crematory furnaces.
Troopers Grusko and Kasparov moved into the cover of the trees. A wide road cut through the
woods, but it was well-buried under the drifts. Before the deep winter had come, the road had been a
busy highway, well-used by trucks carrying Varanesian goods to the docks at Nhalich for export to
other Danikkin provinces.
Only the biting winds travelled this road regularly now.
Grusko and Kasparov had been skirting the woods together when a noise — was it a human cry,
or just the wind? — made them stop. They split up, intending to advance on the source from two
different directions. They were close to the area in which Colonel Kabanov’s driver, Sergeant
Samarov, had glimpsed the lights, but there were no lights visible now.
Overhead, the wind whipped at the tops of the Danikkin pine, dislodging snow, and sending a
rain of frozen flakes down to the carpet of fallen needles below.
Grusko was glad of the wind in the branches. It masked his footsteps as he pressed forward.
Both he and Kasparov had been issued with low-light vision enhancers. The old goggles didn’t offer
true night vision, the best kit was always earmarked for the regiments that served on the Kholdas
Line, but at least Grusko could see where he was going despite the all-consuming darkness of the
woods. As he moved cautiously from trunk to trunk, he caught movement up ahead. The goggles
showed him the figure of a man leaning against a tree with his lasgun raised. He was aiming at
something on the ground a few metres away from him.
The man was dressed in a long, padded coat, with a light pack strapped to his back, and seemed
to be wearing night-vision apparatus of his own. Unusual headwear, tall and pointed, sweeping
backwards like the crest of a strange bird, immediately identified him as a member of the Danikkin
Independence Army.
DIA filth! cursed Grusko. What the hell is he pointing his lasgun at?
Kasparov was nowhere to be seen. He should have been approaching from the left. Had he
already spotted this figure? Grusko pressed forward, lifting his own lasgun, and taking careful aim.
By Terra, he thought, if I could just take the man alive…
Grusko stopped. Another shadow was moving towards the rebel soldier from the right. The thick
woods made the approaching figure difficult to discern. Is that Kasparov, he wondered, or another
rebel bastard?
He continued forward, but even slower now, placing each foot with a careful shifting of his
weight. The second figure had almost reached the first, and Grusko still couldn’t be sure if it was
Kasparov.
As the mysterious figure finally emerged by the side of the first, Grusko saw that both men
were, in fact, rebel soldiers. They began talking in hushed voices, but he could clearly make out the
53
sound of harsh Danikkin consonants. So where in the warp is Kasparov, he asked himself? If I
attack on my own, I’ll have to kill both of them. I’m sure the colonel would appreciate the chance to
interrogate one.
The first figure still held his lasgun steady, barrel pointed towards something that Grusko
couldn’t make out from his current position. From their posture and the smug, taunting quality of
their laughter, Grusko felt sure they’d caught themselves a prisoner.
Emperor above, it must be Kasparov, he thought.
Grusko considered trying to circle around, get closer and find out, but any more movement at
this range might cost him the element of surprise. There was nothing for it. He’d have to take the
shot, and it would have to be a clean kill, because the moment he fired, the remaining rebel would
know exactly where he was. If the rebels’ prisoner was indeed Kasparov, Grusko hoped he’d have
the sense to scramble for immediate cover.
He eased himself down onto the carpet of needles, careful to make as little noise as possible. The
wind continued to cover what noise he did make. Once he was settled, he sighted along the barrel of
his lasgun and slowed his breathing.
Right between the eyes, he told himself. One shot, one kill.
He placed his gloved finger on the trigger and gently began to squeeze it.
A single crack sounded in the night, echoing from the black trunks. The woods lit up
momentarily with the flash of a single las-bolt.
The man with the raised lasgun fell to the ground, as suddenly limp and silent as a discarded
marionette. The other stood stunned, gaping at his comrade’s body. Grusko drew a bead on him, but
the rebel soldier’s training kicked in. He threw himself behind the nearest tree before Grusko could
fire.
Grusko scrabbled to his feet, his heart pounding in his ears. He raced forwards, using the trees
for cover as he moved. “Surrender, rebel dog!” he called out.
There was a grunt of pain some metres off to his left. It was the prisoner the rebels had been
taunting.
“Kasparov?” hissed Grusko. “Is that you? Are you hurt?”
He was answered with more groans of pain.
“Hang in there, Firstborn,” said Grusko, trying to pick out the shape of the wounded man among
all those trees and shadows. Then the wounded man moved, and Grusko saw him, lying on his back
with one hand pressed to his stomach. The smell of blood and burnt flesh was strong on the air.
