an organism, sacrificing individuals to advance the whole. They leapt into lines of dismembering
fire, protecting those behind them like living shields of carapace armour. Dashour felt humbled by
the purity of their… faith. Faith was the only word that fitted, Dashour decided. He couldn’t stop
thinking about them.
“No, the tyranids took advantage of our weakness, but what almost killed us was lack of useful
intelligence, stretched supply lines and poor support. Now where are we? We have a mind-witch’s
word of a massacre, and no evidence to support it; we have a ghost of a regiment with two meagre
companies that are at each other’s throats; and we have limited stocks with no guarantee of
resupply. We’re back where we started.”
“Not exactly true,” Dashour said. “At least there are no tyranids.”
“That we know of,” Nisri said, laughing. “But, after Absolomay, I expect the whoresons to pop
out of the ground again.” He shook his head. “You came to see me about something?”
“I wish it were good news.” Dashour took a quick breath. “Some of my men found Major
Anleel’s body. He was murdered. It looks like las-burns to the chest and shoulder.”
Nisri shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “Do you know who did it?”
“No sir.”
22
“Would you tell me if you did?”
“I would tell Prince Nisri of the Turenag, and perhaps even Lieutenant-Colonel Dakar of the
351st who it was that made his tribe proud, but, no, I wouldn’t tell Colonel Dakar of the 892nd. His
loyalty to the Aba Aba Mushira would humble me.”
“I see,” Nisri said, chewing on his lip. “Do Turk’s men know?”
“No sir. We hid the body until we could speak with you.”
“Very prudent.” Nisri closed his eyes, a scowl pulling at his face. “Bury the body,” he said, his
decision a heavy weight as far from here as possible. “Major Anleel vanished in the storm and that
is the end of it. Oh… and tell your men to keep their mouths shut. They do not celebrate. They do
not speak of it, even to each other. Tell them this. Tell them I’ll keep my blade sharpened just in
case they choose to wag their tongues.”
Dashour nodded.
“I can trust you to do this, Dashour?” Nisri ask. “I serve you, prince-colonel. I am therefore
doubly loyal to you.”
Nisri dismissed Dashour with a nod of his head and returned to his work.
4
Kortan nodded to Dashour as he left the tent, though he received no recognition in return. He waited
at the tent flap for Colonel Dakar to bid him to enter.
“More bad news?” Nisri asked, looking at the reports.
“No,” Kortan said, smiling. “In fact, it’s a small blessing, my good sir.”
Nisri looked up, the veins on his forehead strained and a glint in his dark eyes. “I do not
appreciate your familiarity with me.”
“Of course, sir,” Kortan said without missing a beat, “but the Emperor blesses.”
“No praise for your Orakle this evening?” Nisri asked.
“The Orakle is a man,” Kortan said with a smile, “a rather humourless one at that, no sport for
drink or gambling, or women.”
“Are you trying to get on my good side?”
“Certainly not,” Kortan said. “I’m merely charming by circumstance. I cannot help who likes me
and who doesn’t.”
“So the Emperor’s blessing? What form might that take?”
“In last year’s case, it took the form of a beautiful daughter of a salt merchant of Abusida Rehan.
I was very blessed that night, and by morning, blessed twice more, but,” Kortan said, holding up his
hands to forestall an irate looking Nisri, “today, our blessing comes in the form of this.” Kortan held
out a data-slate.
Nisri snatched the data-slate from the quartermaster’s hands and studied the information. It was
a topographical scan of the region with three triangular glyphs marked at the extremes of the map.
“What are these?” Nisri asked, studying the map.
“The location of three emergency orbit-drop containers, courtesy of the fleet before it weighed
anchor.”
“They sent supplies?” Nisri said. A broad and cautious smile snaked across his lips.
“It appears so. The storm jammed their torch beacons until half an hour ago. I just confirmed
their locations, though one… that one,” Kortan said, tapping a glyph on the screen, “appears to have
been damaged in the drop.”
“Do we know the contents?”
“Some food, water and clothing… ammunition; enough to extend the rationing for a couple of
extra weeks.”
“No fuel?”
23
“Too volatile for an orbit drop.”
“We’ll take what we can get, eh? I’ll send three squads to recover them. I want one of your men
with each squad to make sure there’s no pilfering of supplies. Coordinate with Duf adar Sarish for
the pack animals. Make several trips if you have to. We can’t waste fuel for this.”
