CHAPTER SEVEN
Day 687
Nhalich, East Bank — 06:03hrs, -28°C
In better days, Nhalich had been a hub of commerce, and a vital link between the Danikkin nations of Varanes and South Varanes. The city’s massive bridge, straddling two and a half kilometres of deep, rushing water, was the primary conduit for trade between the two neighbouring countries. Vast loads of fruit and vegetables from the temperate south moved eastwards through the town, while timber and ore moved west. The citizens enjoyed life, gave weekly thanks to the Emperor in the local cathedral, and looked forward to many more years of the same.
Nhalich had been a bright, comfortable place to live back then.
None among its people had imagined that two thousand years of winter would destroy everything they knew, but it had. The Nhalich of today was a dead place. The streets and alleyways were choked with snow. Habs lay derelict, their doors and windows hollow and dark like the eye sockets of human skulls.
It was not, however, completely dead. Ghostly figures moved in pairs, slipping between the buildings, little more than shadows sketched on the dark canvas of the hour before dawn: Vostroyan shadows.
Sebastev’s hand-picked team of saboteurs infiltrated the town, moving quickly and quietly, committed to the mission objectives that Colonel Kabanov had assigned them. Their first priority was to de-fang the snake: to cripple any rebel armour and render it useless prior to Fifth Company’s imminent charge.
A freezing mist had risen as night gave ground before the coming day, aiding them in their work. Sebastev saw the Emperor’s hand in it. The mist was a divine gift, cloaking his men from the eyes of the enemy as they worked to even the odds. Maybe his regular prayers were finally paying off.
The mist had also forced the Danikkin soldiers to rely on promethium lamps to light their way as they patrolled the town’s perimeter, making it easier for Sebastev’s men to avoid them. Defences seemed light, as if the rebels believed their east flank was secure now that the Vostroyan presence in the town had been eliminated. They hadn’t counted on the arrival of Fifth Company.
Since the operation called for both stealth and technical knowledge, Sebastev had paired scouts with those troopers who had anti-vehicle experience. Since he qualified on both counts, having served as a scout in his early years and taken out his fair share of vehicles in later ones, he’d insisted on deploying, despite the protestations of Lieutenant Kuritsin. But there was another reason he’d included himself in the operation; by engaging in direct action, he hoped he’d be able to drown out the darkest of his thoughts. The sense of doom that had descended on him as the company had travelled from Korris was heavy, and he knew he had to shake it off.
Sebastev focused on his anger and on his hunger for the Emperor’s justice, as he lay on his back under the chassis of a rebel Salamander. Cold seeped into his body from the frozen ground as he fixed small, high-yield melta-charges to points that shielded vital wiring and control mechanisms. The Salamander was a scout variant, but it shared much of its construction with the Chimera on which it was based. The underside was vulnerable. The charges would burn straight through when the time came, and another machine would be rendered useless.
He cursed silently as he worked against the clock. Who knew how old the Salamander was? It was certainly a former PDF machine, a leftover from the days of Danikkin loyalty, shipped from a nearby forge-world, probably Esteban VII, to serve in the Emperor’s name. Perhaps its venerable machine-spirit had known great honour before it had been turned against the Emperor’s forces.
Such a waste, he thought, a machine like this in the hands of fools. Mankind has enough enemies among the stars without these idiotic secessionist wars. Division weakens us, leaving us open to xenos attack. It has to be stamped out.
Sebastev dug another melta-charge from the pack lying at his side. It was the last of them. He’d already rigged two rebel Chimeras and a Leman Russ Demolisher to blow when the timers hit zero.
Even from under the tank, he could see that the mist was growing lighter as day dawned in the east. The greater part of the enemy forces would be waking soon. There would be civilians, too.
Most refugees that passed through the Vostroyan-held towns were loyalists eager to escape persecution by Lord-General Vanandrasse’s agents. They numbered in the millions. They usually went west to the so-called contribution camps established by Old Hungry in the territories south of Seddisvarr. Once there, they were fed and housed, and put to work making coats, blankets and the like for the Vostroyan forces.
