Sebastev growled and shook his head. “Nineteen dead on my section of the trench, commissar.
An unacceptable loss, and one that hardly warrants your congratulations.”
Nineteen men didn’t sound like a lot to Karif. In fact, given the ferocity of the fighting he’d seen
earlier, it sounded incredibly low. He’d served in conflicts where the daily tolls ran into the
thousands. But it was clear from his tone that the captain was genuinely angry about the day’s
losses. Did he blame himself?
“I’m surprised by your reaction, captain,” said Karif. “I’d have thought the tally would please
you. An ork assault of that size repelled with Guard losses in only double figures? You should be
expecting a decoration.”
Sebastev laughed, if the short, sharp bark that issued from his mouth could truly be called a
laugh. “I’ll be dead before that ever happens, commissar,” he said, “and so will you, most likely. It’s
clear you’ve no idea how bad things are out here. Weren’t you briefed on the way in?”
Karif frowned. “Perhaps you’d better enlighten me, captain, since you clearly feel the officers at
Seddisvarr haven’t done an adequate job.”
“Bloody right they haven’t,” said Sebastev. “What does anyone at Twelfth Army Command
know about the realities of the Eastern Front? Damned little, that’s what. Whichever bigwig you
angered knew what they were doing when they posted you out here. You’re right in the middle of it,
commissar. We’re outnumbered, ill-equipped, and so badly supported you’ll wonder if the
20
Munitorum isn’t just a figment of your imagination. It’s only my faith in the Emperor and in the
strength of my men that gives me any hope.”
“I haven’t angered anyone that I know of,” Karif lied, “except perhaps you. I was sent here
because your company needed a replacement commissar, and it galls me to hear such words from an
officer of the Imperial Guard. I’ve little tolerance for fatalism, captain. In fact, I’m a strong believer
in the might of the common man. With good leadership and morale, there’s nothing the Guard can’t
achieve. Be careful not to let me hear you speak thus in front of your men. I’m sure I don’t have to
remind you of my commissarial remit.”
Sebastev simply stared back at Karif, unflinching, until finally he said, “Fear won’t work for you
out here, commissar. I tell you this because you’re clearly a man used to being feared. But don’t
mistake a lack of fear for a lack of respect. I’ll admit I wasn’t pleased at the thought of a new man
coming in. Your predecessor, Commissar Ixxius was a great soldier and friend. We won’t see his
like again. If he proved anything, it was that the right man can make a great difference. There is a
place for you here among the Firstborn, if you’re such a man. It’ll take time, perhaps, but once
you’ve earned the respect of my fighters, you’ll see what a force they can be. Maybe this conflict
could use a fresh pair of eyes to assess it.”
Sebastev stood up, crossed to the cabinet in his bare feet and poured two shots of clear liquid
into a pair of dirty glasses. “Rahzvod,” he said for the second time, placing one glass down on the
table next to Karif.
I confess I’ve never approved of the idea of field commissioned officers, thought Karif, and this
one justifies all my prejudices: ill-mannered and contentious, unmindful of his appearance and the
protocols of Imperial society, and yet, the man’s lack of sophistry is refreshing. He’s ugly, brutal
and direct, it’s true, but if men like me are the surgical scalpels of the Imperial Guard, perhaps men
like Sebastev are the sledgehammers. The Emperor has a use for both, I suppose.
He raised his glass to his lips and said, “For the Emperor.” The liquid ran down his throat,
searing the walls of his gullet. He almost spluttered, but caught himself. His cheeks grew hot and he
knew they must be flushing.
“For the Emperor and Vostroya,” replied Sebastev, raising his own glass into the air before
knocking back the bitter liquid. He sighed happily, as if he’d been waiting all day for that drink.
In the momentary silence, Karif took another look around the little room.
Ill-mannered or not, Sebastev was clearly a pious man: aquilas on every wall, an image of His
Divine Majesty set into an alcove there, several holy texts stacked by his bunk, and even a small
altar to the female saint they loved so much. That, at least, was gratifying to see.
Sebastev, looking up from his empty glass, followed the commissar’s gaze towards the little
altar and said, “Are you familiar with the Grey Lady, commissar?”
Karif nodded and said, “I read the Treatis Elatii once, the story of her ancient crusades. But that
was many years ago.”
“Still,” said Sebastev, “that’s something in your favour. Commissar Ixxius could quote the text
from memory. It made a great difference to the men during hard times. I’m afraid Father Olov,
much as we revere the man, is a far better fighter than he is a preacher of the Holy Word. If you’ve
any skill in oration at all…”
“Yes, well, I’ll keep that in mind, captain, but I didn’t come here to replace the regiment’s priest.
