by Dan Abnett
‘First Sons,’ he said.
‘What the–’
‘That’s right,’ the first officer interrupted. ‘Scions.’
The medic clapped Fenk on the shoulder, and the second lieutenant had to suppress the urge to strike him.
‘Looks like you’re coming with us, sir,’ said the medic. The first officer nodded his confirmation and the 50th, which had swelled to sixty men but were probably in much greater number overall, began to withdraw from the field.
‘You can give your full report to Major Regara as soon as we’re back behind the Iron Line,’ added the medic. ‘He’ll want to know what happened.’
Fenk nodded.
The rain continued unabated, hammering the Volpone as they struggled through the mud, bent-backed and battle-weary. But far from being cleansing, the deluge only smeared the dirt, begriming their armour. It failed to wash the blood from Fenk’s hands.
II
Regara paced. He was good at pacing. Part stalking feline, part parade drill officer, the major had turned pacing into a form of theatre.
He paced in silence, with only the sound of creaking boot leather and the low whine of servos from his bionic leg to disturb the peace of the landing strip. In truth, it was little more than a square patch of flattened earth. An armoured blockhouse squatted nearby: the Volpone barracks. It was one of several iron-wrought structures that had weathered the early stages of the incursion into Titus, now dubbed the ‘Iron Line’ for ease of reference.
Regara was not alone on the landing strip. Five men in Volpone grey stood nearby. They also watched the skies, but didn’t prowl as the major did.
Like the others, he wore the colours of the Volpone, only his attire was less ragged than that of his comrades. His breastplate was wrought with filigree, and shone dully in the ambient light. Clean-shaven, Regara sported an obvious scar on his right cheek. Most notable, however, was his left leg. The entire limb was a bionic, gilt and ornate like the rest of the major’s armour.
‘Here they come,’ he muttered, craning his neck as the air throbbed with engine drone. The shadow of a heavy aircraft came into view.
The Valkyrie was painted slate grey and had the clenched fist around barbed wire icon of the First Sons daubed on its flanks. Prow lamps strafed the gloom, leading the way as the gunship knifed through the driving rain. Hellstrike missiles jutted aggressively from both wings. A heavy bolter poking from the nose cone tracked the targets on the ground with slow, idle sweeps.
‘Friendly,’ remarked Lieutenant Culcis, though the sarcasm in his tone suggested he thought the First Sons were anything but. He stood to the side of the landing pad with the other four men in the major’s retinue. The man next to him was called Drado, a pug-faced corporal who was also Culcis’s aide.
‘They’re fegging taking over, is what they’re doing.’
‘Manners, Drado,’ warned Culcis, despite the fact he agreed with him. ‘Remember your breeding.’
Downwash from the Valkyrie’s descent thrusters blew dust and debris across the landing pad, the high-pitched whine from the assault craft’s twin engines drowning out any forthcoming apology from Drado.
Regara watched the Valkyrie all the way down, not moving from his chosen spot. Buffeted by the skirling katabatic draughts, he didn’t blink once or reach up to steady his cap. The major looked proud and defiant. He was determined to meet the newcomers with the proper air of imperious authority.
As soon as the landing stanchions met solid earth, the rear access hatch descended, but the sound of grinding servos was obscured by the engine turbines slowing to a stop. A single scion stepped out, his slate-grey greatcoat matching the hue of his transport and flapping in the fading engine wash. He wore a black beret, the same clenched fist icon rendered in silver and pinned to the fabric.
His armoured carapace was black too, and the high gorget that rose up around his muscular neck carried a silver chain to denote his rank. As the greatcoat parted, Regara got a look at the holstered plasma pistol and vibro-knife the scion wore on either hip.
When he met Regara, he gave a crisp salute, which the major reciprocated.
‘Ardal,’ said the scion. ‘Tempestor Prime of the First Sons.’
Though both dressed in grey, the two men were a contrast in styles, one functional and cold, the other intricate and gilded.
‘Regara, major, Volpone 50th,’ Regara replied. ‘Are you planning on taking over my command, Prime Ardal?’