Since the camps were filled to bursting, the decision had been made to allow refugees to stay in the garrisoned towns, but the price of that decision was becoming all too apparent. Sebastev couldn’t be sure how many non-combatants remained in Nhalich. If they stayed out of the coming fight, they’d live through the day, but if they insisted on joining the battle, Sebastev’s men would cut them down without remorse.
Civilian or not, those who turned their back on the Emperor deserved no quarter.
The killing of misguided civilians was a grim duty, true, but it was hardly new to the men of Fifth Company. As Sebastev set the timer on the final charge, memories returned of the war on Porozh some thirteen years before. It had been a beautiful, lush world, warm with sunshine, covered in bright fields and orchards. On the face of it, the differences between Porozh and Danik’s World couldn’t have been greater. The women on Porozh had been so pretty, small and delicate like finely sculpted dolls with skin the colour of rich honey and hair the colour of chocolate. He remembered one, a young woman, her hat covered in flowers, who’d brought his men fruit while they patrolled the borders near her family’s orchards. She had danced as she moved, smiling brightly as she handed each man a gift from her basket. Even the most jaded old veterans had smiled back, eyes alight as they followed her, taking in the swell of her hips and breasts, and the light playing on her hair. They thanked her and bit into the succulent fruits she dispensed.
She’d finally stopped in front of Sebastev, beaming at him and holding up a juicy local fruit called a vusgada. He’d accepted it from her with a nod of thanks. The bright yellow fruit was almost at his lips when one of his troopers began retching. Then the trooper began vomiting mouthfuls of blood onto the grass.
The girl didn’t stick around to watch. She immediately threw down her basket and broke into a run. More of Sebatev’s men fell to the ground around him, groaning, clutching their bellies and puking blood.
He’d turned and killed her, of course, without even thinking about it: a single shot to the back of her head at about sixty metres. All that beauty, all that light, extinguished with a crack of his bolt pistol. The flowers on her hat burst like little fireworks, scattering pink petals on the warm afternoon air. Her body hit the ground so hard it flipped over. Sebastev remembered feeling hollow and confused.
Under all that beauty and light, he thought, Porozh was as sick and faithless as Danik’s World, as all rebel worlds. Scratch the surface and they were all the same, dead the moment they turned from the rest of the Imperium.
Of the men who had bitten into the poisoned fruit, three died that day and six were permanently injured, requiring augmetic organs. The rest received medical treatment in time to avoid long-term damage. No one ate local food again.
The girl’s family was burned to death for treachery. Commissar-Captain Vaughn had seen to that. Over the years, Sebastev had wondered about the girl. Had she even known the fruits were poisoned? He hadn’t given her a chance to say.
New regulations on interacting with the local populace had come after that, but for many Guardsmen, it was too late. Thousands had caught terminal diseases from the local women. An official investigation concluded that the prettiest Porozhi had deliberately infected themselves before sleeping with as many of the occupation troopers as they could entice.
What a campaign that was, thought Sebastev. Those people turned everything they had against us. Why do all these traitors and
heretics insist on sacrificing themselves for the ideals of madmen like Vanandrasse?
Sebastev had never forgotten the young woman’s face, the pretty smile as she handed him her deadly gift, the way her wounded head blossomed in the air like a crimson flower.
“Are you done, sir?” hissed a voice from the side of the Salamander. “The patrol will be returning any second.”
Sebastev finished up and slid out from under the vehicle. Trooper Aronov stood close by. Fifth Company scouts were generally small, lithe men, but Aronov was huge. He towered over Sebastev, turning his head this way and that, scanning the mists for any sign of trouble. “Don’t you think you’re cutting it a bit fine, sir?”
“We’re done,” whispered Sebastev. “Think you can get us to the rendezvous point?”
“You know it, sir,” replied Aronov. He tapped a finger on the side of his head. “Pictographic memory. It’s all in here. I figured that’s why you partnered with me.”
Sebastev shook his head. “Not a bit of it, trooper. I just needed the biggest, dumbest human shield I could find.”
