at the last minute so that the cold of the open air wouldn’t leech their valuable charge.
There were three hundred and thirty-eight men at the last count, spread across five platoons.
He’d started with four hundred. Twenty-two had been lost since the last reinforcements had come
in. Those same reinforcements accounted for most, but not all, of the recently deceased. That was
the way of things in the Guard, of course. Those with the right stuff lived to fight on. As far as most
officers were concerned, the rest were just cannon fodder.
Sebastev pulled his scarf down for a moment, so he could scratch his face where the coarse hair
of his moustache was itching. The bitter air nipped at his exposed skin. Every face around him was
covered against the cold, some with warm scarves, others with rebreather masks that offered better
protection against the elements, but reduced peripheral vision. Sebastev had always allowed his men
a certain amount of freedom in the way they configured their gear. Each man knew himself best,
8
after all. Even so, he’d have welcomed the chance to read their expressions as they readied
themselves for the inevitable ork assault.
Stand strong, he thought. You’re tired, cold and hungry, I know, but in three more days, we’ve a
duty rotation. Hold fast until then.
He knew there would be mistakes brought on by exhaustion, and decided to order extra checks
on cold climate discipline. Pneumonia and frostbite were constant threats on this world. The deep
winter stalked every man, waiting for simple mistakes, for chances to claim the lives of the careless.
Early in the conflict, the youngest and greenest Guardsmen in the Twelfth Army had suffered in
depressingly high numbers. Frostbite: for some it was lips or noses, for others it was fingers or toes.
The flesh became numb, then shrivelled and turned black. If the dead flesh didn’t fall away first, the
medics would cut it off. Many of the afflicted didn’t need scarves and goggles now. They wore
permanent masks, expressionless machine faces screwed into the bone of their skulls by the
regiment’s techpriests and the chirurgeons of the Imperial Medicae.
Twelfth Army Command had since made instances of frostbite a capital offence, but flogging
men for losing a finger or two didn’t sit well with Sebastev. He preferred to omit the mention of it
from his reports. Since Fifth Company had yet to be assigned a replacement commissar, Sebastev
dealt with most infractions in his own way. For frostbite, it meant the confiscation of alcohol or
tabac. For other offences, it meant a stint as his sparring partner.
Sebastev tried to gauge the mood of the men around him. Despite their being covered from head
to toe against the razor winds, it wasn’t all that hard to sense their agitation. Their bodies were in
continuous motion, keeping their joints loose and their blood pumping in readiness for combat. It
kept them warm. Many were veterans who, like Sebastev, had opted to serve beyond their ten years
of compulsory service. Such men would have sensed the coming storm of battle just as he had.
He raised his magnoculars and squinted into the lenses, picking out the tree line just over a
kilometre east of his position. The heavy curtains of falling snow hampered his view, but the
shadows beneath the trees stood out as a dark border in all that white, marking the far edge of the
killing fields. As he adjusted the magnification, bringing the wall of pine into sharper focus, he
thought he glimpsed motion between the black trunks.
Lieutenant Tarkarov was right, he thought. We should have cut the trees farther back. We’ve no
idea just how many are massing there.
After watching for another minute with no further sign of movement, Sebastev returned his
magnoculars to the case on his belt.
The foothills of the Varanesian Peaks lay beyond the great pine forest, hidden today, as on most
days. On those rare occasions when the cloud cover broke and the sky shone bright and blue, the
mountains were visible, rendered in sharp detail, the land displaying a rare beauty. It was everything
Sebastev’s home world might have been were it not covered from sea to poisoned sea in gas
belching, city-sized manufactories.
We may not have the same grand vistas, Sebastev thought to himself, but at least Vostroya is no
traitor world.
He turned at a muttered curse from behind him. His comms officer and adjutant, Lieutenant
Kuritsin, was crouching by the rear wall of the trench, adjusting the frequency dials on his voxcaster
back and forth in tiny increments. His motions betrayed a mild frustration.
Still, thought Sebastev, you’ve a lot more patience than I have, Rits. I’d have blasted the damned
thing to pieces by now.
Long-range comms had been unreliable since they’d landed on the planet. Some two thousand
years after massive volcanic eruptions in the far south had kick-started this Danikkin ice age, tiny
particles of volcanic debris in the high atmosphere still played hell with signals over distance.
