It was murderous work. Karif couldn’t deny it. He wondered how Stavin felt about it. To the
young soldier’s credit, he’d done exactly as ordered at every turn.
“Don’t you dare pity these men, Stavin. They turned from the Emperor’s light. They put
themselves above every other man, woman and child in our great Imperium. Never forget that.”
Stavin nodded silently.
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Karif turned from the smoking bodies and looked up the street to where Kabanov’s squad still
huddled behind their covering wall, harried by the bolters and stubbers at the roadblock on their
west side. The colonel was poking his head out, trying to see just what the hell was going on, but his
tall fur hat confounded him, announcing his every movement.
“Colonel,” voxed Karif, “your south flank is secure, sir.”
“About bloody time,” the colonel voxed back. “Now move up that street and flank that khekking
roadblock, if you would, commissar.”
“You’re welcome,” grumbled Karif to himself. “Come on, Stavin. It seems even the famous
White Boar needs someone to save his backside now and then.”
So far, so good, thought Sebastev.
The diversion had begun. Repeated las-fire sounded from the far side of the relay station,
answered by the chatter of the east-facing heavy stubbers. As Sebastev had fervently hoped he
would, the rebel sergeant became flustered. Loud booms joined the sounds of las- and stubber-fire.
Troopers Ulyan and Gorgolev were using the few grenades they carried to draw the attention of the
relay station’s defenders.
It worked.
At the sound of the explosions, the rebel sergeant became convinced that the Vostroyan
attackers had circled east and were throwing themselves into a full assault against the east side. He
ordered all but two of his men to follow him and took off at a run.
“You ready, scout?” Sebastev asked Aronov.
“Ready, sir. First man to the door gets a case of the good stuff, right?”
“Right,” said Sebastev as he raised his bolt pistol. “I’ll pay for it myself when we get to
Seddisvarr.” All along the street, hidden behind stone walls, his squad crouched ready to rush the
building.
Sebastev’s pistol barked and spat a brass shell casing, and the Vostroyans exploded from their
cover, zigzagging as they ran forward, desperate to throw off the guns.
Sebastev sprinted hard, not daring to glance left or right to see how his men were doing. He saw
muzzle flashes flicker out of each of the dark apertures positioned high in the relay station walls.
“Khekking run!” he yelled at his men. He put everything he had into pumping his legs, powering
forward as fast as he could. His muscles started to burn, and the cold air rushed into his lungs,
making them feel like they were on fire.
The stubbers sent a blizzard of shells whipping down around him, but nothing hit. There was no
pain, no battering impact. Then someone to Sebastev’s left cried out. Sebastev couldn’t look round.
Pausing for just a moment meant certain death.
“Keep moving!” he bellowed. In his peripheral vision, he saw a number of troopers moving
forward, outpacing him in their race to the safety of the relay station’s walls.
Torrents of lead continued to pour from the stubbers. Bullets churned the snow and bit into the
frozen rockcrete beneath. Some of the shells punched into living meat. Screams sounded from
Sebastev’s right. Someone behind him shouted, “No!”
Five metres! Four… Three…
Sebastev passed under the stubbers’ field of fire, moving so fast he couldn’t stop. He threw
himself down onto his right side, skidding to a stop just as one of the remaining rebel guards fired
off a las-bolt at him. The bright beam scorched the air above him, missing by centimetres. Sebastev
looked over in time to see Aronov impale the offending rebel on his long knife. The man was still
screaming when the big scout hoisted him into the air with his free hand and yanked his knife out.
That cut the scream short.
The crack of a lasgun marked the death of the other rebel that had been left to guard the
entrance. Sebastev rose to his feet and brushed the snow from his coat. He looked back at the street
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they’d just crossed. Two fresh bodies lay bleeding on the snow. One of them was still moving, still
groaning, calling out weakly for help. It was Blemski, a young trooper from Fourth Platoon.
Trooper Rodoyev, also from Fourth Platoon, followed Sebastev’s gaze and saw his comrade
lying wounded out on the street. He dropped his lasgun and made to rush to his friend’s aid, but
Aronov’s massive hand caught him by the wrist. “Don’t be a fool, trooper,” hissed the scout.
“Aronov’s right,” said Sebastev. “The guns will chew you up the second you run out there.
Blemski wouldn’t want that, and I can’t lose another man. Think about it.”
“But he’s not dead, sir,” said Rodoyev through gritted teeth.
