culture clash. It makes things difficult for all concerned. So, in order to help me adjust to Vostroyan
ways, I’d like to request an adjutant. Since Trooper Stavin is, in your own words, a shiny—”
“I see where you’re going with this, commissar,” said Captain Sebastev. “I certainly can’t assign
a more experienced man to spit-polish your boots for you. Very well. Trooper Stavin, you’ll serve as
the commissar’s adjutant. Do as he says except when I tell you otherwise. A commissar’s adjutant
you may be, but I’m in charge. Make sure you don’t forget it.”
Stavin saluted the captain and said, “Yes, sir. I won’t forget.”
“Good.” Sebastev faced his own adjutant and said, “Rits, take the commissar and his new aide to
their dugout. D-fourteen is free, isn’t it? Get them settled in. And make sure the relevant people
know about the briefing in the war room later. Tell them Colonel Kabanov won’t stand for any
tardiness, clear?”
“Like good rahzvod, sir,” said the lieutenant with a sharp salute.
The commissar rose from his chair, forced to stoop again, and placed his cap on his head. He
lifted his cloak from its peg, fastened it over his shoulders, and joined Kuritsin and Stavin at the
door.
“Make sure you’re at the briefing, commissar,” said Sebastev. “You can be sure the colonel has
something damned important to say.”
“Naturally, captain,” replied Karif. In truth, his mind was firmly fixed on the weather outside.
He was disturbed to find just how much he dreaded re-emerging into the freezing cold. He was
somewhat concerned, too, by his impulse to take Stavin under his wing.
Careful, Daridh, he told himself. It was your kindness to Breggius’ boy that got you shipped out
here in the first place. Where does it come from, this need to look after them? Who looked after me
when I was that age? Ah, but perhaps that’s it.
Lieutenant Kuritsin hit the cold seal rune, opened the door of the dugout, and ushered the
commissar and his new adjutant out into the cold. Karif threw the captain a salute before he stepped
out into the howling wind and snow. He drew his cloak tight around him, sinking his chin into the
thick fur. Lieutenant Kuritsin stepped out last, closing the door of the dugout behind him. Karif
heard the hiss of the cold seal as it re-activated.
24
So that’s Grigorius Sebastev, he thought. That’s the man to whom my fate is bound. Emperor
above, did you have to make him such a bad-tempered little grox? I’m eager to see how he interacts
with other officers at the briefing.
“Follow me, commissar,” shouted Kuritsin over the noise of the wind. “Let’s double-time it so
you don’t catch your death.”
Karif nodded, and he and Stavin fell into step behind Kuritsin, moving north up the trench with
some haste. They bent almost double against the whipping snow, eager to get to shelter as soon as
possible.
25
CHAPTER THREE
Day 681
Korris Trench works — 19:09hrs, -29°C
Cold air scythed through the war room as the door was flung open. Lieutenant Maro of the
colonel’s personal staff limped through, and pulled his scarf down to reveal a round face with a
clipped brown moustache. His cheeks had been pinched red by the cold. “Stand to!” he called. The
pistons in his augmetic leg hissed as he stepped away from the door.
The assembled men pushed their chairs back from the long, central table and stood, snapping to
attention with crisp salutes.
Colonel Kabanov hurried inside, his shape lost in the thick folds of his white fur cloak. He
stamped the snow from his boots and shook it from the top of his hat. “At ease, all of you,” he said
after a brief but sincere salute of his own. Then he shuffled forward, moving straight towards the
nearest of the room’s thermal coils. “Talk amongst yourselves while I get some heat back into me.”
A stream of officers and command-level personnel entered the room behind him, eager to get out
of the punishing winds. Last to enter were the servants of the Machine-God. Tech-priest Gavaril and
Enginseer Politnov swept into the room like shrouded ghosts, and sealed the door firmly shut behind
them. The machinery that sustained their ancient bodies clicked and hummed as they turned their
cowled heads to greet the others.
The newly arrived officers from regimental HQ hung their hats and cloaks on wall pegs and took
their seats. Soon, Colonel Kabanov was the only man still wearing both his hat and his cloak.
I suppose I’d better take them off, he thought.
Turning from the heat of the coil, still rubbing his hands together, he said, “I don’t suppose
there’s a pot of ohx’ on, is there? I could use a cup.”
