A WARHAMMER 40,000 STORY

THE CITADEL

Imperial Guard - 03.1

Steve Parker

(An Undead Scan v1.5)

1

General Vlastan’s chair beeped in alarm, unfurled a tiny articulated servo, plunged a

needle into his neck and, with a sharp hiss, injected another grey-brown dose of

nutrimilk.

Vlastan girded himself against the dizzying rush of the powerful medication. His

pulse raced. Sweat beaded on his brow. His hands shook, and blood-flecked spittle

gathered at the corners of his mouth. Soon enough, though, his body had stabilised

again. He was well used to the effects of the cocktail after so many years.

The frequency of the injections, however, had been increasing. He knew his

condition was worsening, and the thought exacerbated his current mood.

He sat alone in his office, gazing sullenly at the formless white void outside his

window. The snow-choked streets of Seddisvarr, site of Twelfth Army’s Command

HQ, were shrouded in freezing white mist. His room, on the other hand, was warm,

ably heated by twin thermacoils. No wind rattled the thick glass. The only sounds

now were the wet wheezing of his lungs and the whirring gyro-stabilisers of his

multi-legged, mechanical chair. Both sounds had long ago ceased to intrude on his

thoughts.

Despite the insulated silence of the room, he knew the streets below would be

busy with troops. Seddisvarr had been abuzz since the recent fall of Grazzen. If he

really strained his hearing, he might make out the faint rumble of Vostroyan tanks

and armoured transports rolling along the city’s broader avenues. With his precious

Danik’s World campaign largely going to hell since the orks had overrun Barahn,

there was a particular comfort in the presence of so much heavy armour nearby. The

Vostroyan tanks were powerful, reliable and enduring.

It was, he realised, exactly how he would have described Maksim, and the

realisation gave his solitude an unwelcome and bitter edge.

“Damn it all,” he swore softly to the empty room, “isn’t it time yet?”

Soon, there would be a knock at the door and his adjutant would enter to help him

dress his ruined body for the afternoon service.

He wished the whole matter were over already. His grief confused and disgusted

him. He’d long thought himself beyond such things. Indulging one’s emotions was

the province of far lesser men.

Still, he told himself, I should have expected to feel something. Today, after all, I

commemorate the death of the last man I ever called friend.

51 years earlier,

Mount Megidde (South-east Face, 504m),

The Sambar Basin, Valis II

2

“Get some suppressing fire on that stubber-nest,” growled Sergeant Sergiev.

“Mirkov, Brebnik, flank left and grenade those bastards, or we’ll be stuck here all

day!”

In the sky above the mountain, seeming almost close enough to touch, thick black

clouds roiled and boomed. Torrents of water raced down every crack and crevice as

if fleeing in terror from the dark, hulking shape of the enemy fortress at the top.

Sergiev thanked the Omnissiah, tech-aspect of the God-Emperor of Man, for the

warmth and protection of his hat and greatcoat.

Both utilised special fibres developed to counter the lethal chill of his home

world.

Corporal Brebnik leaned from the cover of a broad rock and threw a smoke

grenade. When the billowing cloud was large enough to conceal them, he and Mirkov

moved out, working their way left while the enemy fired blind.

Sergiev growled and hunkered down a little further as the raking fire of the

heavy-stubber chewed rock chips from the boulder that shielded him.

“By the Emperor’s holy balls!” he hissed.

Despite repeated requests over the vox-net, Regimental HQ would not allow him

to lead the shattered assault force back down to level ground. “Push on,” they had

commanded. “The citadel must fall at any cost!”

But what could they possibly hope to achieve now? The taking of Mount

Megidde had effectively ground to a halt. The mountain’s south-eastern ascent was

littered with the cooling bodies of Vostroyan dead, and Sergiev, a mere sergeant, had

found himself the ranking man by default.

He had lost his commanding officer, Lieutenant Lymarov, three hours earlier to a

mutant flamer-team. Pairs of these sadistic freaks descended from the citadel to scour

the slopes and ridges for luckless victims.

A nightmare image returned to him of the lieutenant screaming and flailing as

bright flames devoured him. Desperate to escape his agony, Lymarov had thrown

himself from the closest precipice, plummeting like a meteor to the sharp rocks

below.

At the time, Sergiev had felt a guilty, nauseating relief. He’d been about to shoot

the lieutenant himself, as much to end the man’s terrible screams as to put him out of

his misery. Lymarov’s leap had relieved him of that burden.

The lieutenant had been a good man. It was no way for him to die, and the

memory twisted Sergiev’s stomach and filled him with righteous anger. Perhaps

falling back would be a mistake. Any ground lost now would cost more lives later.

