvan 5th when he returned the colors to Galva for the next founding. As for Malachor and his prediction, that is more difficult to explain. He lived, but he never explained it to me. Psykers are bound by different laws. As far as I have been able to understand from my years dealing with them, the spirit and the letter of a request is essential in the reading of fate. Von Richter had asked for the success of his strategy, for his name to be remembered and written in the annals of the Imperium. Well, that's exactly what happened.'

Serenity desperately clutched to the old man's hands, begging for him to continue his recounting with her beautiful violet eyes. Augustus might have buckled to them, had he been a century younger.

'But, but... what of the lesson learned? What is the difference between a commander and a leader, what is the nature of sacrifice?' the doors began to close as the young woman stood beyond them, locking eyes with the lord general.

'A commander orders men into danger; a leader fights to take them out of it.'

The doors were almost closed. The brighter light of the empty ballroom left but a sliver over the general as he spoke his last words to her. 'Remember the Emperor's sacrifice; He was struck down by his favored son because he offered him life, instead of dealing him death.'


End file.
