mountains, the northernmost extents of the Varanesian Peaks, which separated the fallen city from
the town of Korris by almost three hundred kilometres of difficult terrain.
So far, the Sixty-Eighth had only ever had to contend with roaming bands of ork scavengers or,
like today, war-bands that spilled over the mountains from the battle in the north-east. Even so, the
number of orks in the region and the frequency of attacks had been increasing. Despite the losses
they were surely taking, it seemed as if the ork horde was actually gaining in size, strength and
ambition. It didn’t make sense.
Since taking Barahn in the opening stages of the Twelfth Army’s eastern push, the 104th
Fusiliers had suffered the brunt of the ork attacks. Twelfth Army Command had believed the city’s
defences to be far beyond the greenskins’ siege capabilities. What fools! Sebastev would have
wagered every bottle of rahzvod in Korris that the men assembled tonight felt the same guilt that he
did twisting their guts.
“Now that the orks have pushed through our northern line,” said Colonel Kabanov, breaking the
silence, “the entire Valles Carcavia is open to them, from its easternmost mouth all the way to the
outskirts of Grazzen in the west.”
The colonel lifted a light quill and inscribed a small circle on the projector’s control tablet. A
circle of light appeared on the shimmering holomap, circling a riverside city about one hundred and
fifty kilometres west of Barahn.
“There’s no doubt,” continued the colonel, “that General Vlastan’s tactical staff will be
expecting to stop the ork advance at Grazzen. The Thirty-fifth Mechanised Regiment is stationed
there. They need only fall back to the west bank and destroy both the city’s bridges to prevent the
orks from advancing into Theqis. The river Solenne is over two kilometres wide at its narrowest
point, and runs so fast and deep that even our Chimeras can’t ford it. Without the bridges here and
here, the orks will have no way across.”
“Meaning that they’ll turn southwards and crash down on us like an apocalypse,” said a gruff
voice. Sebastev looked across the table at Major Galipolov, commander of First Company. “When
they hit the banks of the Solenne and find themselves checked, they’ll turn and follow it all the way
down to Nhalich, isolating us and cutting off our supply lines. Isn’t that right, colonel?”
What supply lines, thought Sebastev bitterly? With things the way they are out here, would we
even notice?
Colonel Kabanov nodded, his face grim. “I’d call that a certainty, major. With these changes to
the campaign map, Korris sticks out like a grot’s nose. But I’m afraid the orks are only half of the
problem. It pains me to say it, but I’ve more bad news. Listen up.”
All eyes rose from the holomap and fixed on the colonel as he said, “At daybreak this morning,
armour columns from the traitor-held towns of Dura and Nova-Kristae laid siege to the town of
Ohslir. The 212th Regiment fought back, but their defences were overcome. This is the first direct
offensive action taken by the Danikkin Independence Army in over a hundred days, and the timing
can’t be a coincidence. The possibility that they received real time intelligence from observers at
Barahn is something I find both significant and disturbing, especially since our own comms have
proven so damned unreliable.”
The colonel suddenly looked over at the attending members of the Cult Mechanicus. He bowed
by way of apology and said, “Of course, I meant no offence.”
“None taken, colonel,” said Tech-priest Gavaril. His voice crackled from a sonic resonator sunk
into the pale flesh of his chest. “We are in agreement.”
29
“The machine-spirits are discontent,” added Enginseer Politnov. Unlike Tech-priest Gavaril’s,
the enginseer’s mouth moved as he spoke, but the sound was exactly the same, toneless and
electronic. “More obeisance must be made. More obeisance!”
“Indeed,” said Colonel Kabanov. “We ask much of the Machine-God.”
“Wasn’t any support sent out from Helvarr?” asked the Eighth Company commander, Major
Tsurkov. “Surely the 117th were sent east to flank the rebel armour? Didn’t Major Imrilov send out
a call for emergency support?”
The question had occurred to Sebastev, too. Tank columns from Helvarr could have reached
Ohslir in just a few hours, but had they been sent out to help?
“No support was sent,” said Kabanov darkly. “From what I understand, storms over Theqis
prevented Twelfth Army Command communicating with our bases in the south until it was too late.
We didn’t receive news of the attack until the relay station at Nhalich was finally able to boost the
signal to our array. The 212th took heavy losses, but I’ve been told that a few companies did
manage to escape under the leadership of Major Imrilov. As far as I know, they’ve joined up with
the 117th at Helvarr.”