5
Kortan was on his way to the supply tent when Captain Lornis Anuman and a handful of his hardnosed
cadre stepped in the quartermaster’s way. Anuman was a boorish looking man with a thick
growth of peppered stubble on his jaw and a bulging chin. He was squat with a permanent tan to his
flesh and a crooked bulge to his nose. He scratched at it his jaw with lazy disinterest.
“Captain Anuman,” Kortan said, spreading his arms. “The Orakle delights me with your
company.”
“I’m sure he does,” Anuman said. “You were in Nisri’s tent. I hope you’re not getting too
comfortable with the new colonel.”
Kortan laughed. “Ah, captain, you’re too ugly to be my wife, so why are you meddling in my
business?”
Anuman and his men stepped forward, their hands resting casually on the pommels of their
scimitars. “Take care, Kortan. You should never turn your back on your own tribe.”
“Trust me, the last thing I’d do around you is turn my back. Now, out of my way,” he said,
shooing them away.
“I have work to do. And, if you find yourself in my way again, I’ll make sure some broken glass
finds its way into your rations, or have you forgotten who handles your food?”
Anuman’s grip closed around the pommel of his blade. Kortan could see the anger in his eyes
and a tremble at the corner of his lips, but the quartermaster’s smile never diminished. After a
moment, Anuman stepped to one side. The captain’s men followed suit, and Kortan brushed past
them with no further trouble.
6
“How is Commissar Rezail?” Turk asked. He continued walking among the cargo containers atop
the plateau, watching chains of men tossing box after box to one another down the line. Tyrell
walked alongside him.
“Better,” Tyrell responded, speaking in tribal cant. “He is resting in his tent. By day, he’s in the
command Chimera. It is the coolest place I could find.”
“Good. Should he need anything, let me know.”
“Of course.”
“One other thing,” Turk said, stopping to face Tyrell. “Has he heard about the incidents?”
“The incidents, sir?”
“Don’t play me the fool,” Turk said, a friendly smile on his face. “The fights, the two companies
almost coming to blows?”
Tyrell looked around. “I am not comfortable discussing this behind the commissar’s back.”
“But he hasn’t heard about them, correct?”
“No,” Tyrell said, “not yet, not with his heat exhaustion.”
“Good, then I have a great favour to ask of you.”
“You want me to lie to the commissar. I cannot do—”
“Yes you can, just for now, for the sake of the men. The two companies need time to adjust to
their new conditions. They are Guardsmen, and they are good soldiers, but their hatred runs deep.
They need more time. If Commissar Rezail starts executing men, they will not only despise one
24
another all the more, but they’ll also come to despise the commissar. How long do you think he’ll
last then?”
“Not long,” Tyrell admitted.
“Give us time,” Turk said.
Tyrell bit his tongue for a moment and privately mulled over the matter. “You have two days, at
best,” Tyrell said, finally.
“That’s not enough—”
“Are we speaking as soldiers, lieutenant-colonel? Or are we speaking as tribesmen, Prince Iban
Salid?”
Turk straightened. “I am a prince of my people, first and foremost, but my duties as prince
require that I serve my people as the Emperor’s soldier. You are speaking to both.”
“Then may I be honest, as Hawadi and as a soldier?”
Turk nodded.
“You want more time? You and the Turenag have had generations to settle your differences. I
could give you a year, two even, and it would solve nothing. Your men are soldiers; they should
follow your example and act like it. The same goes for Colonel Dakar’s men, but he hasn’t asked for
my council.”
“What are you saying?” Turk asked.
“I am saying I will not tell the commissar what has happened in his absence. But when he
returns, rest assured I will report everything that happens from that moment forward. I have no other
choice. If reason will not rule your men, then perhaps fear will.”
7
Day Five.
The large bonfire was weak, the growths of dry brush found on neighbouring plateaus being
poor fuel for the flames. The animals refused to eat the bone-white branches and thorn-brush leaves;
all that was left was for the fire pit.
The half-finished base camp was clustered around the bonfire, just beyond the skirt of light. The
command centre and the barracks were nothing but sandbag walls, and were still being built. Tents
with peaked roofs, box frames, and black cloth, designed to absorb the heat, littered the interior
compound. A grid of solar panels plastered along the walls of one tent glistened under the stars,
quietly awaiting morning.
The camp’s modular, sand-filled walls were completed. They measured seven metres high, with
an interior ledge for the gun emplacements, and barbed wire topping the battlements. At the base of
the wall rested funk holes, alcoves to protect troops during shelling.