It wasn’t Kasparov.
Fifth Company scouts rarely deployed with carapace armour. The heavy golden plates
confounded any attempt as stealth. This wounded man wore full Vostroyan battle-gear.
“Another Firstborn,” said Grusko. “Who are you? Can you talk?”
The soldier might have answered, but Grusko never heard it, because the surviving Danikkin
rebel chose that moment to open fire. The first bolt seared the air just centimetres from Grusko’s
head and caused him to duck back down into cover.
“Damn you!” he yelled. “Throw down your weapon in the name of the Emperor, Danikkin
scum.”
More lasfire followed, carving deep black lines in the trunk that protected Grusko. But the firing
stopped quickly, replaced by a chilling scream that echoed through the woods.
What now, thought Grusko? Is this a trick?
“Nice try, traitor,” he called, “but I’ve used that one myself.”
A familiar voice came back at him from the same direction as the scream. “Who are you calling
traitor, Grusko, you grox-rutting zadnik!”
“Kasparov? Is that…?”
54
“Well it’s not Sebastian Thor,” replied Kasparov, poking his head out from behind the thick,
black trunk the rebel had used for cover. “You can relax,” he said. “This one has gone to answer
before the Emperor for his treachery.”
Grusko stepped out and saw Kasparov tug his knife free from the rebel’s corpse. “Damn it,
Kasparov,” he said, shaking his head. “Couldn’t you have taken him alive?”
Kasparov shrugged and wiped his knife on the dead man’s coat. “He was a traitor, you said it
yourself. He didn’t deserve to live. Besides, you weren’t doing so great. You’re lucky I was here.”
Through the lenses of his goggles, Grusko could see that the dead rebel was drenched in blood
from a multitude of gaping wounds. Still shaking his head at the missed opportunity for a capture,
Grusko turned and walked over to crouch by the groaning Vostroyan soldier. The steaming hole in
the soldier’s belly said he wouldn’t be alive for much longer. We’ve got us a survivor here,
Kasparov, but only just. We need a medic, fast.”
Kasparov came over and stood looking down at the wounded trooper. “By the Throne!”
“We’re out of vox-bead range. Get back to the vehicles and get old Svemir down here,” said
Grusko. “Sprint, damn it! Go now!”
Kasparov didn’t waste time arguing. He turned east towards the transports and raced off into the
darkness to get help.
Grusko rose and fetched the padded coats from the bodies of the dead rebels. He had to keep the
soldier warm. He had to keep him alive. Colonel Kabanov, Grusko knew, would have important
questions for this man.
Lieutenant Tarkarov led Captain Sebastev and Lieutenant Kuritsin through the trees, risking the
light of a torch on its lowest setting. Here, where the snow rested on the canopy overhead rather than
on the ground, the men could move at a decent pace. Tarkarov and Kuritsin were long-legged men,
but they carefully paced themselves so as not to overtake the captain. Up ahead, the low amber light
of a hooded promethium lamp marked the clearing where Sergeant Svemir was already tending to
the wounded man.
As the trio of officers drew closer, they saw two other figures moving about in the light: First
Platoon scouts Grusko and Kasparov. Their restless pacing betrayed their agitation. Grusko was the
first to see Sebastev coming, and marched forward to greet him.
“Sir, I’m sorry. We couldn’t take the rebels alive.”
Kasparov moved up to stand by Grusko’s side. “It was my fault, sir,” he said. “I got a bit carried
away.”
Sebastev looked them in the eye. “Did they have comms equipment? Did they get a voxmessage
off?”
“No, sir,” said Grusko, “not to our knowledge. Neither man was carrying a vox-caster unit.”
“And neither of you were injured?”
“No, sir,” said Kasparov.
Sebastev nodded and pushed past them, saying, “Never apologise to me for killing traitor scum.
You did fine.”
The scouts saluted, but Sebastev didn’t notice. He’d already turned towards the wounded man on
the ground.
“Get back to the transport.” Lieutenant Tarkarov told his scouts. “Get some hot ohx’ down you.
No rahzvod. I need you to stay sharp. Are we clear?”
“Clear, sir,” replied both men. They saluted their platoon leader, turned and jogged back towards
the waiting vehicles.
“What have we got here, sergeant?” Sebastev asked the medic.
55
Sergeant Svemir was bent over a Vostroyan dressed in full battle-gear. The man’s breathing was
shallow, and his eyes were closed, but he continued to grip his lasgun tightly with one hand. Svemir
lifted away the edges of two Danikkin coats to show Sebastev the extent of the man’s wounds.