And there was vengeance yet to be had. The bastard muties had to be punished, not

just for the lieutenant’s death, but for all of it: all their corruption and treachery, the

wanton torture and human sacrifice they practiced, the atrocities he’d seen in the

cities to the south, everything that had forced Sector Command to deploy Imperial

troops here en masse.

After overthrowing the planetary government, the Valisian mutants had launched

a pogrom against their pureblooded kin. Millions were slaughtered in the name of the

Ruinous Powers. They had cast their lot in with the vile enemies of the Golden

Throne, and marked themselves for destruction—a filthy stain on the glorious

Imperium of Man.

3

Duty and honour, Sergiev! he told himself. We’ll move up, secure more ground,

fix more ropes, and lay a path for those that follow. If we die, we die. The next

assault will get that much closer to the summit. Sooner or later, whether it takes a

thousand of us or a hundred thousand, we’ll smash that damned citadel and burn

those twisted freaks out.

“Check your ammo counters, lads,” he voxed to the men behind him. They were

all that remained on the south-eastern slope—nineteen men cobbled together from

the remains of four whole platoons. He wondered how many still fought on the

mountain’s west face. Regimental HQ had stonewalled him when he’d asked for an

update. “Get ready to move forward as soon as that stubber-nest is down. Cover-to-

cover. Confirm your targets. We’ll make the best of this mess, by Terra!”

“What about the wounded, sir?” voxed one of the troopers. Sergiev realised he

had been tuning out the groans of pain all around him.

“They rest,” he replied. “RHQ will send medics up once we’ve secured the next

ridge.”

It was a poor lie, but a necessary one. Most of the wounded were beyond help.

They’d bled out past the point of saving. It just didn’t help anyone to say so.

He slammed a fresh powercell into his lasgun, primed it, watched the counter

illuminate and, with a prayer on his lips for the Grey Lady’s favour, readied himself

to lead his patchwork squad further up the mountain.

They’d have to move fast, despite the steep gradient, the endless downpour, the

hunger and exhaustion. There were snipers and stubber-nests dotted all the way up

the slopes, dominating the cliff-tops and ridges, firing down from the overhangs.

There was little choice but to face them. The muties had laid dense minefields on the

easier alternative ascents.

There was a bright flash up ahead followed by a muffled boom. “Stubber’s out!”

someone voxed. It sounded like Mirkov.

“Good work, trooper!” Sergiev answered. “We move up till we hit the next one.”

He stepped out from behind his rock, raised his lasgun over his head and shouted,

“Follow me, lads. We’ll teach the khekking freaks a thing or two!”

“Belay that!” barked a crisp voice from the rear. “Stay exactly where you are.

You will not break cover until I order it. Not until my order.”

Sergiev, his body responding by reflex to the tone of command, stepped back into

cover before he knew what he was doing. Confusion, however, quickly gave way to a

great wash of relief. There was no mistaking the sharp consonants in the voice of a

Vostroyan aristocrat.

An officer? That meant… reinforcements!

He saw them now, a full platoon, clambering up the narrow trail to the rear

behind a broad-shouldered young man in officer’s dress. Forty men! Forty of them in

their tall hats, long red greatcoats and bulky carapace armour.

But Sergiev’s joy was short lived. As the officer made a beeline towards him, the

sergeant’s heart sank.

They’ve sent a boy, he thought. A bloody shiny. He must be seventeen if he’s a

day!

Sergiev was thirty-two.

4

The officer drew nearer, marching now in smart, measured steps. Despite the

boy’s solid-looking physique, his features were soft, unscarred and unweathered, and

his upper lip was hardly dressed at all, save with the very scantest sign of manhood.

Still, moustached or otherwise, the boy wore lieutenant’s stripes, and Sergiev

knew his place. On Vostroya—a world of dangerously proud men—the high-born

were the proudest of all, and it was a foolish trooper who dared openly disrespect

them. So, when the boy halted two yards in front of him, Sergiev stood ramrod

straight, puffed out his chest and whipped his hand to his brow in salute. He received

a short, sharp salute in return.

“Name and rank, soldier,” said the boy.

“Kitko Sergiev, sir. Sergeant, 112th Magdan Lasgunners, Eighth Company,

Second Platoon.”

The boy nodded. “Good to know you, sergeant. Are you in charge here?”

Was that a test? Sergiev wondered. “Not anymore, sir.”

The boy smiled then dropped unceremoniously into a crouch behind the cover of

Sergiev’s rock. Looking up with a cocked eyebrow, he gestured for Sergiev to do

likewise, and the sergeant dropped down beside him.