“Pfft! Whatever you say, sir,” said Aronov. “Let’s move.”
They headed west through the back streets, still well-cloaked by the mist, but holding to the shadows regardless. There were only minutes left before Nhalich got a very special alarm call. Sebastev was surprised at how fast Aronov moved, and how quietly.
Damn it, he thought, this is what my commission has done to me. There was a time when I moved like that. Now I’m slowing this one down. By the Golden Throne, if I live through this…
They reached the corner of an intersection when Aronov suddenly dropped into a crouch. Sebastev halted immediately. With a blur of hand signals, the big scout indicated a patrol up ahead. From the mist, three men emerged, armed with lasguns, moving south to north along the street that bisected theirs. With more sign language, Aronov asked Sebastev how he wanted to proceed.
We can’t wait for them to pass, thought Sebastev. We should get to the rendezvous point on the east bank before the charges blow, but if we attack and one escapes to raise the alarm, Colonel Kabanov will face heavy resistance on the way in.
Aronov’s gestures became more urgent. The rebel patrol was getting closer.
How good is this trooper, Sebastev wondered? How good am I?
He made his decision. His hands cut three quick gestures in the air: Take them out.
“This is close enough, sergeant,” said Colonel Kabanov to his driver. “I can see lantern lights at the edge of the town. Any closer and our engine noise will give us away. Lieutenant Kuritsin, order the others to hold position.”
“Aye, sir,” said Kuritsin. He lifted a speaking horn from the wall beside him, using the Chimera’s vox-caster rather than his own. He keyed the appropriate channel and said, “Command to all units. Hold position on this ridge. Ready yourselves to charge on the colonel’s order.”
Fifth Company’s Chimeras ground to a halt in the snow. The Pathcutters pulled up into horizontal formation behind them, ready to disgorge their payloads of vengeful Guardsmen when the time came to storm the town. Fifth Company simply didn’t have enough resources to launch attacks from multiple angles, so Kabanov had decided that they’d charge forward in a wedge formation, punch through the rebel line and engage them in a city fight. Urban warfare was a Firstborn speciality, after all.
“Let’s hope the captain can ease our way in as planned,” said Commissar Karif.
The colonel turned to look at him. “Have no fear on that count, commissar. Captain Sebastev’s effectiveness is not to be doubted. By the time we descend on the rebel filth, there won’t be a working piece of enemy armour on this side of the river. Not that their infantry will be a pushover, of course.”
“There it is again, colonel,” said Karif, “a certain respect for the strength of the rebels. It’s a stark contrast to the attitudes that seem to prevail in Seddisvarr.”
“Twelfth Army propaganda, commissar,” said Colonel Kabanov. “They’d have you believe we’re fighting hapless fools. I wouldn’t put too much stock in it, if I were you. Good for morale, of course, but the greatest mistake a man can make is to underestimate his foe. The deep winter has made the Danikkin a hardy people. That they occupy the town up ahead should be ample proof of that. They’re not constricted by any sense of honour or piety. They fight with desperation. It gives them strength. Perhaps our own desperation will do the same for us.”
“Perhaps,” responded Karif, “but honour and piety will prove greater in the end. I expect Fifth Company to uphold both. A commissar can accept no less.”
The colonel nodded as he said, “Honour means a great deal to the men of this company. You needn’t worry about that. But their survival means a great deal to the future of the regiment. I believe that sometimes, in order to serve the Emperor better, honour must occasionally be sacrificed. Had we served Captain Sebastev’s sense of honour and duty at Korris, Fifth Company would have fallen before the orks. You and I would both be little more than frozen bodies. Despite everything, Captain Sebastev wouldn’t have disobeyed General Vlastan.”
Karif remembered the words of the troopers in the back of the Pathcutter. “Which is, of course, why you stayed with us, is it not, colonel? Through your insistence on taking command, you managed to preserve both the company and the captain’s honour, at least in the meantime.”
“That’s your interpretation of events, commissar,” said the colonel testily, “and you’re welcome to it. But the Danikkin Campaign is not a simple one. Few men outside the Twelfth Army’s tactical staff, including myself, have anything more than a rough idea of the whole picture. I can tell you this much: a man would have to look far back in the annals of the Sixty-Eighth to find days as dark as these.”