Sebastev grimaced when he saw what lay beneath. The armour that was supposed to shield the
trooper’s stomach had been melted through. It looked to Sebastev like the result of a full power
lasgun blast at very close range. Beneath the hole in the man’s armour, the flesh was burnt black and
cratered. Steam rose from the wound.
As Sebastev got down on his knees, the soldier opened his eyes and looked straight at him.
“Hang on, Firstborn,” said Sebastev, “our man will do what he can for you. Just hang in there,
son.”
“This one’s Eighth Company,” remarked Lieutenant Kuritsin. He pointed to the bronze motifs
on the trooper’s hat and collar, “One of Major Tsurkov’s men.”
The trooper’s eyes shifted to Kuritsin. “That’s right, sir,” he croaked. “Bekov, Ulmar, trooper,
Eighth Company, Second Platoon.”
“Well met, Bekov,” said Sebastev, “but don’t talk, man. Save your strength.”
Sergeant Svemir turned and threw Sebastev a meaningful look. “I think it would be all right if
Trooper Bekov talked to you for a while, captain,” he said. “You’ll have to listen carefully, of
course.”
Sebastev understood. There would be no saving Bekov. The man was dying where he lay. If he
had anything to pass on to Fifth Company, it had to be spoken right here, right now.
“Trooper Bekov, my name is Captain Grigorius Sebastev, Vostroyan Firstborn Sixty-Eighth
Infantry Regiment, Fifth Company. We’re from the same regiment, son. I know Major Tsurkov
well.”
“The Pit-Dog?” asked Trooper Bekov.
Sebastev winced. He hadn’t had his nickname spoken to his face like that for quite some time.
Most of the men knew better than to say it within earshot of him, but this man, dying slowly on the
floor of these night-shrouded woods, had nothing left to fear.
“Aye,” said Sebastev, “the Pit-Dog. You know me then, Bekov. You’ve got to tell me what
happened, son. Where is the rest of Eighth Company? Where’s Major Tsurkov?”
Bekov coughed. It was a harsh, rasping sound. His face creased in pain. Sebastev turned to
Sergeant Svemir and raised an eyebrow.
“Very well,” said Svemir. “I’ll give him one more dose, but another and you won’t get any sense
out of him.” The medic slid a brown ampoule into his injector pistol and pressed it to Bekov’s neck.
With a sharp hiss, the liquid emptied into the trooper’s veins.
Bekov’s creased brow soon smoothed, and his breathing became a little easier. When he opened
his eyes again, they were glazed, but he was better able to talk. Sebastev asked him again what had
happened to the rest of Eighth Company.
“We hit Nhalich three days ago, sir,” said Bekov. “No one was happy about leaving the Fifth
back in Korris. You should know that. The Sixty-Eighth don’t go anywhere without the White Boar.
Major Tsurkov was livid. Said it was grox-shit, sir.”
Suddenly, something occurred to Bekov and he gripped Sebastev’s arm. “The colonel, sir. Does
the White Boar live?”
It was Kuritsin who answered. “Have no fear on that count, trooper. The White Boar still leads
us. It will take more than filthy greenskins to beat him, by Terra!”
“Bekov,” said Sebastev, “we need to know about Nhalich. The rebels: what’s the situation?”
“The rebels!” gasped Bekov. “Mad with hate for the Imperium, sir. There were spies in Nhalich
from the start. The DIA hid people among the loyalist refugee caravans from the south-east. Don’t
know how they got past our checks. Once they were in they sabotaged our armour, our stores,
56
everything. It was the bridge that hurt us most. We lost a lot of men on the bridge. Still, I’d rather
have died in the Solenne than suffer the fate of the 701st.”
Behind Sebastev, Lieutenant Tarkarov cursed and struck a tree with his fist.
“What happened to the 701st, Bekov?” asked Sebastev.
“Blind, sir. The bastards got into their stores somehow. Tainted their food, their water. The
troopers from the 701st couldn’t see a thing after that. There was chaos at the barracks. Major
Tsurkov ordered us back onto Guard issue meal bricks. No local food. The Danikkin armour had
already engaged us by then. We tried calling Seddisvarr for help, but we couldn’t get through.
Nothing. And there was no answer from Helvarr or Jheggen. Some said they were jamming our
vox.”
“Jammed?” asked Kuritsin. “Could it be that we’ve blamed atmospheric conditions all this time,
while the rebels…?”
A breath snagged in Trooper Bekov’s throat and he began coughing. Blood flecked the sides of
his mouth. His face screwed up with the pain.