Short-range vox, at least, was somewhat less affected.
“Captain,” said Kuritsin as he joined Sebastev on the firing step, “that was a message from the
colonel’s office.”
9
“A full message?” asked Sebastev doubtfully.
“I’m afraid not, sir. The last half was mostly static.”
“Sometimes I feel guilty for making you carry that bloody thing, Rits. Just give me what you’ve
got.”
“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Maro just wanted to let us know, sir. A Chimera left Korris HQ a few
minutes ago, heading for our current position. It shouldn’t take long to arrive.”
Not an inspection, thought Sebastev. The colonel knows better than to trouble us at a time like
this, and Maro wouldn’t have warned us if it was good news.
Sebastev frowned under his scarf and said, “I don’t suppose you know who’s riding it?”
“I’m afraid we didn’t get that far, captain. Would you like me to keep trying?”
Sebastev was about to answer when the vox-bead in his ear crackled. It was Lieutenant Vassilo,
commander of Third Platoon. Vassilo to company leader. “Movement among the trees. Lots of
movement.”
“No, Rits,” said Sebastev to his adjutant, “it’ll have to wait. It sounds like we’re about to have
our hands full.”
Sebastev keyed the company command channel on his vox-bead, cleared his throat and said,
“Captain Sebastev to platoon leaders. I want all squads on full alert. Wake up, gentlemen. Expect a
charge from the tree line any minute. I can bloody well smell them coming.”
Sebastev’s officers broke through the static with brief confirmations.
“Rits, get a message off to First and Fourth Companies. Tell them we’ve got activity at Korris
East, grid-sector H-5. Make sure they get the message, and keep Korris HQ updated on our status.”
“Yes, sir,” said Lieutenant Kuritsin.
As Sebastev raised his magnoculars again, Kuritsin transmitted his message to the company
commanders in the neighbouring sections of the trench. Each Guardsman wore a vox-bead. The
devices didn’t have much range, maybe five kilometres on a good day, just one or two as standard
on Danik’s World, but they were absolutely vital for coordinating operations. Anything over that
range required a heavy vox-caster set like the one Kuritsin carried around, strapped to his back.
Every company and platoon leader in the Sixty-Eighth had a comms officer beside him.
Sebastev didn’t have the faintest idea how vox worked, but that was the Imperium for you, he
supposed. If the Priests of Mars understood it, they guarded the knowledge jealously. No matter. So
long as everything worked as it was supposed to, that was enough. Sebastev’s own regular
obeisance to the machine-spirits seemed to keep his equipment in working order.
He flexed his fingers. That feeling had descended on him again, the tightness in his muscles, in
his gut, as if he needed to piss. He knew it was partly the cold, but it was more than just that. He
pulled the folds of his thick, white cloak tighter around his body, glad of its protection from the
worst of the winds, and for the tall fur hat that warmed his head.
Slow adrenal increase. He always felt it before they came. Another tide of violence was
building, about to spill over, to shatter the relative silence of the deep winter. The feeling was so
strong it left little room for doubt.
How many will I lose this time, he wondered? Twenty? Thirty? By Terra, let it be less.
If he worked smart, and if the Emperor was with him, maybe he could keep the numbers down.
It was what he excelled at, so Colonel Kabanov had told him. Sebastev hoped the old man wasn’t
just blowing smoke up his backside. Good men still died under his command, and bad ones, too.
He keyed his vox to the company’s open channel and addressed his troops. “Ready yourselves,
Firstborn. Check your kit. Follow your platoon leaders.”
Up and down the line, he could sense the men preparing themselves, switching mental gears at
the sound of his voice. These were the times he missed his old friend and mentor, Major Dubrin, the
most. The man had always been ready with an inspirational phrase or quote to bolster the troops.
Conscious of this, Sebastev struggled for something to say. “Ask for the blessings of the Emperor.
10
Do your duty without hesitation, free of all doubt, and when those ugly green bastards come
charging over the snow, drop them with a lasbolt to the brain, and buy us all another day of
righteous service in the Imperial Guard!”
That’ll have to do, thought Sebastev. I’ve never been much of a speechmaker. You should be
standing here, Dubrin, girding these men for battle. An old grunt like me has no business in officer’s
clothes. Any blue-blooded bastard in Twelfth Army Command can tell you that much. If it weren’t
for my damned promise…
Lieutenant Kuritsin spoke from behind him. “Captain, First and Fourth Companies report
movement all along the line, sir. Looks like a big one.”