Perhaps Blemski heard those words because, at that moment, he struggled to his knees, fighting
the agony of the horrific injuries he’d sustained. The movement was enough for the rebel stubbers.
They spat another stream of shells. Blemski’s body shuddered as it was chewed apart by a score of
impacts. Then it fell forward on the blood spattered snow and lay perfectly still.
Rodoyev howled. His face reddened and his eyes bulged. He snatched up his lasgun. “Where are
they? I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them all.”
Sebastev grabbed him by the collar and hauled him downwards so that they were almost nose to
nose. “Pull yourself together, Firstborn. I need you in control of yourself. If you can’t give me that,
you’re no damned—”
Sebastev broke off in mid-sentence. He could hear orders being shouted from the other side of
the relay station. The rest of the rebel guards were coming back.
“To the corners, all of you,” he hissed, letting go of Rodoyev. His men rushed to either edge of
the building, some following Sebastev to the north-east corner, the others moving with Aronov to
the south-east.
When the rebel guards appeared, the Vostroyans gave them time to commit themselves. When
the rebels were halfway around, beyond easy reach of any solid cover, Sebastev gave the order to
open fire.
Bright beams stabbed out, punching holes in the thick, quilted coats of the rebels and cutting
deep, charred pathways into their flesh. Screams filled the air. Bodies crumpled to the snow, some
thrashing in pain from wounds that weren’t immediately fatal.
“Move up and put them out of their misery,” ordered Sebastev. He threw Rodoyev a pointed
look. “Remember that you are Firstborn, not torturers. You’re here to represent the Emperor. I want
the wounded rebels dispatched quickly. No toying with them. Firstborn fight with honour.”
As his men moved forward to do as he’d ordered, Sebastev walked back around to the west
entrance of the relay station. It was sealed tight from the inside. He was standing in front of the door
when Aronov joined him.
“Are they dead?” asked Sebastev.
“Aye, sir.”
“The door is sealed. Any melta-charges left?”
“I haven’t got any,” said Aronov, “but I think Rodoyev and Vamkin are still carrying, sir.”
“Rodoyev… is he all right?”
“They were good friends, sir. He took Blemski under his wing when the lad joined Fourth
Platoon. Both men were from Hive Slovekha.”
Sebastev thought of Dublin and Ixxius. He remembered watching Dubrin’s life ebb away as he
lay on a stretcher. He remembered seeing Ixxius’ body disintegrate in a burst of shrapnel from an
ork grenade. “Understood,” he said to Aronov, “but the time for mourning is after the battle. Words
from the White Boar himself.”
Aronov nodded. The others joined them at the entrance. There was a fierce look in their eyes, a
look of absolute focus on the work in hand. It was just what Sebastev wanted to see.
“Get a melta-charge on this door,” he told them. “Once we’re in, we move in pairs, sweeping
each level. The gunners are still inside. We’ll make them pay, by the Throne. But there may be
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others, comms officers and the like. Keep your eyes open. They know we’re coming in, so no
mistakes. Watch each other’s backs. Are we clear?”
“Clear, sir,” said the troopers.
“Like good rahzvod, sir,” said Aronov.
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CHAPTER NINE
Day 687
Nhalich, East Bank — 11:21hrs, -20°C
Kabanov stood in Reivemot Square. It was a terrible sight. The corpses of good men, men of the
Sixty-Eighth and 701st, lay in heaps like stacked timber. The Danikkin rebels had stripped them of
anything useful and piled them up. Now the bodies were frozen together, as cold and hard as blocks
of ice. His heart filled with anger and regret as he looked at them. He ordered Sergeant Breshek to
organise a search of the corpses, looking for Commissar-Captain Vaughn and Major Galipolov. He
was sure they lay somewhere in the square, but it was still hard to believe that these
uncompromising men were truly dead. The remains of a statue that had once been dedicated to the
Emperor stood in the centre of the square. Who knew what it was supposed to be now? It stood
headless, limbless, wrapped in razorwire and splashed with vivid red paint. A dedication, perhaps, to
that misguided notion of independence that had brought war to this world. Some damned fool rebel
had written DIA – No Emperor, No Slavery in the same red paint on the base of the statue.
The occasional crack of lasguns still sounded in the air as Fifth Company troopers continued to
discover and eliminate rebel stragglers hidden in buildings on this side of the town, but the greater
part of the fighting was over. Nhalich East was back in the hands of the Firstborn, for now. Kabanov
could do nothing about that part of the town that sat on the west bank.
