managed to preserve both the company and the captain’s honour, at least in the meantime.”
“That’s your interpretation of events, commissar,” said the colonel testily, “and you’re welcome
to it. But the Danikkin Campaign is not a simple one. Few men outside the Twelfth Army’s tactical
staff, including myself, have anything more than a rough idea of the whole picture. I can tell you
this much: a man would have to look far back in the annals of the Sixty-Eighth to find days as dark
as these.”
Colonel Kabanov flexed his fists as he continued. The history of the regiment is a chain
unbroken for thousands of years. Despite countless wars and untold losses, there have always been
survivors around whom the regiment could be restored. But the Danikkin… their hatred is a
powerful thing. They don’t take prisoners, commissar. Enemies of their secessionist movement are
killed at once. I believe that Fifth Company is the last remaining seed from which the regiment
might again grow. The coming day will bring one of two things: either the breaking of our proud
tradition, or another victory to add to it.”
Karif sat quietly, digesting the colonel’s words for a moment before he said, “With your
permission, colonel, I’d like my adjutant to man the heavy bolter as we ride in. The boy needs such
experiences if he’s to become a well-rounded soldier and aide.”
“No objections here,” replied the colonel. “Send him up front. Sergeant Samarov will make
good use of him.”
Stavin moved up as ordered. Karif heard Sergeant Samarov welcome the young man into the
driver’s compartment.
65
Lieutenant Kuritsin, sitting opposite Karif and next to Father Olov, lifted a gold-plated
chronometer from his coat pocket and looked at it. “Saints be with the captain. He should be at the
east bank by now. We’ll have our signal soon.”
Father Olov’s gravelly voice sounded from under the matted tangle of his long, white beard.
“Rest easy, lieutenant. The Grey Lady watches over that one. You should know that well enough.”
He looked over at Karif and said, “Saint Nadalya, commissar. Patron saint of Vostroya. The captain
is a man protected by his faith, mark my words.”
Karif grinned at the old priest and said, “I know who she is, Father, but your words have
reminded me of a matter I wished to discuss with you. I hope you won’t think it presumptuous on
my part.”
“Which means it is presumptuous,” grumbled the old priest, “but go ahead, commissar.”
Olov’s beard was so long that he could have tucked the end of it into his belt. Beside him,
sheathed in a covering of brown leather, was his preferred weapon, the mighty eviscerator
chainsword favoured by many a battlefield priest. Years of wielding it in practice and in battle had
given the priest a broad physique. Karif hadn’t missed the hints of thick muscle beneath Olov’s
robes.
“I confess to feeling a certain kinship with you, Father,” said Karif. “We’re both men of the
Imperial Creed. Granted, our roles differ, but I hope you feel the same kinship in your own way.
With that in mind.
“Spit it out, man,” rumbled Olov.
Once again, Karif found the Vostroyan manner a source of no small irritation. He had to keep
reminding himself that it was a cultural trait, one that clearly extended to both the officer class and
members of the Ecclesiarchy. Suppressing a retort, Karif said, “Very well. I’d like to make a
battlefield reading to our men during the coming fight. I’m sure I can fortify their spirits and lend
them some divine strength. What say you, Father?”
Olov’s brow creased and his eyes narrowed. “I handle the readings, commissar. That might not
have been explained to you properly. Have done for almost eleven years with this particular lot.”
And from what I’ve heard, thought Karif, you’ve made a fine mess of it. The Septology of
Hestor? It may be officially approved by the Ministorum, but it’s widely held to have been written
by madmen. It’s time this regiment had a proper reading that will gird them for battle.
Karif didn’t think it prudent to mention that Captain Sebastev had asked him to consider orating
in the priest’s place. Would the priest have believed him anyway?
Instead, Karif said, “This company is lucky to have you, Father Olov, and they know it well
enough. But as a newcomer, I’m eager to strengthen my presence among the men, get them
acclimatised to me, as it were.”
Colonel Kabanov spoke up from his seat near the driver’s compartment. “I can see the logic in
that, commissar,” he said, “but the decision lies with you, Father Olov. Would you have our new
commissar try his hand?”
If Father Olov was at all influenced by the colonel’s words, it didn’t show on his face. “What
would you read, commissar?” he asked, still scowling.
It was time for Karif to play his ace. He drew a small blue tome from an inside pocket and raised
it for the others to see.