As if on cue, an all too familiar sound erupted from the distant trees: the rage-filled battle cry of
an ork leader. If the sub-zero temperatures of the Danikkin day weren’t enough to chill a man’s
blood, an alien roar like that would do it. More sub-human roaring sounded on the air, racing over
the white drifts to the ears of the anxious Guardsmen, signalling the start of the battle.
Sebastev tapped a finger on his adjutant’s vox-caster and said, “Monitor the regimental
command channels for me, Rits. Keep me updated on the status of the First and Fourth. I’ll need to
know what’s going on in their sectors. We don’t want any surprises.”
“Understood, sir,” replied Kuritsin, “but transmissions are really starting to break up between
here and Korris HQ. I think the weather is worsening.”
Sebastev looked up at the sky. The snowfall was getting heavier, but the gusting winds had
eased a little. He spoke again on the company’s command channel. “Ready yourselves, Firstborn.”
Lasgun charge packs were drawn from pockets all along the trench, and clicked into place under
long, polished barrels.
“Maintain fire discipline. Power settings at maximum. Choose your targets. I want redundancy
minimised. Remember, all of you, that temperature, visibility and the nature of our opponent have
reduced lethal range to approximately one half. Any trooper wasting bolts on long shots will
immediately forfeit his rahzvod allocation. You don’t fire until I bloody well say so.”
Despite the usual groans from nearby soldiers at the thought of losing their alcohol, Sebastev
knew he hardly needed to warn them. He was proud of them, his Fifth Company. Their discipline
was rock solid. Most of his men were as dedicated and faithful as a commander could have wished
for, committed to a life of fighting for the honour of Vostroya and the glory of the Imperium of
Man.
Faith is the armour of the soul, thought Sebastev. That’s what Commissar Ixxius used to say.
Commissar Ixxius was another friend and mentor who’d been lost to the campaign. The man had
been a pillar of strength to Sebastev’s company after Dubrin’s death. He’d been a fine speaker, too.
In scholas and academies across the Imperium, officers and commissars were taught how to tap
that faith. There were entire study programs dedicated to battlefield oration, but that didn’t help
Sebastev, because his was a field-commission. Everything he knew about leadership had been learnt
the hard way, through blood, sweat and tears shed on battlefields from here to the Eye of Terror.
For better or for worse, litanies and the like were firmly the province of Father Olov, Fifth
Company’s aging and slightly insane priest. Sebastev hoped that the men at least drew some
strength from his insistence on fighting alongside them, shoulder-to-shoulder, in these freezing
trenches or anywhere else the enemies of the Imperium dared to show themselves.
As if summoned by the thought, they showed themselves now, bellowing their challenge as they
broke cover. They crashed from between the trees, a thunderous green tide of muscle-bound bodies,
kicking up great sprays of snow as they raced over no-man’s land towards the Vostroyan lines.
Orks.
“Mark your targets,” ordered Sebastev. “First volley on my order. Not one shot till we see their
breath misting the air. Let them extend themselves. Grenades and mortars on dense knots only,
please. I will be watching you. Your platoon leaders will be taking names.”
From the bead in his right ear, he heard his officers acknowledge.
11
“Sir,” said Kuritsin. “First and Fourth Companies both report enemy charges in their sectors.”
Sebastev raised his right hand to his chest and the holy icon that lay beneath his clothes. An
image, rendered in Vostroyan silver, hung from a cord around his neck. It felt cold against his skin.
It was a medallion given to him by his mother some thirty years ago on the day he’d left to begin his
term in the Guard: the Insignum Sanctus Nadalya, the holy icon of the Grey Lady, Vostroya’s patron
saint.
He mumbled a quick prayer for the Lady’s favour and drew his gleaming, handcrafted bolt pistol
from its holster. “Let’s see what they’re made of, eh Rits?” he said.
Lieutenant Kuritsin slammed a power pack into position on his lasgun. “Aye, sir. On your
order.”
Sebastev felt his adrenaline surge as he watched the enemy speed towards him, signalling his
body’s readiness for the fight. The cold lost some of its bite. His fatigue faded and all his long years