Colonel Kabanov flexed his fists as he continued. The history of the regiment is a chain unbroken for thousands of years. Despite countless wars and untold losses, there have always been survivors around whom the regiment could be restored. But the Danikkin… their hatred is a powerful thing. They don’t take prisoners, commissar. Enemies of their secessionist movement are killed at once. I believe that Fifth Company is the last remaining seed from which the regiment might again grow. The coming day will bring one of two things: either the breaking of our proud tradition, or another victory to add to it.”
Karif sat quietly, digesting the colonel’s words for a moment before he said, “With your permission, colonel, I’d like my adjutant to man the heavy bolter as we ride in. The boy needs such experiences if he’s to become a well-rounded soldier and aide.”
“No objections here,” replied the colonel. “Send him up front. Sergeant Samarov will make good use of him.”
Stavin moved up as ordered. Karif heard Sergeant Samarov welcome the young man into the driver’s compartment.
Lieutenant Kuritsin, sitting opposite Karif and next to Father Olov, lifted a gold-plated chronometer from his coat pocket and looked at it. “Saints be with the captain. He should be at the east bank by now. We’ll have our signal soon.”
Father Olov’s gravelly voice sounded from under the matted tangle of his long, white beard. “Rest easy, lieutenant. The Grey Lady watches over that one. You should know that well enough.” He looked over at Karif and said, “Saint Nadalya, commissar. Patron saint of Vostroya. The captain is a man protected by his faith, mark my words.”
Karif grinned at the old priest and said, “I know who she is, Father, but your words have reminded me of a matter I wished to discuss with you. I hope you won’t think it presumptuous on my part.”
“Which means it is presumptuous,” grumbled the old priest, “but go ahead, commissar.”
Olov’s beard was so long that he could have tucked the end of it into his belt. Beside him, sheathed in a covering of brown leather, was his preferred weapon, the mighty eviscerator chainsword favoured by many a battlefield priest. Years of wielding it in practice and in battle had given the priest a broad physique. Karif hadn’t
missed the hints of thick muscle beneath Olov’s robes.
“I confess to feeling a certain kinship with you, Father,” said Karif. “We’re both men of the Imperial Creed. Granted, our roles differ, but I hope you feel the same kinship in your own way. With that in mind.
“Spit it out, man,” rumbled Olov.
Once again, Karif found the Vostroyan manner a source of no small irritation. He had to keep reminding himself that it was a cultural trait, one that clearly extended to both the officer class and members of the Ecclesiarchy. Suppressing a retort, Karif said, “Very well. I’d like to make a battlefield reading to our men during the coming fight. I’m sure I can fortify their spirits and lend them some divine strength. What say you, Father?”
Olov’s brow creased and his eyes narrowed. “I handle the readings, commissar. That might not have been explained to you properly. Have done for almost eleven years with this particular lot.”
And from what I’ve heard, thought Karif, you’ve made a fine mess of it. The Septology of Hestor? It may be officially approved by the Ministorum, but it’s widely held to have been written by madmen. It’s time this regiment had a proper reading that will gird them for battle.
Karif didn’t think it prudent to mention that Captain Sebastev had asked him to consider orating in the priest’s place. Would the priest have believed him anyway?
Instead, Karif said, “This company is lucky to have you, Father Olov, and they know it well enough. But as a newcomer, I’m eager to strengthen my presence among the men, get them acclimatised to me, as it were.”
Colonel Kabanov spoke up from his seat near the driver’s compartment. “I can see the logic in that, commissar,” he said, “but the decision lies with you, Father Olov. Would you have our new commissar try his hand?”
If Father Olov was at all influenced by the colonel’s words, it didn’t show on his face. “What would you read, commissar?” he asked, still scowling.
It was time for Karif to play his ace. He drew a small blue tome from an inside pocket and raised it for the others to see.
[Imperial Guard 03] - Rebel Winter Page 12