He grudgingly removed his outdoor gear, revealing a pristine formal jacket of bright Vostroyan
red trimmed with white and gold. In truth, the jacket was far too ostentatious for the occasion, but it
was well made and warm and, for these reasons alone, he’d put his modesty aside, adding another
valuable layer of insulation against the deep winter.
Captain Sebastev’s adjutant, Lieutenant Kuritsin, stood from his place at the table and moved to
a cabinet in the far corner to fix a steaming mug of ohx’ for the colonel.
“If there’s any going about, lieutenant,” added Kabanov, “you might put a little shot of rahzvod
in it. Do an old man a favour.” The men chuckled. More than a few drew Guard-issue flasks from
their pockets and offered them to the lieutenant, but Kuritsin had already unscrewed his own flask.
Kabanov saw him pour a generous measure of the strong Vostroyan liquor into the mug.
Good man, he thought. A dash of that will do the trick.
The war room filled with low chatter as officers from different sections of the trenches discussed
the day’s defensive actions. Two men were notably absent: Lieutenant Nicholo of Fifth Company
and Lieutenant Vharz of the Tenth. Nicholo looked set to recover given time, but Vharz had met his
end. As the uninformed were told of this, the tone of the conversation changed, and the mood in the
room became sombre.
It will get a lot worse before I’m through, thought Kabanov. May the Emperor help you in
particular, Sebastev, because you’re going to need it.
26
Lieutenant Kuritsin crossed the room and presented Kabanov with a mug. “Thank you,
lieutenant,” said the colonel with a smile. “There’s nothing like a hot drink on a night like this, eh?
So long as there’s a drop of the liquid fire in it.”
Kuritsin grinned. “You’re not wrong, sir.”
The ohx’ was thick and salty, just as it was meant to be. The drink’s proper name was
ohxolosvennoy, but no one ever called it that. It was a staple on Vostroya, cheap and easy to make.
In its dry form, it was simply powdered grox meat with a few added stimulants and preservatives.
Workers in every factorum on Vostroya swore by ohx’. It was the only way to get through double
shifts. On Danik’s World, the Firstborn drank prodigious amounts of the stuff.
Kabanov sighed happily as the hot liquid warmed his belly. Low enough not to be heard over the
general hum of conversation, he said, “Fifth Company did well today, soldier, holding back the
greenskin filth. You and your men did the regiment proud. The late major’s faith in the captain is
vindicated once again. Don’t tell the captain I said so. His head will swell and his hat won’t fit
anymore.” The two men shared a quiet laugh, while Sebastev, busy conversing with other officers
around the table, sat oblivious to them.
Kabanov nodded towards the far corner of the room where a small group of commissars
conversed around another of the room’s thermal coils.
Not one of them had removed his black cap.
The shadowy group reminded Kabanov of nothing so much as a flock of giant crows, the kind
he’d seen gather to feast on the dead in the aftermath of so many battles. He immediately felt a
twinge of guilt at the comparison. Commissar-captain Uthis Vaughn, the regimental commissar, was
a close personal friend. Despite the man’s intimidating public persona, Kabanov knew him to have a
wonderful sense of humour, a deep appreciation of art in its many forms, and a frustrating talent for
the game of regicide. He was the best player Kabanov had met in all sixty-eight years of his life. But
it wasn’t Vaughn the colonel was concerned with. “How about the new man, lieutenant?” he asked
Kuritsin. “How are you getting on with Ixxius’ replacement?”
Kuritsin shrugged and, with his voice barely more than a whisper, said, “It’s early days yet, sir.
The man seems to be a fearless fighter, at least. He literally threw himself onto the orks today.
Unfortunately, he threw himself onto the captain first. He’s lucky the orks took the brunt of the
captain’s rage. I’d say they’re not off to a very good start.”
“And you expect more trouble between them?” asked Kabanov reading the lieutenant’s
expression.
“I’d say they have very little in common, sir. The commissar seems a very proud man, a man of
fine breeding and aristocratic ancestry. I’m sure that the reputation of the Schola Excubitos on
Terrax is well earned, but that’ll carry little weight with the captain. You know what he’s like with
the proud ones, sir.”
Kabanov frowned and stroked his long white moustache. “Perhaps you could caution the
captain, lieutenant. He mustn’t underestimate Commissar Karif. Commissar-Captain Vaughn
considers his posting to Fifth Company a most perplexing turn of events. The man is an unknown
quantity.”
“How so, sir?” asked Kuritsin. “Didn’t the commissar-captain request a replacement after Ixxius
was lost?”