Lieutenant Kuritsin’s eyes flashed. “Have a care, commissar,” he hissed. “If you’ve taken that
book with anything less than his express permission, he’ll have your head, and all laws be damned.”
“Do you mean to say, lieutenant,” spluttered Kabanov, “that the book is Captain Sebastev’s own
copy?”
“It is, sir,” said Kuritsin, “unmistakably so.” He faced Karif. “That book is the last memento the
captain has of his father, commissar. I’m sure you didn’t know, but perhaps you should give it to
me. I won’t tell him of this. It would be better for all concerned that he never find out.”
66
Colonel Kabanov nodded. “That sounds best.”
Karif grinned, shook his head and returned the book to his pocket. “I suppose I should be
terribly offended, gentlemen, but you’re reaction amuses me. Captain Sebastev insisted I read the
book. I can assure you that I carry this copy with his express permission. I’d like to give a reading
from it during the battle, provided the honourable father has no objections, of course.”
Olov’s scowl had softened, but the man still looked less than friendly. “The very worst orator in
the Imperium could motivate Firstborn with a reading from the Treatis Elatii. It’s a safe choice,
commissar, unoriginal, but safe. Go ahead with my blessing. I’ll listen with interest.”
Karif bowed his head in mock gratitude. Conceited old grox, he thought.
Was it possible that the old man didn’t know his own reputation? The men of Fifth Company
thought him a far better soldier than a priest. His kill count was impressive and his faith in the
Emperor inspirational. It was just a shame, said some, that Olov had been born a second son, rather
than a first. He’d proven to them on the battlefield many times that he would have made an excellent
sergeant.
Karif knew all this from his time among the troopers. The words of the officer class alone rarely
painted accurate pictures. It was only by listening to the conversations of the rank-and-file that one
could learn the truth as seen from ground level. He was confident that his reading would be well
received, earning him a little more acceptance among the men. Today would be hard on all of them:
a single company against Throne knew how many. Karif’s chest swelled as he thought of it.
Commissars are made for these kinds of odds, he thought. Glory abounds on such days. Victory
may bring decorations, medals and promotions. With luck, I’ll receive the kind of recognition that
will see me returned to a higher station, a station befitting my past achievements. Breggius may
blame me for the shame his son brought upon him, but all his scheming will have been for nothing if
I can restore my former status.
“…reading?”
Karif shook himself, realising that the colonel had addressed him. “I apologise, colonel. I’m
afraid I didn’t catch that.”
“I asked, commissar, whether you believe you’ll be able to fulfil your other duties while giving a
battlefield reading.”
“Oh, without question,” said Karif with a broad smile. “I won’t be reading from the actual pages.
I’ve already committed the entire volume to memory and made some preliminary selections. I’m
sure you’ll be satisfied.”
Father Olov’s scowl deepened, but he didn’t meet Karif’s eyes. The priest was probably
damning him for a braggart and a fool. So be it. Karif had indeed memorised the text using
techniques of mental imprinting taught to commissars in scholams throughout the Imperium. He
could hardly be blamed for the Ecclesiarchy’s failure to promote such skills among its own servants.
Lieutenant Kuritsin mumbled something to himself, drawing Colonel Kabanov’s eye.
“If you’ve something to say, lieutenant,” said the colonel, “share it with the rest of us.”
Kuritsin’s face reddened. “Sorry, sir. I was just thinking that, in all my years serving with Fifth
Company, I’ve never known the captain to let someone else handle his treasured book. I confess that
it’s got me in something of a spin, sir.”
Kabanov grinned. “Dare we hope that Captain Sebastev is finally maturing? I don’t mean as a
man, of course, but as a commanding officer. Dubrin always insisted that it would happen
eventually. Our current crisis may have been the catalyst he needed.”
“Change can be a painful thing,” said Father Olov. “Captain Sebastev has always struggled with
his responsibility for the company. I think he regrets his promise to the late major. But it’s about
time he stopped wishing he could be a simple grunt again.”
67
Lieutenant Maro, a man Karif had noticed was prone to quiet observation, surprised everyone by
speaking up. “Let’s hope his acceptance of the role doesn’t jeopardise the very qualities for which
Dubrin selected him.”
Colonel Kabanov nodded. “Sebastev can be bad-tempered, even for a Vostroyan, but Dubrin
knew what he was doing. I’d trust Sebastev’s instincts before I’d listen to any tactician in
Seddisvarr.”