Battlefield oration is—”
Karif was interrupted by a loud knock at the door.
“Come in,” barked Sebastev.
The cold seal hissed and the door cracked open with a sucking sound. Bitterly cold air rushed
into the room, causing Karif to pull his coat tighter around him. The promethium lamp on the ceiling
swung in the gust, sending the room’s shadows into a dance. A Vostroyan with lieutenant’s stripes
at his collar and cuffs stepped in and quickly sealed the door.
21
The newcomer had to stoop under the ceiling, and not merely because of his fur hat. The man
was almost as tall as Karif. Like many Vostroyans, he was well built. The gravity on Vostroya was
slightly higher than on Karif’s homeworld.
Throne preserve us, thought Karif as he watched the man stoop, did they fashion these dugouts
for children? My own accommodation had better not be like this. I won’t spend this campaign bent
double like an old ape.
Even as the thought crossed his mind, Karif had a sinking feeling that his fears on the matter
would be realised. Cutting trenches into permafrost was hard enough, but Twelfth Army engineers
would have taken as many shortcuts as they could while working in the bitter cold.
“Sorry to intrude, gentlemen,” said the lieutenant. He gave a sharp salute before removing his
hat and scarf.
Now here’s a proper officer, thought Karif. The contrast between the lieutenant and Captain
Sebastev was stark. He had a handsome face, a well-groomed moustache, and good, noble bearing.
He was an academy man, for certain. How could he stand to serve under this glorified grunt?
Sebastev didn’t stand, but he gestured from his bunk and said, “This is my adjutant and commsofficer,
Lieutenant Oleg Kuritsin. Rits, this is Commissar Daridh Ahl Karif from… Sorry,
commissar, I didn’t catch where you were from.”
“I never said, captain,” replied Karif.
“Tallarn?” guessed Lieutenant Kuritsin with a smile.
Karif wasn’t quite fast enough to hide a flash of irritation.
Why does everyone I meet assume that, he thought angrily? Do all men with black hair and a
deep tan have to come from that wretched place?
“Delta Radhima actually,” he said, recovering his composure and standing, or rather stooping, to
shake the lieutenant’s hand, “but I attended the Schola Excubitos on Terrax.”
Let’s see what that does for them, he thought.
He watched the name register with the lieutenant, though Captain Sebastev’s grim features
didn’t change at all. The schola on Terrax was infamous for producing some of the strictest, most
militant commissars in the history of the Imperium. Karif didn’t care to mention that he’d been
considered one of the more liberal graduates.
“Forgive my ignorance, commissar,” said Kuritsin with a short bow. “I hadn’t heard of Delta
Rhadima until this moment. In any case, welcome to Fifth Company.”
“Something to tell me, Rits?” interrupted Sebastev.
“An urgent message from Colonel Kabanov’s office, sir. The colonel’s calling an assembly in
the war room. He’ll be arriving at nineteen hundred hours.”
“The war room?” asked Sebastev. “Our war room?”
“Yes, sir,” said Kuritsin, “at nineteen hundred hours.”
“Is that unusual, captain?” asked Karif.
“Yes,” said Sebastev.
Lieutenant Kuritsin explained. “Colonel Kabanov usually holds his briefings at the regimental
headquarters, commissar. With the scale of today’s attack, he may feel he can’t pull his company
commanders away from the front. In any case, he’s chosen our war room, and that means something
has happened.”
“Are there any reasons for optimism, gentlemen?” asked Karif. “Before you arrived, lieutenant,
the captain was telling me all sorts of things about poor supplies and the like. The latest
reinforcements, at least, must be welcome news.”
“Reinforcements?” asked Sebastev.
“Sorry, sir,” said Kuritsin. “I forgot to tell you. Some shinies came in with the commissar.”
“Shinies?” asked Karif.
22
“Aye,” said Sebastev, “new conscripts, fresh off the assembly line: shinies. How many did we
score, Rits?”
“The regiment as a whole, sir? Or Fifth Company?”
“Fifth Company, of course.”
Kuritsin glanced at the floor as he said, “He’s waiting outside, sir.”
Karif suppressed a grin at the look on the captain’s face.
“He?” spluttered Sebastev. “You mean—?”
Kuritsin turned, opened the door, and called out into the icy air.