Ardal smiled thinly.
‘Bold.’ He nodded and smirked. ‘I like that. Not planning, major, am.’ The engine noise died away to nothing, so the two officers could lower their voices. It did nothing to drive away the tension.
‘We have bled out here, sir,’ said Regara. ‘I’ve lost nigh-on a hundred men to this grind.’
‘Your orders were to breach the east wall of Titus,’ said Ardal genially. ‘Those orders have not changed. The difference is, we’re the ones who’ll be making the breach now. You just need to provide the opportunity.’
Regara scowled, his hands bunched into fists by his sides. He knew better than to strike a Tempestor Prime. Not because he feared disciplinary reprisals, but because he knew Ardal could probably snap his neck before Regara had thrown the first punch. The man practically sweated lethal menace.
The major turned to address his aide.
‘Corporal Speers,’ he snapped, ‘get Colonel Gilbear on the vox.’
‘Major,’ said Ardal, ‘I can have the colonel on the vox right now.’
Regara turned his angry glare back to the Prime.
Ardal continued. ‘He said you wouldn’t like it. He also sanctioned this mission and gave me assurances you would do as required.’
Gritting his teeth, it took a supreme effort for Regara to maintain his composure. Escorting scions was a death sentence. Ardal wanted a punching bag to get the enemy’s attention while his commandoes did whatever they needed to in Titus. Moreover, the major didn’t like his authority being usurped.
‘And what, sir, do you require of us?’
‘Two things,’ said Ardal flatly. ‘Engage a full-scale assault against the east wall of the city, and escort a Militarum asset into the warzone.’
At the mention of the word, the ‘asset’ walked from the Valkyrie’s hold with two scion bodyguards, one at either side of him.
The asset was male, thin-faced and clearly not a soldier. He wore a long, tan cloak and soft fatigues. He was hooded, and leaned heavily on a brass staff, adorned with an Imperial eagle as its apex.
‘This is Juba Klaye,’ Ardal informed the major.
Not bodyguards, Regara realised as soon as the man introduced as Juba Klaye removed his hood to display the sigil-warded metal collar around his neck, gaolers…
Juba Klaye was a battle-psyker.
‘Telepath,’ Ardal explained. ‘There’s a Blood Pact communications hub somewhere behind the east wall. Mister Klaye is going to help us locate precisely where. Soon as he does, you’re to hold position and let the First Sons do the rest. Simple.’
It was far from simple, but Regara had little option. He settled for spite.
‘And where are your men? Or are you going to breach the east wall with two thugs in black carapace?’
Prime Ardal leaned closer to intimidate Regara, who didn’t flinch, despite the scion’s obvious threat.
‘Already out in the field,’ he rasped, daring the major to respond.
The First Sons had witnessed the rout, and probably seen most of the 66th, 18th and Fifth platoons cut to ribbons by the entrenched Blood Pact.
‘Now,’ said Ardal, leaning back to observe Regara’s impotent rage with detached amusement, ‘show me to operational command. I think we’ve been squatting in the dirt long enough.’
Regara gave the order to Speers, who immediately escorted the Prime and his s
mall entourage, including Juba Klaye.
‘I need a word with my lieutenant,’ Regara told Ardal, who shrugged dismissively. He didn’t care two stones. He was in charge now. Regara could do what he liked so long as he did as he was told and didn’t feg up the mission. Ardal went on without him.
Regara summoned Culcis with a curt gesture of the head.
‘Is that Fenk?’ asked the major, noticing, for the first time, the dishevelled officer wedged between Sergeant Drado and Lieutenant Coen.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘He looks like hell.’
‘Sole survivor of 66th platoon, sir.’
‘Throne of Earth,’ Regara murmured. ‘Can he fight?’
‘Coen gave him a clean bill. Said he seems surprisingly cogent, all things considered.’
Regara nodded, pleased that something was going right for the 50th. ‘Good. Find him a command, then get him cleaned up and back in the field. Our officer cadre is thin on the ground, lieutenant, and if we’re going to live through what that bastard Ardal has planned, we need cool heads and discipline.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Culcis went to his duties, taking the others with him and leaving Regara alone on the landing pad with the Valkyrie.