No matter what we achieved today, he thought, the DIA has taken control of South Varanes, the
orks are dominating in the north-east, and Fifth Company has little hope of getting back to the
relative safety of our own lines. By Holy Terra, have Lord-Marshal Harazahn and Sector Command
completely forsaken the Twelfth Army? General Vlastan may be unsuited to this campaign, but one
can hardly lay all the blame at his feet. In his own way, he must be struggling as much as we are.
Vostroyan squads moved through the town, herding frightened groups of Danikkin civilians into
temporary containment facilities. They’d be locked up until it was decided what to do with them.
Many had been killed during the battle, but there had been little need for more slaughter once the
town was properly secured. The survivors simply had nowhere else to go. Nhalich might be a battle
zone, but it was the only shelter for many kilometres. The nearest town had been Korris until Fifth
Company sappers had razed it.
Kabanov wondered how much damage the power plant explosion had done to the orks. How
many had survived? Would they follow Fifth Company out here?
With the losses we took today, he thought, we couldn’t hold this town for a full hour. The
headcount isn’t in yet, but I saw enough men fall in my proximity to know the numbers aren’t going
to be good. We won, and the regiment lives on, but only just. If there are over a hundred men left by
the time the headcount comes in, I’ll be genuinely surprised.
A light snow was falling. Tiny flakes alighted on Kabanov’s hat and cloak, becoming invisible
against the thick, white fur. Around him, Lieutenants Maro and Kuritsin, Father Olov, Enginseer
Politnov, Commissar Karif and his adjutant stood awaiting orders and surveying the activity in the
square. Sergeant Breshek’s squad searched the bodies methodically. Kabanov didn’t envy them their
grim work.
A voice crackled over the vox. “This is Captain Sebastev. The relay station is secure. I repeat,
we have the relay station.”
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Kabanov lifted a finger to his vox-bead, hit the transmit stud and said, “Colonel Kabanov here,
captain. Message received. We’re on our way.”
“Very good, sir,” replied Sebastev. “We await your arrival. Sebastev out.”
Kabanov turned to the others. “Gentlemen,” he said, “let’s not keep the captain waiting.”
Sebastev stood under the buzzing lights of the relay station’s basement, bolt pistol drawn. The gun’s
muzzle was trained on a man dressed in black, a rebel officer, who sat on the floor, back pressed to
the cold, stone wall.
To Sebastev’s left, banks of security monitors hissed and crackled, leaking acrid, blue smoke
into the air. The rebels charged with protecting the relay station had been supervised from this room.
They’d all been killed when Sebastev and his men had stormed the building. Only one man
remained alive. Sebastev didn’t plan to leave him that way for much longer, but he wouldn’t execute
the man before Colonel Kabanov gave his permission. There’d be an interrogation first.
Trooper Aronov stood behind Sebastev, also looking down at this killer of Vostroyan Firstborn.
The other troopers had been posted to defensive positions around the building, but Sebastev knew
from voxed reports that the fighting on this side of the river was essentially over.
Trooper Rodoyev had needed to be physically wrestled from the room after rushing forward
with his knife drawn, yelling that he would flay the prisoner alive. He was outside now, posted to
the east entrance. Sebastev was torn between Fifth Company’s current lack of manpower and his
need to see Rodoyev disciplined. The man was setting a bad example for the other troopers and he
couldn’t go unpunished. Sebastev decided he’d consult with Commissar Karif on the matter when
they both had time. Other matters took precedence.
The body of Trooper Vamkin lay in a corner of the basement, another man lost in the effort to
secure this place. As Vamkin had entered the room, the rebel officer had surprised him, stabbing
him once in the stomach with a wickedly serrated blade. The knife had been coated with a deadly
neurotoxin. Vamkin’s lungs had stopped working almost immediately. He’d died of suffocation long
before he could bleed to death.
Trooper Petrovich, a scout from Second Platoon, had been following right behind Vamkin.
Petrovich, who’d lost an ear in a knife fight a few years back, was well known for his cool head.
He’d shot the enemy officer in the thigh, crippling him and sending him to the floor, but sparing him
to face the colonel’s wrath.
For his part, the rebel seemed strangely unconcerned that he’d been taken alive. He sat nursing
his wounded leg, occasionally raising his eyes to meet Sebastev’s gaze. There was something in his
