for salvation. As he prayed, his mind raced with desperate and outraged questions. How can this be,
he thought. Bulaven said they were our guns. Why is our own side shooting at us? But there was no
answer. Only more explosions and flying soil as the bombardment continued.
Then, abruptly, thankfully, the explosions stopped.
65
“Move! Move! Move! Out of the trench!” Davir shouted. “Quickly. Before the bastards finish
reloading!”
Scrambling to his feet as the others leaped up and over the rear trench wall, Larn followed them.
Clearing the wall, he saw they had already sprinted halfway down the rise towards the line of
dugouts. Running desperately to catch up, for a moment Larn was aware of nothing more than the
rush of blood in his ears and the pounding of his heart. Then, as though with a slow dawning
realisation akin to a nightmare, he heard the deathdive scream of falling shells once more and knew
he would never reach the dugouts in time.
Abruptly, an explosion ripped through the air to the side of him, knocking him to the ground and
showering him with falling earth. Finding himself on his back and covered in soil, Larn felt a
sudden fear at the thought he had been buried alive, before he saw the grey sky overhead and
realised he was still above ground. Spluttering out a mouthful of earth as he stumbled to his feet
again, he spent long dangerous instants staggering aimlessly about in a daze as more explosions
wracked the ground beneath him. Then, relieved, he heard the sound of a familiar voice shouting
through the haze of his confusion.
“Here, new fish,” he heard the voice yell. “This way! Over here!”
It was Bulaven. Standing sheltered within the sandbag walls of one of the dugout emplacements,
the big man was gesturing frantically to him. Seeing him, Larn half-ran, half-stumbled towards him,
all but collapsing into Bulaven’s outstretched arms as he finally reached the safety of the
emplacement. Then, hurriedly, Bulaven helped Larn down the steps into the dugout while another
grim-faced Vardan slammed the door closed behind them.
“…new fish…” Bulaven said, the words mostly drowned out by the ringing in Larn’s ears,
“…close one… thought… los… you…”
“…new fish…” Bulaven said again, what few words Larn could understand were dim and
muffled, as though the big man’s voice was a dying whisper echoing down the length of a long
tunnel, “…are… ou… all… right…”
“…new fish…” Bulaven’s face was painted with concern as Larn felt a sudden weakness and the
world about him grew dark and distant.
“…new fish…”
And then, everything went black.
He awoke to darkness and the smell of earth. Opening his eyes, Larn looked up to see a slim
rectangle of cold grey sky above him surrounded on all sides by dark walls of soil. As he tried to
stand, he found his limbs would not answer him. He could not move; the fact of his paralysis
accepted with a curious sense of detachment and calm resignation. Abruptly, he saw four bent and
ragged figures appear overheard to peer down at him as though from a dizzying height. Seeing the
lines and creases on each ancient wizened face, he recognised them at once. They were the old
women he had seen carting corpses away after the battle. Then, looking down at him with tired
disinterest, the women began to speak, each one taking up where the other had left off as though
performing some ritual they had enacted a thousand times already.
“He was a hero,” the first old women said as Larn slowly began to understand something was
terribly wrong here. “They all are, all the Guardsmen who die here.”
“They are martyrs,” one of her sisters said beside her. “By giving their blood to defend this place
they have made the soil of this city into sacred ground.”
“Broucheroc is a holy and impregnable fortress,” the third one said. “The orks will never take it.
We will break their assault here. Then, we will push them back and reclaim this entire planet.”
“So the commissars tell us,” the fourth one added, without conviction.
Turning away, the rustling noise made by their tattered layers of clothing not unlike the
flutterings of the black wings of crows, the women disappeared from his sight again. Lying on his
back still looking up at the rectangle of grey sky above him, Larn felt his previous sense of calm
66
replaced by a sudden presentiment of terror. There is something wrong here, he thought. They are
talking as though I were dead. Are they blind? Can’t they see I am still alive. He made to speak, to
call out and tell them to come back and help him up out of this strange pit he found himself lying in
but the words would not come. His mouth and tongue were as paralysed as every other part of his
body. Then, Larn heard a scratching sound as though somewhere a shovel had been pushed into a
mound of earth, and knew all his horrified premonitions of a moment earlier were about to be made
reality.