“He did, but, at the last possible moment, the postings were changed. Commissar-Captain
Vaughn was expecting another man entirely.” Kabanov leaned close and added, “According to
Vaughn, Karif’s record is conspicuously impressive. He’s been decorated for success in some very
high profile campaigns. Foremost among his achievements, so I’m told, is the Armoured Star for a
pivotal action on Phenosia.”
If Kabanov remembered rightly, and it was difficult to be sure after a lifetime of trying to stay
current on the Imperium’s countless wars, Phenosia had been won back at great cost from the forces
of the dreaded Traitor Legions.
27
“If that’s true, sir,” said Kuritsin, “it begs the question: why has the man been shipped out here,
of all places? And to a mere company-level commission? It seems most irregular, sir.”
“I’d hazard a guess that our new commissar recently made a powerful enemy, lieutenant.”
“I hope it’s just that, sir.”
Kabanov raised a querying eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“I wouldn’t like to think that it was anything more sinister, sir. Captain Sebastev isn’t very
popular with Twelfth Army Command.”
I know, thought Kabanov. If General Vlastan didn’t owe me his life twice over, he’d have
bounced Sebastev back down to sergeant the moment Dubrin breathed his last. The idea that some
grant from the Barony of Muskha, of all places, has been given a company command… Now it
seems the general’s patience has run out. He’s been listening to the wrong people. I can’t shield the
captain anymore. The politics in Seddisvarr are out of hand, but if they think I’ll just drop the man
like a hot ingot, they don’t know the White Boar, by Terra.
Colonel Kabanov realised with a start that he’d drifted off into his own thoughts. The lieutenant
was staring at him, waiting patiently. “Sorry, lieutenant, old men like me have these moments.”
“Not so old, sir,” replied Kuritsin with a grin and a shake of his head, “and still the best of us by
far.”
Kabanov was caught off-guard by the look of admiration in the lieutenant’s eyes. Hero worship:
he’d never gotten used to it, though he’d had to endure it since winning his first regimental combat
tournament. He’d earned his nickname during that contest.
By the Throne, he thought, that was fifty years ago.
At least his time away from the frontlines didn’t seem to have impacted on his reputation among
his men. Clearing his throat, he put a hand on the young officer’s shoulder and said, “It’s time we
got this briefing started. Call this lot to order for me, lieutenant.”
“At once, sir,” said Kuritsin. He turned to face the crowded table and called out, “To order,
Firstborn. Colonel Kabanov will begin the briefing.”
The younger man moved off to take his seat, and Colonel Kabanov stood alone, scanning the
faces of his patient officers.
No more procrastinating, Maksim, he told himself.
Sebastev was glad he was sitting down when the colonel gave them the news, because he could
hardly believe what he was hearing. The words stunned him. It was a bloody disaster. That was the
only way to put it. Twelfth Army Command’s gross mismanagement of the Danik’s World
campaign had now cost them an entire regiment of men and a vital beachhead in the north-east. The
Vostroyan Firstborn 104th Fusiliers had been decimated. Over two thousand souls had been lost
defending the city of Barahn against the concentrated might of the Venomhead clan. Warp blast and
damn the orks.
But if the news itself was grim, the implications were even worse.
Someone a few seats to Sebastev’s left banged a fist on the table. The hololithic projector studs
set into the surface jumped, and bands of static rippled across the ghostly green projection of the
Danikkin landscape that floated before them. Sebastev’s eyes were fixed on the glowing threedimensional
representation of Barahn. Even now, as the officers of the Sixty-Eighth sat in silence
with their jaws and fists clenched, hordes of filthy orks were ransacking the city, stripping it of
anything they could use to fabricate their shoddy war-machines, enslaving or murdering anyone they
found alive.
Sebastev had seen what ork slavers would do. Though the ork intellect was universally
denigrated, he’d worked enough reconnaissance in his past to know better. He’d seen greenskins
threaten to devour captive children, forcing their parents to work themselves to death. He’d watched
laughing gretchin torture innocent men and women to instil fear and obedience in the enslaved. He
28
remembered, too, the Marauder air strikes he’d guided in to deliver the Emperor’s justice. He’d
known that, given the choice, the enslaved would gladly give up their lives to ensure the destruction
of their captors.
Old memories mixed with fresh anger and made his blood surge. He fought to stay in control.
Most of the officers in that room were looking at the map, giving thanks for the range of high
