compartment at the rear could accommodate over thirty personnel and was split into upper and
lower decks. The chassis sat high on twinned pairs of powerful treads, well clear of the ground and
any obstacles the vehicle might encounter. The height of the troop compartment called for a long
ramp that dropped from the vehicle’s belly rather than from the rear like most other APCs.
Commissar Karif had opted to travel in one of these relentless giants, committed to his belief
that a commissar should provide a role model to the rank and file. So, as the Pathcutter juddered and
forced its way through the deep snow, he moved along the rows of seated Vostroyans, using the
handgrips that hung from the ceiling to maintain his balance. Everyone else was strapped into their
seats.
“What’s your name, soldier?” Karif asked, stopping to look down at a thick necked man with a
waxed, brown moustache and piercing, grey eyes.
“Akmir,” replied the man. “Trooper Alukin Akmir. Third Platoon, sir.”
“Good to know you, Akmir,” said Karif with a nod, “and how many of the foe did you slay back
there in Korris?”
“Not enough by half, sir,” said Akmir. There was a quiet anger in his voice. He turned his eyes
down to his hands and rubbed at them, feigning preoccupation with some invisible mark. He didn’t
seem the talkative type.
Karif wasn’t finished. “How long have you served in this regiment, Akmir?”
The trooper paused before he answered, perhaps gauging just how open he should be with this
newcomer to the Sixty-Eighth. After a moment’s thought, however, he threw the commissar a lopsided
grin and said, “Long enough to know when things are properly khekked, sir.”
Karif was about to ask for specifics when another trooper spoke from behind him.
“He’s not wrong, commissar. We’ve all served long enough to know that those cosy bastards in
Seddisvarr left us out to dry.”
There were grunts of agreement from soldiers sitting on either side of the compartment. “Old
Hungry,” hissed one. “I never thought he’d finally do for the captain like that. Leastways, not so
overt.”
45
“Emperor bless the White Boar for taking command and pulling us out like that,” said one. More
grunts of agreement sounded over the rumble of the engine.
“All credit to the White Boar,” added another. “The Pit-Dog’s a great man, but I reckon he’d
have stood his ground to the last. One’s life for the Emperor and all that.”
“The Pit-Dog?” asked Karif in some confusion.
“That’d be Captain Sebastev, sir,” offered Trooper Akmir. “Only, he doesn’t like the name
much, so I don’t recommend using it to his face.”
Interesting, thought Karif, and appropriate.
Voices rose in heated conversation, and Karif listened carefully, eager to discover more about
the men’s mood. They continued to surprise him. While they’d been somewhat stony and indifferent
towards him during the first few days, these Vostroyans now seemed surprisingly open and
unguarded. The change was remarkable. Perhaps it was due to his fighting alongside them in Korris.
He’d heard it was the way with the Firstborn.
“Madness,” growled a loud voice. “One bloody company to hold the Eastern Front!”
“Not madness,” answered another, “just plain, old-fashioned treachery!”
Others agreed, adding their anger and their disbelief to the cacophony. But then the voices were
joined by a new sound, a rhythmic clanging that cut through all the noise. Karif turned with the
others to face its source. A grizzled old sergeant, scar-faced, grey-haired and built like a Titan, was
striking the steel floor at his feet with the gilded wooden stock of his lasgun.
When he had everyone’s attention, and their silence, he looked Karif in the eye and spoke. His
was the kind of voice, quiet and controlled, that forced other men to listen. “You must forgive these
lads, commissar, speaking out of turn like that. They mean no disrespect to the captain, the general
or anyone else. But you must understand our frustration, sir. It’s not easy to walk away from Korris.
We fought near enough two years just to hold it. A lot of good men died for it. It’s hard to watch the
old foe just roll in. Vostroyan pride, see? In the end, it’ll kill more of us than winter, orks and rebels
put together.”
Karif let his eyes linger on the sergeant’s stripes until the man took the hint.
“My apologies, sir,” said the sergeant with a short bow. “Sidor Basch, sergeant, First Platoon.”
“Daridh Ahl Karif,” replied Karif with a smile and a bow of his own, “commissar.” Aware of the
attention on him, he added, “Proud to serve with the Sixty-Eighth.”
Basch thumbed for a young trooper opposite to vacate his seat. Karif sat down. The
compartment remained quiet while the rest of the troopers listened in.