Titus stood to the east, beyond the Iron Line. The city was a ruin, but its walls still held. The communications hub the Blood Pact was using to coordinate its efforts in the sector could be anywhere in that warren. Regara didn’t like their odds of finding where before they were all facedown and bloody in a ditch, even with a fegging psyker.
The rain intensified into a deluge, hammering Regara. It was like standing in a blockhouse ablutions cubicle. The major looked up into fathomless clouds, blinking as the rain got into his eyes.
‘Not content to merely dump these First Son bastards and their wyrd, you have to piss on us too, eh? Ave Imperator,’ he said snidely, heading off for the blockhouse.
III
Fenk would not mourn the 66th, though he had not wished destruction on his comrades either. After his ‘episode’ in the trench, he was feeling better adjusted again. He actually recognised Culcis, who had told Fenk he was being placed in command of the newly amalgamated Fifth and 18th platoons. The majority of the survivors and officers had come from the 18th, so it was actually the Fifth and 66th platoons that had gone, the latter subsumed in order for the 18th to maintain minimum military efficacy.
Subsumption was an all too familiar feeling for Fenk. It happened every time the ‘grey host’ took him and exerted its will. It drove the need in him, the hunger to commit murder. For now, it was dormant, but Fenk knew it would stir again, sure as anger stirs in any soldier when you put a rifle in his hands.
His uniform was cleaned and pressed, the dirt of the trench, if not the deeds committed in it, washed away. It felt good to be cleansed of one kind of taint at least.
Darkness smothered the officers’ barracks, and Fenk was alone. Everyone else was mustering for the push on the east wall. It didn’t disturb Fenk as it had others. Fear of discovery, not death, kept him awake in the cold light of dawn.
A telepath, that’s what the Scion officer had said. Fenk hadn’t been close enough to hear the exchange, but he could read lips. A mind-reader in their ranks, one whom the Volpone had to escort to the wall, complicated matters. The mere thought of it sent a spike of anxiety into Fenk, whose hands shook as he opened the small wooden chest he kept hidden under his billet.
Stuber’s ident-tag was in the palm of his left hand. The feel of it steadied Fenk’s nerves as he placed it reverently on the deep green velvet lining of the box’s interior. Eight other trophies shared the chest with it, some tags, others locks of hair, a rank pin, a cigar stub.
The tempest unleashed on Titus and, perhaps, all of Lotun was the perfect cover for Fenk’s indiscretions, but now he would have to be careful. He needed to find a way to remove the telepath. Until he did, he resolved not to get too close. He had heard they could pluck a man’s thoughts right out of his head like reading parchment.
Quelling a second bout of mild panic, Fenk shut the chest.
A sudden knock at the door disturbed the moment, making him scowl.
‘Sir…’ ventured a voice beyond the frosted glass.
‘I’m ready, private,’ answered Fenk, his voice carefully neutral.
Villiers was the only non-com available to act as Fenk’s aide. He seemed young, but diligent.
‘Shall I wait outside for you, sir?’
‘Thank you, private. Yes,’ said Fenk, and secreted the chest before taking up his freshly brushed officer’s cap and heading out to join the muster.
IV
Just fewer than six hundred took to the field, marching east towards the city boundary wall of Titus. They went on foot, the terrain too rugged and befouled by trench works, wire and cruciform tank traps for vehicles.
The rain hadn’t let up since the landing strip, Regara noted as it poured off the command tent’s bulging awning. Spread on the table in front of him were reconnaissance maps of the region, including all known trench works, minefields, choke points, bottlenecks and geographical vantage points. None of it mattered one iota if they couldn’t breach the wall.
Another four hundred Volpone stood nearby, arrayed in their ranks, awaiting the order to move out. Regara intended to hold them until the scions had identified their ingress vector, then he would lead the rest out himself to reinforce whatever was left of his men and his regiment.
Tempestor Prime Ardal had declined the offer to oversee operations from the command tent. Instead, he roamed overhead in the Valkyrie, keeping a low profile until his men had successfully completed their mission and required extraction.