Answering the lieutenant’s call, a Vostroyan of unusually slim build stepped into the dugout,
clumps of snow falling to the floor from the top of his hat and armoured shoulders. The lieutenant
sealed the door behind the newcomer and ordered him to remove his scarf.
The trooper’s face was blue-eyed, red-cheeked and innocent. There was more of the choirboy
about him than the battle-ready Guardsman. He looked barely halfway through his adolescence,
though he’d have to be at least eighteen years old to be posted to a regiment. His face bore none of
the scars from basic training that most new conscripts were so proud of.
Karif recognised the boy immediately. They’d ridden together with a handful of others in the
back of a Chimera from the town to the trenches, though he couldn’t remember his name.
Captain Sebastev was staring at the youngster with a mixture of disgust and disbelief.
“What the khek is this?” he growled. “The new company mascot? This one’s never old enough
for duty. What’s your name, trooper? And where’s your damned moustache?”
Clearly feeling sorry for the nervous boy, Lieutenant Kuritsin answered on his behalf. “This is
Danil Stavin, sir. His papers say he’s eighteen. He came down on the last boat with the commissar
and about three hundred others. The Sixty-Eighth was assigned about forty in all. We got this one.”
“Well then,” said Captain Sebastev, “he must be some kind of Space Marine, by the Throne. Is
that right, Stalin? Are you a Space Marine?”
“It’s Stavin, sir. With a ‘v’, sir,” said the boy. His voice was little more than a nervous whisper.
The “boat” Lieutenant Kuritsin had referred to was the Imperial Naval cruiser Helmund’s
Honour. Rather than raise new foundings like most Imperial Guard regiments, the Vostroyan
Firstborn was reinforced in the field, a peculiarity that was, according to some, the result of an
ancient debt about which no one living seemed to know a great deal. If they did know, they weren’t
talking.
The newest levies from Vostroya had already settled into the passenger holds when Karif
stepped aboard the ship at Port Maw. In the months it took the ship to navigate the warp, Karif had
watched the young Vostroyans train, readying themselves for action in the Second Kholdas War.
Since Danik’s World was considered little more than a backwater with minimal tactical importance
to the war effort, those unlucky enough to be earmarked for the Twelfth Army had suffered the
taunts of the others. The real glory was on the cluster’s spinward side, where those on the Kholdas
Line fought to hold back the massive ork armada from the Ghoul Stars.
On the journey out to the Eastern Front, Karif had enjoyed impressing the new conscripts with
tales of his battlefield exploits. He told them of his experiences facing the inexplicable eldar. His
stories of the terrifying tyranids had drawn gasps of awe from the young men. Karif’s ego had been
well fed. What did it matter that he’d embellished a little? Karif grinned at the boy as he
remembered, and was rewarded with a broad smile in return.
“What are you so happy about, trooper?” growled Sebastev. “The deep winter’ll soon knock that
smile off your face.”
Stavin’s cheeks glowed and he dropped his eyes to the floor.
“Rits,” said Sebastev, “who took the most hits today?”
“That would be Fourth Platoon, sir, though not by much.”
23
“Right. Stavin, I’m assigning you to Fourth Platoon. Your commanding officer is Lieutenant
Nicholo. Understood?”
Kuritsin suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Actually, sir, Lieutenant Nicholo took an ork blade in
the shoulder today during the second wave. He’s at the field hospital.”
Sebastev loosed a string of curses, the likes of which Karif had never heard. Some of the images
they conjured were deeply unpleasant. “How bad is it?”
“He lost an arm, sir, his left. Full augmentation from the shoulder down, so I’m told.”
The captain was quiet for a moment, visibly disturbed by the news. Then he caught Karif
assessing him. His face quickly reverted to its previous snarl. “Nicholo’s a solid man. He’s in good
hands. Our medics are the very best in the Twelfth Army, commissar.” He turned his eyes to the
boy. “Right then, Stavin, you’ll report to Sergeant Breshek in the meantime. He’ll get you sorted
out.”
It’s a fact, thought Karif as he looked at the young trooper, that most new arrivals to the
battlefield don’t survive their first skirmish. Those that do survive tend to be born fighters, bullies,
killers, sociopaths. There are occasionally others, the quick studies. Some of them make it. They
learn the hard way. This one doesn’t look like a fighter. Is he a quick study, I wonder?
“Excuse me, captain,” said Karif, “I’d like to present a proposal of sorts regarding Trooper
Stavin here.”
“Very well,” said the captain. “Out with it.”
“You appreciate that newly assigned commissars often experience a regrettable amount of