They do flap on about him, thought Karif. There are hard men on worlds throughout the
Imperium. I wonder what they see that I don’t.
Lieutenant Kuritsin again lifted his chronometer from his pocket. “Sir,” he said, addressing
Colonel Kabanov, “the melta-charges should be just about—”
Explosions sounded from the direction of the town, a deep stutter so rapid it sounded like
stubber fire. The walls of the Chimera trembled.
“That’s our cue, gentlemen,” said Colonel Kabanov. “Lieutenant Kuritsin, you know what to
do.”
“Yes, sir,” said Kuritsin. He pulled the horn of the Chimera’s vox-caster from the wall and said,
“All Chimeras, advance! Hold formation until you hit the streets. Follow your designated routes.
Gunners are to provide continuous covering fire for our infantry squads. Visibility is low. Use
caution. Friendly fire incidents will be logged and passed to Commissar Karif. Ride out, for the
Emperor and the Sixty-Eighth!”
Colonel Kabanov’s Chimera gunned forward. Within minutes, the sound of las- and bolter-fire
erupted all around. The Danikkin rebels had awoken to the sound of explosions and the growl of
advancing Chimeras. They were already firing out into the mist.
Sergeant Samarov shouted back from the driver’s seat, “Nothing to worry about, sirs. They’re
trying to zero their fire on engine noise. They can’t see us worth a damn.”
“Maro,” said Kabanov, “get onto that multi-laser and give our lads as much cover as you can.
Trooper Stavin,” he called up to the front of the vehicle, “make that bolter work for us. Bring the
Emperor’s punishment down upon them.”
Lieutenant Maro leapt from his seat, moved forward, and climbed up into the chair of the
Chimera’s turret.
As they raced nearer the rebel defences, Stavin opened fire on the rebel positions. The deep
barking of the bolter began reverberating through the Chimera’s frame. The sound was soon joined
by the hum of the charging multi-laser.
“As soon as we reach the perimeter, gentlemen,” said Colonel Kabanov, “this will become a
street fight. And let me tell you, commissar, no one loves a street fight more than the Firstborn!”
Sebastev and Aronov threw themselves down the snow-covered bank as a drum roll of explosions
ripped through the town. Shouting immediately sounded on the freezing air. Sebastev could hear
rebel officers barking orders to their men in their harsh Danikkin accent. From some of the habs by
the river, those boasting windows and cold-sealed doors, the muted cries of frightened civilians
could be heard. They should have left when they had the chance, thought Sebastev. If they stay
inside, they might just live through this.
He looked out into the mists. He could hear the rushing waters of the river close by. As he
moved down the slope towards the sound, shapes resolved themselves. For a moment, Sebastev was
sure he’d been misinformed. Hadn’t Trooper Bekov said the bridge was shelled to rubble? He could
see thick steel girders reaching out into white space. They looked undamaged. But as he moved
closer, more of the framework revealed itself. The straight spars became twisted and then
completely broken.
It was true; the bridge over the Solenne was gone.
“Captain,” hissed Aronov, “over here.”
68
Sebastev walked over to the big scout’s side. There was movement in the shadows under the
bridge’s truncated stump. Lieutenant Tarkarov was waiting there with the other saboteurs. “Glad
you finally made it, sir,” said Tarkarov with a grin.
“Are you saying I’m slow, lieutenant?”
“Perhaps we can settle on thorough, sir?”
There was a chuckle from some of the men. Sebastev managed a smile and said, “We had a bit
of trouble with an enemy patrol, but not much.”
Tarkarov gestured at Sebastev’s greatcoat. “I can see that, sir. What did you do, mop the blood
up after you killed them?”
Sebastev looked down. Every fight seemed to end with him soaked in blood these days. “Damn
it. I’ll have to give Trooper Kurkov an extra bottle of rahzvod.”
Kurkov of Third Platoon was the only man in the regiment of a similar stature to the captain.
Since Sebastev’s own coats boasted a little too much gold for stealth operations like this one, he’d
borrowed Kurkov’s. It was unadorned, and far better suited to the task. The men around him were
likewise dressed in only the most basic kit. Their carapace armour remained with the rest of the
company. With the exception of Sebastev, who’d brought his bolt pistol, each man carried a lasgun
slung over his shoulder and a standard issue, Vostroya-pattern long knife sheathed at his waist.
For Sebastev, the knife had already proven its worth. When he and Aronov leapt on the surprised