This is not a pit, he thought, his mind frantic with despair. It is a grave! And they are about to
bury me alive!
“Grieve not for this departed soul,” he heard a stern and even voice say from above as the first
shovelful of earth fell towards him. “Man born of woman was not made to be eternal. And, insofar
as he was given life by the Immortal Emperor, so it is by His will that Man should die.”
Feeling the earth strike his face, Larn tried to struggle to his feet. To scream. To shout. To cry
out. It was hopeless. He could not move.
“For though the soul may be immortal, the body was made to pass from this world,” the voice
smoothly continued. “And let the flesh of the remains of Man be given over to the processes of
decay, for only the Emperor is undying.”
Helpless, Larn found himself blinded as another shovelful of earth landed on his face. Then, as
fragments of soil dribbled into his mouth and nostrils, he felt more earth hit his body, the weight of
it growing slowly more intolerable as, one remorseless shovelful at a time, the unseen grave diggers
went about their work. Soon, his lungs crushed under the weight of the soil on his chest, his mouth
and nose choked from the soil inside them, he could no longer breathe. Mute and blind now, his
heart growing feeble, in the throes of his last desperate paroxysms of helpless terror the final thing
he heard was the words of the calm and pitiless voice droning endlessly on above him.
“Ashes to ashes,” the voice said, uncaring. “Dust to dust. A life is over. Let the body of this man
be given to the earth.”
“There. You see now I was right,” he heard Davir say. “I told you all he wasn’t dead. Naturally I
defer to your medical judgement in such matters, Svenk, but I understand it is exceedingly rare to
find a dead man who is still breathing.”
Groggily opening his eyes, Larn was briefly confused to find he was lying on his back on the
floor of an unfamiliar dugout with the gaunt figure of Medical Officer Svenk kneeling over him. For
a moment he wondered what had happened to the open grave and the weight of earth on top of his
chest. It must have been a nightmare, he thought. Then, becoming aware of a pungent odour making
his eyes water, he realised Svenk had broken open a vial of smelling salts and was wafting them
under his nose. Weakly pushing the vial away Larn tried to stand, only for Svenk to place a firm
hand on his chest to stop him.
“Not just yet, new fish,” he said, raising a hand to hold three fingers up in front of Larn’s face.
“How many fingers do you see?”
“Three,” Larn said, noticing Bulaven kneeling on the other side of him and looking down at his
face with an expression of concern.
“We thought we had lost you there for a moment, new fish,” Bulaven said. “When you collapsed
I was sure a near miss from one of the shells must have liquefied your insides. The blast does that
sometimes, even if the shrapnel does not hit you. I am glad to see you are still all right though.”
“How many now?” Svenk asked, changing the number of raised fingers and holding them in
front of Larn once more.
“Two.”
“Good,” Svenk said. “You can remember your name?”
“Larn. Arvin Larn.”
67
“And where do you come from, Larn?”
“From? Outside… there was shelling…”
“True. But I mean where is your homeworld, Larn? Where were you born?”
“Jumael,” Larn replied. “Jumael IV.”
“Excellent,” Svenk said, his face at last cracking into a smile. “Let me extend my warmest
congratulations to you, new fish. You are hereby pronounced fit for duty and free from concussion.
Should you find yourself experiencing any sudden dizziness or nausea over the next twelve hours,
please take two glasses of water and call me in the morning. Oh, and as for that headache you are no
doubt feeling at the moment? Don’t worry, it is a good sign. It means you are still alive.”
“The warmth of your bedside manner is most extraordinary, Svenk,” Davir said, suddenly
appearing to stand over the medic’s shoulder and gaze down at Larn. “Remarkable, even. Really,
you are a credit to your profession.”
“Thank you, Davir,” Svenk replied, putting the loop of his satchel strap over his shoulder once
more as he made to stand. “I always find such unsolicited testimonials deeply moving. Now, if you
will excuse me, I had better go and check the other dugouts for casualties. Given the thoroughness
of the bombardment our own side are currently subjecting us to, chances are there are others
elsewhere who may be in more need of my talents. Though I warn you, new fish,” he added, looking
down with mock seriousness at Larn. “While getting injured twice in one day is scarcely unheard of
hereabouts, it does suggest a certain carelessness about your own well-being. Come to me again
today, and I may be forced to start charging you for my services.”
