to tie his hands in honour and custom.
“I share my salt with you, Commissar Rezail,” Nisri said, bowing his head, “and I share my salt
with Iban Mushira, Battalion Commander Turk Iban Salid. May I prove worthy to lead him,” and
may he prove himself unworthy to be led.
Rezail nodded to his adjutant, who rushed forward and offered the commissar a worn leather
pouch. Rezail opened the drawstrings and tipped the pouch. Nisri accepted the poured salt in both
palms.
“We are brothers in battle and we are both sons of the Emperor,” Nisri said, slowly spilling the
salt to the ground. “Will you offer me the wisdom of your council?”
“I will,” Turk said, accepting his share of the salt from Rezail and spilling it slowly. “Will you
offer me the wisdom of your guidance?”
“Indeed,” Nisri said.
There was a slight pause; Rezail caught the translation of the exchange with Tyrell’s discreet
assistance over the micro-bead. “I’ll leave you to prepare your men, then,” Rezail said with a simple
nod.
4
Turk did not slow his clipped pace down the ship’s corridor, but Master Gunner Nubis caught up to
him in a handful of long strides. Nubis glanced back at the officers following Turk, and they
immediately fell back, offering them a moment alone.
Master Gunner Nubis was a large man and he took up space in every sense of the word. His skin
was the kind of deep ebony that space itself envied, while across his forehead rose the patterned
scars of his tribe, made from rubbing ash into tiny cuts. Each signified a campaign won, a kill of
prestige made. They were but a fraction of the scars on his back, most of them trophies belonging to
the regiment’s lash-officer.
“Now’s not the time,” Turk said, anticipating his friend’s grievance.
“When then?” Nubis whispered, half-turning to address Turk. His voice was thick with the tribal
dialect of the free-spirited Nasandi tribesmen. When he spoke, his accent added spice to his words.
“When Nisri sends his men to slit our throats?”
“We shared salt. Tradition is—”
“Yes,” Nubis replied, “you shared salt while the commissar pressed a gun to your head.”
Turk grinned. Nubis’ flare for the melodramatic always brought a grin to his face. “The
commissar did not press a gun to my head. He, rightly, reminded us of our duty.”
8
“Did we need reminding when the orks killed half our men?”
“My men,” Turk corrected.
“Your men, my friends,” Nubis said. “May their deaths honour the Emperor; they died doing
their duty. To say we need reminding is an insult to their sacrifice.”
“Yes,” Turk said, “but that’s not the point. The 82nd’s record is not in question. Our feud with
the Turenag is.”
“We have a right to demand blood,” Nubis said, “and having that Turenag dog as your superior
is too much to bear!”
Turk sighed, but slowed down. He motioned for other officers to join him.
“I haven’t forgotten the blood feud,” Turk whispered, his voice soft against the walls, “but I will
not disgrace us as a regiment. We serve the Emperor first. Nisri and his men are insignificant in the
face of that duty. But keep a vigilant eye, and protect yourselves. If you suspect anything, see me
first. Spill no blood.”
Nubis smiled, but Turk fixed him with a scowl. “Swear it, Nubis.”
“What?” Nubis replied. “You do not trust me?”
“You are a stubborn goat—” Turk said.
“And about as ugly,” one of the officers interjected. The others laughed.
“I trust your word when you give it and I’ve seen you endure the lash to keep it,” Turk said.
“Give me your word.”
Nubis shook his head. “Fine, I will not spill a drop of their watery blood unless you ask it.”
Turk nodded. “Good. You’d better not, because if it comes to that, Nisri belongs to me.”
The men laughed and patted Turk on the back.
5
Nisri walked into the sacrarius chamber and tucked the end of the seamless white cloth into his
braided waistband. The cotton cloth measured roughly four metres long and was wrapped around his
body and over his shoulders in the traditional manner of the humble supplicant. Nisri’s bare feet
ached at the touch of the cold metal floor, but once inside the sacrarius chamber with its woodpanelled
floors, his toes unclenched.
He greeted the handful of surviving officers of his 351st Derv’sh Blades with a nod and a smile.
Then, he knelt at the edge of the washing pool with its white cerite tiles and the iron lock-box in the
corner. The Trumpet of the Golden Throne was a Sword-class frigate and one of the few ships in the
fleet with a Tallarn captain. As such, the good Captain Abrahim had converted part of the ship’s
cathedrum into a sacrarius where the Tallarn could observe worship of the Emperor in their own
fashion.