Old Hungry will have a fit, thought Sebastev. I wouldn’t want to be Imrilov the next time they
meet.
On the hololithic map, Kabanov again drew a small circle of light, this one marking the town of
Ohslir. “With the campaign map altered so dramatically, we are extended well beyond our lines of
support. With Ohslir under their control, it’s a fair bet the Danikkin Independence Army will strike
out for Nhalich next. So, if the orks don’t cut Korris off, the rebels will certainly try.”
Major Galipolov leaned forward on his elbows, tugging a waxed end of his grey moustache, and
said, “It’s a classic pincer, only each claw belongs to a separate beast. If the dirty xenos were
anything but orks or tyranids, I’d suspect some kind of collusion with the rebels. The timing of this
DIA push can’t be a coincidence, but, given that we’re talking about orks here, the notion is
preposterous.”
“Speculation won’t get us very far,” said Captain Grukov of Third Company. “We need action.”
Refusing to meet Major Galipolov’s furious stare, he addressed Colonel Kabanov directly. “What’s
to be done, sir?”
“The decision has been made for us, gentlemen,” said Kabanov. “The Twelfth Army’s tactical
council have assessed the situation. I received new orders this afternoon.”
Colonel Kabanov’s expression told Sebastev he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear.
The old man’s face betrayed his disgust, as if he’d bitten into a piece of fruit only to find it riddled
with Catachan pusworms.
To Sebastev’s mind, the smart answer was to move companies from the 117th across from
Helvarr to engage the rebels at Ohslir. Then flank the enemy on its north side using companies from
the 701st at Nhalich. While the orks were engaged with the Thirty-Fifth at Grazzen, the Sixty-
Eighth could move up to flank them from the south. If they were lucky, there might be a chance to
take the orks out permanently.
Of course, it would mean abandoning Korris, but, in Sebastev’s opinion, Korris’ only strategic
value was as a launching point for Vostroyan assaults on the rebel-held hive-cities in the south-east.
Such an action didn’t look likely. The discovery of the Venomhead presence on Danik’s World had
brought a swift halt to the Twelfth Army’s original plans.
The colonel cleared his throat and said, The Sixty-Eighth Infantry Regiment has been ordered to
pull back to Nhalich. When we arrive, we’re to join up with the 701st and assist them in readying
their defences against a possible siege from the south. Our redeployment is scheduled to begin at
first light, two days from now, preparations to start immediately.”
Redeployment, not retreat: retreat was practically a curse word to many of the Vostroyan
Firstborn. Sebastev had never liked it much, but he didn’t try to deceive himself now. It was a
retreat. The Twelfth Army had suffered a devastating double blow. They had to consolidate their
30
forces, and that meant pulling back, at least for now. It wasn’t how Sebastev would have fought the
war, but at least it made some kind of sense. That was more than he’d expected from Old Hungry
and his advisors.
Major Galipolov, on the other hand, was typically direct in voicing his displeasure. “So we’re to
just up and leave?” he asked. “After two years of hard-fought occupation? Does General Vlastan
know how many of my men died holding this place? This doesn’t sit well with me, colonel. It
doesn’t sit well at all.”
“Noted, major,” replied Colonel Kabanov.
Captain Grukov added his voice, saying, “I can’t stomach the idea of just letting the damned
greenskins roll right in here. The least we can do is leave a few surprises for them, wouldn’t you
say? What’s to stop them following us to Nhalich and attacking at the same time as the Danikkin
rebels?”
Colonel Kabanov frowned. “Now that Barahn has fallen, General Vlastan is betting that the orks
will stop crossing the Varanesian Peaks to attack Korris. As a buffer of sorts for our forces at
Nhalich, Twelfth Army command has decided that a single company will remain behind in Korris to
continue our occupation of the town.” The colonel paused. “Captain Sebastev’s Fifth Company has
been selected for this honour.”
“By the Throne!” exclaimed Grukov. “With respect, sir, you can’t be serious. A single
company?”
“Honour indeed,” said Major Galipolov, banging the table. “It’s a bloody death sentence!”
Others spoke up, eager to voice their protests. Only the members of the Commissariat and the
Cult Mechanicus remained silent, masking their reactions well, if they had any at all.