The atmosphere around the bonfire was quiet, the men finding little reason to socialise or
interact beyond their small circles. As always, the Turenag sat on one side, the Banna on the other,
and the command staff in the middle. Angry glares passed between the two tribal alliances, but with
Commissar Rezail sitting there, still pale, but ever fierce in his vigilance, nobody exchanged words
or pursued feud-oaths.
Sergeant Nubis reclined on his prayer roll and stared at the fire. Captain Anuman was at his side, his
tone decidedly venomous.
“I’m sure of it,” Anuman said. “Kortan is an opportunistic snake.”
“Yes,” Nubis said, “but he is our snake.”
Anuman shook his head. “Aya, but you can be sure of one thing, a snake always bites. It has no
friend. It has no master.”
“Perhaps.”
25
“Listen to me; I’m sure Kortan is giving more supplies to Nisri and his dogs. We’re on strict
rations so they can keep themselves fat. Sabaak was on recovery duty with Sergeant Raham’s
squad.”
“So?”
“Let me finish. When the squad returned, Majri saw one of Raham’s men pay Sabaak for extra
meals, and Baloos says that neither the squad nor the animals looked particularly dehydrated after
their trip. His father was a Mukowwa’en, a dromad driver, and he knows the look of thirst and water
rationing. What do you think?”
“I think your men gossip like old women at the market… but there’s use in that. Keep your eyes
open. Let me know if you find anything else.”
Colonel Nisri Dakar and Lieutenant Colonel Turk Iban Salid sat on a large carpet with Sergeant
Ballasra, Major Hussari and Captain Toria. The bonfire crackled gently, and they were studying the
samples of things that Ballasra had wrapped in cloth strips, and was now unfolding for them.
“This desert is not entirely without hospitality,” Ballasra said. “These small animals are meagre
on meat and taste, but at least they are not poisonous.” He showed them several small strips of
brownish meat, all cooked, and all looking dry and tough. “Take it,” he said. “Eat. It’s cooked.”
Reluctantly, the men each took a strip and bit into the meat; grimaces all around. They chewed
harder to force their meals down, the slightly rancid flavour filling their mouths with unwanted
tastes and coating their tongues. Major Hussari chuckled at his compatriots’ expressions while
fighting to control his own. Finally, he burst out laughing.
“By the Emperor,” Hussari said, “it’s like eating feet.” The others chuckled as well. Only
Ballasra appeared indignant.
“I’ll need all my water rations to wash that taste from my mouth,” Nisri added, slapping Ballasra
on the back.
“Speaking of water,” Toria said, swallowing his meal hard. He struggled a moment to retain his
composure. “I found more river beds scattered throughout the area, all dry. I also found a small
oasis. It’s three metres wide, at best. It’s being fed by an underground spring.
“Good news,” Turk said.
“Maybe,” Toria said. “It’s a fair distance from here and I’m not sure the spring will yield much.
I fear we may be wasting more water trying to get at it.”
“Still, we have to try,” Turk replied.
“No,” Nisri responded. “I agree with Captain Toria. Our resources are thin to begin with.”
“I think we have enough breathing room,” Turk said.
“What happens if the fleet doesn’t return when they’re supposed to and we squander our water?”
“Exactly what happens if the fleet doesn’t return and we’ve squandered our water while waiting?
We’ll have nothing. We should do this while we have the luxury to gamble.”
“I do not gamble. We’ll search for another oasis, a larger one.”
“And while we search, we lose precious time.”
“Lieutenant-colonel,” Nisri said, his voice low to avoid drawing attention. “The matter is
settled.” He turned to Hussari and Toria. “Find me another spring, something larger.”
Turk rose to his feet, his face flushed. “Excuse me,” he said. He shot Toria an angry glance and
walked away.
Toria sighed under his breath and rose as well. “Am I dismissed, sir?” he asked Nisri. Nisri
nodded. Somewhere nearby, people began playing small drum jars, and more men were clapping
their hands in rhythm.
“Locust?” Ballasra asked, holding out a cloth with small blue insects. “For an indigenous
species, they’re quite flavourful.”
26
Commissar Rezail and Tyrell Habass sat with a group of men. Two Guardsmen, older members of
the unit, played clay drums and slapped the animal hide stretched over the drum’s hollow top. Four
more men with bare feet, their puttees wrapped around their ankles and under their heels, wielded
glittering scimitars etched with the tribal markings of the Banna. The dancers moved slowly around