The officers washed their pattern-scarred arms and faces at the edge of the pool, while the hum
of regurgers filtered and recycled the water; the erratic gasps of the ship’s engines sent ripples
across its surface.
After several minutes of prayers for absolution, strength and victory, Nisri straightened and
looked to each officer.
“This is the last time we battle together as a regiment,” Sergeant Saheen Raham said. He was
deeply tanned, but his blond hair and purple eyes betrayed his Cadian heritage, a rare gene-stock on
Tallarn.
“I know,” Nisri said, simply. “After this moment the 351st exists only in Imperial records. We
are the 892nd now.”
The officers exchanged glances. Nisri knew what they were thinking, but he chose to let them
voice their concerns.
9
Sergeant Darik Ballasra cleared his throat and waited. He was the old man of the unit and a true
tribesmen with his leathery, brown skin. His hair and beard were white and thin, and his body lean
with age but alive with strength. A delta of wrinkles splashed out from the corners of his dark eyes.
Once everyone turned to face him, he spoke, his voice soft and silken. “The 892nd cannot be a
regiment. Its left and right hands are at war. Peace will only come when one hand severs the other.”
“Turk won’t hesitate to kill you,” Raham said.
“You should not have put him at your back,” Ballasra concluded.
Nisri nodded and calmly dried his hands on the skirt of his own cloth. “Prince Iban Salid is at
my back because I know you are at his.”
“We will protect you,” Raham said, “but—”
“But,” Nisri said, interrupting, “Prince Iban Salid is also a cunning man, give him that due. He
will not easily betray his oath to the Imperium, and he won’t allow his men to do so either. He
would shame his tribe after that oath he gave.”
Raham shook his head, but it was Ballasra who spoke. “The feud continues because of the
Banna Alliance. The Commissariat said our actions were righteous.”
“It is the Banna who ignore the Writ Nonculpis. They are the traitors. They deserve to be struck
down!” Raham said.
“And in doing so,” Nisri replied with a languid smile, “you ignore the same edict that
proclaimed the Banna Nonculpis. It is a stalemate. The Commissariat left it for us to finish.”
“Then let us finish it,” Raham said.
“No,” Nisri replied. “I will not allow my first command to fall under disgrace. We serve the
Emperor; Commissar Rezail was right to remind us of that. Prince Iban Salid also serves the
Emperor, in his limited fashion.”
“And if Turk moves against you?”
“Then I expect you to act accordingly or to let me die a martyr’s death.”
“What would that serve?” Raham said, a bitter edge to his voice.
“If I die a martyr,” Nisri said, “then Turk and his men have done nothing but impale themselves
on their own blades: the commissar will put them to the slaughter. Let them be the fools, the disloyal
ones. But, if you see the blade poised at my back… well, don’t let it come to that, eh? I have a few
more prayers left in me.”
A few smiled, but it was a hard edict for them to follow. The voice of their kinsmen was strong,
and the cry for satisfaction a steady thunder overhead.
“The Emperor will reward us for our loyalty,” Nisri said. “Our actions have remained righteous.
It is the other tribes that have faltered. It is they who will fail. Nisri nodded to the iron lock-box and
waited as Ballasra opened it and removed the rosewood case.
The men nodded and knelt before the sacrarius pool. Nisri entered the waters and waited with
his back turned while Ballasra removed the hooked suturing needles and threads soaked in charcoal
dye from the rosewood box. Ballasra gently pinched a measure of flesh along Nisri’s back and
pierced the skin with the needle.
Nisri inhaled softly, but refused to gasp. He would not shame himself in the eyes of his men or
the Emperor. Ballasra threaded the charcoal string through Nisri’s flesh, tattooing more intricate and
florid patterns along his already scarred back. Occasionally, he splashed cooling water to wash away
the blood, while the officers uttered the melodic cantos of submission to the God-Emperor and
waited for their turn.
6
“Will that be enough?” Commissar Rezail asked as Tyrell helped him remove his jacket. “How
strongly will the promise of salt bind them to their word?”
10
Tyrell sighed as he thought of the answer. He strung the jacket on a wire frame and turned to
face the commissar, his expression apologetic. “The promise of salt does not make honest men of
the liars. It makes honest men honour their word, and it makes dishonest men more careful.”
11
CHAPTER TWO
“Constant sunshine a desert makes.”
—The Accounts of the Tallarn by Remembrancer Tremault
1
Day One.