Sebastev was unsure what to think or feel. A single company, even his outstanding Fifth
Company, might hold off a minor assault if they could stomach the heavy losses, but an ork charge
like today’s…
So, thought Sebastev, the blue bloods have finally made their move. I knew it would come
sooner or later.
Not for the first time, Sebastev wished he’d never made his promise to Dubrin, but his friend
had been dying. How could he have done any less than swear, on the Treatis Elatii no less, that he
would lead Dubrin’s company to glory and honour? That he would get them through this wasteful
mess of a campaign? And, because some men cared about things like lineage and Vostroyan military
politics, and Throne knew what else, Sebastev’s whole company had been ordered to hold the line or
die.
The other officers were talking over each other. There was such a cacophony that no single
voice could be made out.
Colonel Kabanov rose to his feet, toppling his chair to the cold, wooden floor. His fists struck
the tabletop so hard they cracked it. “Silence, all of you!” he bellowed. “I’m not finished, Throne
damn it!”
The protests stopped dead. Sebastev, Galipolov and the rest of the assembled officers gaped at
their leader. His eyes blazed from under his thick, white eyebrows, and he seemed to crackle with
power. This was Maksim Kabanov, the formidable White Boar and the most decorated man in the
Firstborn Sixty-Eighth, former combat champion in the regimental games, and master exponent of
the ossbohk-vyar. One ignored or disrespected him at great risk.
Colonel Kabanov stared each man in the face, daring him to open his mouth.
Silence gripped the war room, broken only by the buzzing of the overhead strip lights and the
soft humming of the field-cogitator banks by the rear wall.
“Fifth Company will not be holding Korris alone,” said the colonel through gritted teeth. His
eyes settled on Sebastev. “Commissar-Captain Vaughn and Major Galipolov will be taking joint
command of our main force during the redeployment.
31
“I, Colonel Maksim Kabanov, will be staying to lead Fifth Company.”
32
CHAPTER FOUR
Day 686
Korris — 10:39hrs, -17°C
The town of Korris, half-ruined and abandoned but for the presence of Fifth Company, basked in
a wash of rare sunshine. Overhead, the yellow globe of Gamma Kholdas crossed the blue sky in a
lazy arc, turning the snowfields that surrounded the town into an endless blinding carpet of white
light. Sebastev’s men patrolled the town’s perimeter in pairs, wearing dark goggles to prevent snowblindness,
their booted feet cutting deep channels in the glittering landscape.
Many of the old buildings were little more than angular piles of black rubble, having collapsed
under heavy burdens of snow during the last two millennia of the Danikkin deep winter. Metal
beams jutted at all angles from the ruins, turned red with rust, flaking away or crumbling to powder
in the frequent gales. The corners of those buildings that remained intact were rounded and smooth,
as if sandblasted. Particles of ice driven by gusting winds had scoured away all but the most subtle
signs of the decorative carvings that had once graced many of the structures.
Here and there, the rough outline of an Imperial eagle could still be seen over some of the
doorways. The Danikkin had pulled out of Korris at the start of the deep winter, long before the
current rebellion had erupted across the planet. No rebel had defaced the Imperial icons, only time.
Today, the air was still, and visibility was better than it had been for weeks. Fifth Company had
moved back from the trenchworks to occupy the town. There were simply too few of them to hold
the trenches against any kind of attack. Colonel Kabanov had posted scouts out there to watch the
foothills of the Varanesian Peaks for any sign of an ork advance, but so far, Old Hungry’s
supposition that the orks would stop crossing the mountains seemed to be holding true.
Sebastev was far more comfortable with the prospect of fighting in an urban area. The
Vostroyan Firstborn were quite probably the finest city fighters in the Imperial Guard. They were
bred for it: trained in close quarters combat from a young age, and taught to fight from cover in the
rains of the old factorum complexes that dotted so much of their home world. Korris suited Sebastev
and his men fine. It almost didn’t matter than Old Hungry had ordered them to remain out here.
For the last two years, Colonel Kabanov’s home had been the abandoned councillor’s mansion
that stood just north of the town’s central market square. The building had served as regimental
headquarters since the arrival of the Sixty-Eighth. It was a natural choice, its superior construction
having allowed it to weather the very worst of the winter storms with only minor erosion. The
regimental engineers had easily restored the mansion’s interior to a habitable condition, but despite