“How long have you served with the Sixty-Eighth?” asked Karif. “Twenty years? Thirty?”
“Thirty-five, sir. Longer even than Captain Sebastev, though he’s twice the man.”
Karif wasn’t foolish enough to express his doubts about that remark, not while these men were
being so frank, at least. But he still couldn’t reconcile himself with the boorish captain’s solid
reputation, so he said, “General Vlastan doesn’t seem to think very highly of the captain. Why such
bad blood between the two?”
Basch grinned and said, “That’s a hard one for a chevek, sir. No offence intended.”
“Make me understand,” replied Karif with good humour, “and I’ll forgive the mild insult.”
Glancing at the seated men, he saw some of them stifling a laugh.
“There are a lot of reasons why the general doesn’t like our Captain Sebastev, sir. The obvious
ones are the biggest. Vostroya’s class divide is a proper chasm, and the higher ranks were always
the province of the aristocracy. Most of them would like to keep it that way. Major Dubrin… well, it
was the major’s dying wish that Captain Sebastev take over company command. Colonel Kabanov
honoured that wish. Since General Vlastan owes the colonel a life debt from their early years of
service, I guess he felt obliged to let it be, at least for a while. General Vlastan probably figured life
on the frontline would be short for the captain, that it wouldn’t require any direct intervention on his
part. Obviously it didn’t work out like that.”
46
The old sergeant shook his head. “Like the men were saying, Captain Sebastev wouldn’t have
pulled us out of there without direct orders. We still draw breath because the White Boar stayed
behind to save us. It’s not the first time he’s done something like that. The general will spit fire
when he hears about it. It’s a right mess. Mind you, for us grunts, none of that should matter a
damn.” The sergeant threw a pointed look along the rows of listening troopers. “There’s little else
should occupy a good trooper’s mind than orders, kit and the Emperor’s blessing.”
Karif found himself quickly warming to the man. It seemed that Sergeant Basch had all the
qualities of discipline, dedication and honour upon which the mighty Firstborn reputation was built.
“Well said, sergeant,” said Karif. “Well said, indeed. I’m gratified to find that the ardour of the
Vostroyan Firstborn is no myth. Solid discipline, martial skill and good old-fashioned grit: where
these things abound, there is nothing we can’t achieve in the Emperor’s name.”
“For the Emperor and for Vostroya!” called one of the troopers. The rest immediately took up
the cheer. Basch leaned out from his seat and said to Karif, “It seems you have a way with words,
commissar.” When the cheer died down, Basch addressed a young trooper at the far end of the row.
“Let’s have a tune, Yakin,” he said, “something to stir the blood a bit.”
The trooper, Yakin, began digging through his pack After a moment, Karif saw him pull out a
long, black case. He drew a seven-stringed instrument and a bow from it, and the troopers around
him began making requests. It wasn’t long before notes filled the air, clear and high over the rumble
of the Pathcutter’s fuel-guzzling engine.
Sergeant Basch smiled, sat back, closed his eyes, and nodded his head in time with the tune.
“Have you an appreciation for the ushehk, commissar?”
To Karif’s ears, the music sounded like the screeching of a wounded grot. It grated on his
nerves, and he was forced to stop himself from wincing openly. “I hadn’t heard it until this moment,
sergeant,” he replied. “I’ll have to assume one grows to appreciate it over time.”
The skin at the sides of the sergeant’s eyes wrinkled as he laughed. “A very politic answer. Our
Yakin isn’t the most talented player, but he’s better than nothing.” That’s debatable, thought Karif.
The Vostroyans linked arms where they sat and stamped their booted feet on the floor in time
with the music. Their earlier anger had been chased away for the moment by the musical reminder
of their kinship and their home world.
Karif found himself infected by the camaraderie they displayed. Despite himself, he began
tapping a foot in time with their stomps. He might even have joined in but for the sudden change in
Basch’s expression. It caught Karif entirely off-guard, and that was a rare thing. The sergeant leaned
close and said, “Now that they’re occupied, commissar, perhaps you’ll be kind enough to tell me
what in the blasted warp is really going on? All that stuff about orders and kit is right enough for the
troopers. They needed to hear it. But any man with two stripes or more needs to know what he’s
leading his men into. Are we heading straight for another fight, or did the White Boar pull us out on
a simple pretence? If you know Basch, don’t keep me in suspense.”