The heavy whine of atmosphere brakes pierced the dust choked air. The artificial sandstorm was
a fiery orange churned by the waves of landing crafts that roared to the surface with supplies and
soldiers. The storm was spread across kilometres, a mix of displaced dust and the exhaust smoke of
the transports that left fat skid marks in their climb back up.
Private Ahsra Sabaak fired a flare skyward. Vox-chatter on his headset marked another flight
inbound to his location and he needed to show them where to land. “Acknowledged,” he cried over
the roar of a nearby ship. He pulled his kafiya tighter over his youthful face and adjusted the oculars
protecting his eyes before fighting his way through the howling winds. He stabbed more phosphorlume
torches into the sand to mark the corners of his grid.
A moment later, the screaming whine of the protesting transport threatened to rattle his teeth
loose. He barely avoided the blast of the ship’s backwash, as its thrusters fought to control its
descent. Sabaak was sure his uniform was singed, and muttered a curse against the pilot’s mother.
The sand melted under the inferno thrust exhaust and would later re-materialise as rippled and
blackened obsidian. Sabaak steered clear of the vessel’s melted footprint and waited for the vice
clamps to disengage with loud metal pangs. Rectangular bolted containers lining the ship’s
underbelly suddenly dropped, shaking the earth. The landing craft tore off into the dusky sky again.
Sabaak ignored the lingering heat and examined the cargo containers. He squinted at rune
markings in confusion, and groaned. He pulled the vox from his belt and fumbled for the switch
through his heavy gloves.
“This is grid 12-23,” he yelled into the vox. “Tell those old whores aboard the Trumpet that
they’re sending the wrong supplies!”
Sabaak listened to the angry chatter for a moment before yelling back. “Fine! If you can find me
a river on this world, then I’ll apologise. Until then, you tell me why we need two hundred rafts on a
desert planet!”
2
The searing winds rattled bones, while black-hulled troop carriers disgorged Guardsmen. The
soldiers wore calf-length puttees, webbing with canteens, battle-pack bags and shelter quarter rolls.
They wrapped their weapons in swaddling cloth and protected their faces in kafiyas and blastoculars.
Many soldiers scooped up a handful of sand or knelt down to kiss the earth before
scrambling back into formation.
Turk watched the Guardsmen, like ghosts in the storm, file past the Chimera’s armoured visors
before directing his attention back to the others. The chatter inside the command Chimera was loud,
partly to be heard over the thunderous din, but mostly, just to be heard. The Chimera was cramped
12
compared to the more open HQ Salamanders, used for this exact purpose, and it was a speck’s
shadow in relation to the mammoth command Leviathans used during major offensives. For the
Tallarn regiment, it was the best they could muster, especially since the open-topped Salamanders
proved less than useful in desert campaigns.
Along the Chimera’s back wall sat a bank of auspex devices, rune-plates, a vox-transmitter, a
small holocaster, and two operators. Nisri and Turk stood hunched over behind the operators, each
accompanied by their respective and immediate subordinates. They motioned to an iron-framed
brass plate mounted on the wall. The brass plate was acid-etched with the soft contours of local
cartography. The subordinates spoke, while Nisri and Turk remained silent, and studied one another
in quick glances.
“We should pitch camp here,” Major Alef Hussari said, indicating an area of rippled lines. Alef
appeared as weathered as the map, his wrinkles carved into his dark brown skin. His bushy goatee
hid his mouth and seemed to dance, almost comically to his words. “The dunes will shelter our
tents.”
“The dunes migrate,” Sergeant Ballasra said.
“It’s sand, not water,” Hussari countered. “The dunes won’t drown us.”
“They may,” Ballasra said. “Many dunes are even on both sides. Their faces might collapse.”
“Possibly,” Nisri said, stroking his chin, “but that’s not what concerns me. We’ll pitch here,” he
said indicating a small plateau. “This will protect us from this sea of sand, and that dune pressed
against it will be our ramp.” He pointed to the snaking contour of an ancient riverbed at the base of
the plateau. “With the riverbed protecting our backs, we can see for kilometres in all directions.”
“On the plateau?” Turk asked, impatience skirting the edges of his temper.
“We’re exposed. The tents—” Hussari began.
“We will not stay in tents,” Nisri responded. “We will build an outpost with defensible walls and
turrets.”
Hussari raised an eyebrow, but swallowed his words. By Turk’s reaction, he shared Hussari’s
disbelief.
“An outpost?” Turk asked. “Our strength lies in our mobility. You’re talking about penning us in