We are just fodder to them, Regara thought bitterly, turning his attention to the vox-unit that stood on the table, holding one corner of the maps in place. The wind had picked up in the last few hours, and Regara almost didn’t hear the unit over the din.
After the ubiquitous static, he heard Culcis’s voice.
‘Major, we have reached the trench line, and are proceeding.’
Amid the crackling audio, Regara could make out the sporadic snap of las-fire and the deeper boom of heavier, more distant cannon.
Taking a sip of the spice wine in the goblet to his left, the major nodded to Speers, who marked Culcis’s position on the map.
‘Keep an eye on their wyrd, lieutenant. Proceed with caution. Ave Imperator.’
‘Received, sir. Will do. Ave Imperator.’
Clipped and efficient, just like the man himself. Culcis would have to lead the men from beyond the trench line.
In the darkness, in the rising tempest, he would need to lead them well.
V
Three companies of Volpone, twelve platoons, had barely crossed the second trench line when the Blood Pact fell upon them. They came out of the shadows through the driving rain, their iron grotesques glistening as if drenched in a fever sweat. In many ways they were.
Jags of light stitched the gloom, so hot and numerous they ionised the air. But rather than draw the night together, they tore it apart and laid the faces of the enemy bare.
Wraiths emerged from hidden trench works, gulleys and emplacements, gunnery nests, razor-wired foxholes and dirt-smeared awnings of dead flesh. Wraiths dressed in the trappings of men the colour of old blood howled in the darkness.
Half a Death Brigade.
Blood Pact.
After a withering hail of collimated las-fire and automatic solid-shot, the Blood Pact opened up with a volley from their heavy guns. Tripod-mounted, slung over the shoulder and braced at waist height, the din of chugging autocannon and shrieking lascannon met in an unholy chorus.
The screams of the Volpone were this dark symphony’s refrain.
Ordnance followed, mortar teams and hand-held launchers.
Men in Volpone g
rey were sent skywards in plumes of displaced earth, their limbs limp and ragged, torn up by the blasts.
It took almost six seconds for the Volpone to respond. During that time they lost nearly a quarter of their force, and their fighting efficacy was irrevocably damaged.
A vanguard of grenadiers roamed ahead of the Blood Pact fire-platoons. They went by the name of Jaegans.
Culcis, his ears still ringing from a close shell impact, caught sight of them through the mist and debris.
‘Throne have mercy,’ he breathed, eyeing the knife the grenadier held in one hand and the krak charge he brandished in the other.
The lieutenant had already drawn his pistol, a conditioned reflex, his soldier’s instincts overcoming the inertia of fear.
In some, marksmanship was learned; in others, it was a gift. Culcis sat in the latter camp. He shot three grenadiers through their eye sockets. All single shots, no bursts, no profligacy.
Dead men released dead men’s triggers. Three explosions ripped up the night in front of him, and shredded apart the rest of the hunter-pack that had been coming to carve open Culcis and his command squad. The resulting detonation was loud and filled the air with acrid smoke.
Lieutenant Culcis raised his sabre, bellowing a Volpone war cry, and led the men through the vile pall.
A quick glance back revealed that four men were dead. Mercifully, the telepath still lived, kept safe by the only soldier Culcis trusted with the task – Corporal Drado. The pug-faced brute was spattered with blood, but none of it was his own.
Return fire blazed from the Volpone platoons, growing fiercer and more intense as the line advanced.
‘How close?’ asked Drado, needing to shout to be heard above the fire exchange.
They had found cover in a shallow shell crater. After the sudden and brutal Blood Pact assault, Culcis was taking the few snatched seconds to assess the battle situation.
Bleak was his initial impression.
‘What?’ Culcis replied, searching for enemy targets in the gloom. ‘Speak up, corporal.’ He glanced over his shoulder to see Drado jabbing a thumb in the direction of his charge. No man dared touch the psyker. Even in a regiment such as the 50th with its ingrained and indoctrinated discipline, suspicion of the wyrd almost approached paranoia.