White Boar this, and Old Hungry that, thought Karif. And the Pit-Dog? What is it with
Vostroyans and nicknames? Throne help the man who christens me with anything less than
respectful.
“It’s no secret, sergeant,” Karif replied. “Nhalich is under judge. The Danikkin Independence
Army has made its push and there have been attacks from within the city, either by agents of the
secessionist movement or by sympathetic civilians. Commissar-Captain Vaughn reported heavy
fighting before comms were lost. We’ve heard nothing from Nhalich since then. Perhaps the relay
station was struck in the fighting. We’ll know soon enough, I suppose. How a mere planetary
defence force can hope to stand against the might of the Emperor’s Hammer, with or without its
damned civilian militias, is quite beyond comprehension. Are they mad?”
“We were fools who once believed so, sir,” said Basch. “Again, I mean no disrespect, but two
thousand years of carving a life out in the deep winter, of straggling for survival without any aid
47
from the Imperium… It changed these people. The Danikkin are a hard folk. That lord-general of
theirs, Vanandrasse, is as black hearted and vicious as the winter night.”
Karif’s jaw clenched. “The man is no lord-general, sergeant. He has turned his people from the
Emperor’s light and doomed them to oblivion. Hard as ice, they may be, but the Emperor’s Hammer
will shatter them. To that end, I will be unrelenting in my duty, and so will all of you.”
Karif’s righteous fury had done for him what the Vostroyan music could not; his blood surged
and he felt his pulse beat in his clenched fists and at his temples. He longed to personally smash
aside the traitors on this world. Orks were foul, benighted things, and must be decimated utterly, but
they had never known the Emperor’s light and never would. To know it and to turn from it was the
greatest crime in the Imperium, and the mere thought of it sickened Karif.
The worthless apostates, he thought, they’ve brought death down upon themselves.
Sergeant Basch nodded and raised his hands to his chest, pressing them there, splaying his
fingers in the sign of the aquila. “Inspiring words, commissar! They could have come from the lips
of Commissar Ixxius himself That was all it took, a few simple words, poorly chosen, to shatter the
bridge Karif had felt building between himself and these men. He stood quietly from his seat,
holding back his irritation and disappointment.
“Damn it, man,” he said to the confused sergeant through clenched teeth, “I am your commissar
now. I won’t be constantly measured against the dead. Mark my words well, and tell your men.”
Then Karif walked away, steadying himself against the juddering motion of the Pathcutter with
the overhead grips as he moved. Sergeant Basch stared after him, dumbfounded.
At the far end of the compartment, nearest the cockpit section, Karif hauled himself up the steep
metal stairs to the top deck.
Trooper Yakin brought his tune to an end with a final quivering note.
Since leaving Korris, Stavin had been kept busy on the top deck of the transport while the
commissar mingled with the men on the lower deck. He turned his head for only a moment when the
music first began drifting up from the deck below. The Eyes of Katya, he thought with a smile.
Someone’s playing The Eyes of Katya.
“Focus, boy,” snapped Sergeant Svemir. “I need you to put pressure here and here. Hold that in
place while I stitch this up.”
Sergeant Svemir was a medic with Fifth Company’s Second Platoon. His head was round like a
melon, and covered with grey stubble that looked so coarse you could light a match on it. The line
of his jaw was likewise covered, but the waxed ends of a long, salt-and-pepper moustache hung over
it.
The first thing Stavin had noticed about the man was the absence of two fingers on his left hand.
He tried not to stare. At least the loss of those fingers didn’t seem to hinder the sergeant while he
worked.
Though his eyes stayed on his wounded patient, Sergeant Svemir talked as he worked. “I don’t
mean to snap at you, son. I appreciate you helping out, but you need to keep your eyes on your
work. These brave fighters need our help.”
The upper deck of the Pathcutter transport was currently functioning as a rather inadequate
surgery. Commissar Karif had loaned his adjutant to the sergeant, remarking that Stavin needed
exposure to the grim realities of life in the Guard. Stavin didn’t mind. These bleeding men had
fought bravely against the xenos. They deserved to live. If he could do something to help them, he
would.
Sixteen of them, with wounds of varying seriousness, lay on bedrolls spread across the floor. It
was no small relief that they were quiet now. The anaesthecium injections administered by Sergeant
Svemir had really kicked in, bringing a welcome end to the groaning and the cries of pain. A few