With that Svenk turned on his heel and walked briskly away, headed for the doorway at the far
end of the dugout. As he watched the medic open the door and start up the stairs towards the
surface, Larn became abruptly aware of the muffled sounds of explosions as shells struck the earth
overhead. We are still being bombarded, he thought, the fog of his mind slowly clearing as he came
more back to himself. And Medical Officer Svenk is about to go out in the middle of it in search of
wounded men in need of treatment. Unbelievable. Whatever the strangeness of his manner, he is
either insane or the bravest man I have ever seen.
“You still do not look too well, new fish,” Bulaven said, still kneeling beside Larn and frowning
at him with concern. “Your face is very pale.”
“So?” said Davir. “For all we know that is his normal colour when he has just had the shit
knocked out of him. Anyway, you heard what Svenk said, Bulaven: the new fish is perfectly fine.
Now, stopping clucking over him like some idiot mother hen and get him to his feet. If the new fish
isn’t dying he has no right to be taking up valuable space by lying there like that.”
“Come on then, new fish,” Bulaven said, helping him stand up as Larn looked for the first time
at the interior of the dugout around them. “Careful now. If you feel like your knees are about to go,
just put your weight on me.”
Inside, the dugout was smaller than the one he had been in before: perhaps a third of the size at
most of the barracks dugout where he had first met Sergeant Chelkar and Corporal Vladek. Looking
through the crowd of a dozen or so Guardsmen standing near him Larn saw a table in the corner
covered in communications equipment. In a chair beside it an unshaven and harried-looking Vardan
corporal sat holding a pair of headphones to his ear with one hand, while pressing down the “send”
button of the vox-corn before him with the other.
“Yes, I understand that, captain,” the corporal said, talking into the vox-com. “But regardless of
what your situation maps may say, I assure you we are still in possession of sector 1-13.”
“That is Corporal Grishen,” said Bulaven once he had seen Larn watching the man. “Our comms
officer. Right now he is talking to the commander of the artillery battery that is shelling us.”
“What? You mean they know they are shooting at us?” Larn asked in disbelief.
“I wouldn’t sound so surprised, new fish,” said Davir. “This is Broucheroc, after all. Here, such
snafus are not uncommon. You have heard the expression by now, I take it? Snafu? I tell you: there
could be no better term for describing this whole damn war.”
68
“It is usually a question of parts, I understand,” Scholar said as he came over to join them. “The
cause of these incidents when our own artillery suddenly starts shooting at us, I mean. Old parts
wear out, the new ones are incorrectly calibrated, or else they have been recycled and refurbished so
many times as to be all but useless. Whatever the cause though, I’m sure once the battery
commander has become aware of our situation the shelling will stop.”
“Phah. More groundless optimism,” Davir spat. “Really, Scholar, you are getting as bad as this
fat oaf Bulaven here. Grishen has been at the comm-link working his way up that battery’s chain of
command for the last twenty minutes. So far, the most he has managed to accomplish is for his
backside to go numb from sitting in that chair. No, I wouldn’t expert this bombardment to end any
time soon. For that to happen the moron shooting at us would have to admit he has made a mistake.
And why should he do that, after all? If he kills us, some arsehole at General Headquarters will
probably pin a medal on him.”
“Yes, captain, I know you have your orders,” said Corporal Grishen nearby, still talking into the
vox-com before pausing to listen to a reply through his headphones. Then, with every man in the
dugout now silent as they stood listening to the stop-start rhythms of Grishen’s side of the
conversation, the corporal began once more.
“Yes, I realise that, captain,” Grishen said. “And you are right: the Guardsman’s first duty is
obedience. But, even granting that you have your orders and it is your duty to obey them, if those
orders are mistaken…”
A pause.
“No, of course, you are right, sir. The divinely ordained command structure of the Imperial
Guard precludes any possibility of your orders being mistaken. If I may rephrase myself, however?
What I really meant to say, of course, was that perhaps the problem here lies not in the orders
themselves, but in the practical aspects of their execution…”
Another pause.
“Oh no, sir. I wasn’t for a moment questioning your competence…”