“My name,” said the boy, “is Second Lieutenant Maksim Kabanov, commanding

the 116th Sohlsvodd Infantry, Tenth Company, Sixth Platoon.” He glanced in the

direction of his men as he spoke. They had taken up positions of cover alongside

Sergiev’s lot and were dispensing hot ohx from their flasks. Their medic was already

about the business of treating Sergiev’s wounded.

“My honour and pleasure, sir,” said Sergiev.

Lieutenant Kabanov turned his eyes back to the sergeant. “To answer your

unspoken question, I’ll be eighteen by next Emperor’s Day. Yes, my men and I are as

green as grass, and every last one of us is a good decade younger than you, I imagine,

sergeant. But we’ve come to do the Emperor’s work nevertheless. My troopers are

well trained and will quickly prove themselves.”

“They’re Firstborn, sir,” replied Sergiev. It was the only proper answer he could

give.

Kabanov grinned. “Yes, they are. Just like you. So, if you’ll fight alongside us, if

you’ll take my orders and give me the benefit of your experience, I’m sure we can

make General Krupkov a happy man.”

Sergiev stared hard into the lieutenant’s fierce blue eyes. Young nobles fresh

from the military academies were notoriously eager for swift advancement, and

usually paid for the privilege with other men’s lives. Why should this boy, this

Kabanov, be any different? Was it Vostroyan zeal that lit his face, or a raging thirst

for personal glory? The two were difficult to tell apart.

“You harbour doubts, sergeant,” said Lieutenant Kabanov, “and so you should.

I’ll prove myself through action, in any case. But I’m not here to win you over. I’m

here to cripple that citadel’s aerial defences. If you think you might be up for that,

let’s push on!”

Despite reservations, Sergiev found himself grinning. The young man’s audacity

was certainly infectious. If he lived long enough to back it up…

5

Kabanov stood and raised his voice. “Listen up, Firstborn. The freaks think

they’ve got Third Army beat. Right now, they’re pissing on a picture of the Emperor

and calling Vostroyan mothers pigs: I’m not having it. What about you?”

“Sir! No, sir!” the men yelled back at him, angered by the images his words

evoked.

“Good. That’s what I thought you’d say. So let’s get our backsides up this bloody

mountain and kill some mutants!”

While the troops roared approval, Sergiev leaned across and said, “The wounded,

sir?”

Kabanov half-turned towards him. “My medic will do what he can, then follow

us up. I’ll have my vox-man call in an evacuation request. It’s the best I can do for

them right now.”

Sergiev nodded and dared to hope that this unbloodied pup might not get them all

killed.

Third Army Headquarters, Cadenna,

Sambar Basin, Valis II

Vlastan and Kabanov sat stiff and unspeaking in the austere outer room while a

torrent of screamed abuse emanated from inside the captain’s office. The captain’s

adjutant, sitting silently at his desk, feigned preoccupation with loose papers, but it

was clear to Kabanov that he was listening intently. His expression was miserable.

Someone isn’t popular, thought Kabanov, but is it the captain or his visitor? It

doesn’t bode well for Vogor and I in either case.

Abruptly, the shouting stopped and the heavy wooden doors to the captain’s room

crashed open, ejecting a tall, thin man in a long red greatcoat.

Ignoring the adjutant, he stormed towards the exit, boots clacking sharply on the

marble floor.

Vlastan, seated on Kabanov’s left, whispered urgently, “By Terra, Maksim!

That’s General Krupkov.”

The general’s hearing must have been exceptional because, at the barest whisper

of his name, he halted and spun to face the two young lieutenants. His hard, angular

face was still flushed from shouting.

As one, Vlastan and Kabanov bolted to their feet and threw up razor-sharp

salutes.

Kabanov felt his gut lurch. He was sure that, with two new targets in his sights,

the furious general would resume his tirade, for no other reason, perhaps, than he was

madly angry and not at all ready to calm down.

But, as General Krupkov eyed them, taking in their crisp, clean uniforms and the

look of fearful admiration in their eyes, his rage seemed to dissipate. When he spoke,

his voice was level. “You’re new,” he said. “I suppose you came in with the last lot.”

Kabanov, as was his habit, let Vlastan answer for both of them. His charismatic

friend was older by almost a year, taller by a good fifteen centimetres, and typically

eager to do the talking for both—something that Kabanov had been thankful for

many times during their friendship.

6

“We landed two days ago, sir,” said Vlastan, “and arrived at the front just this

morning. Second Lieutenants Vogor Vlastan and Maksim Kabanov, at your service.

And the Emperor’s, of course, sir.”

The general pursed his lips, lifted a hand to stroke his splendid grey moustache

and said, “Vlastan and Kabanov. So, those worthy names are among us once again.”

With a sidelong glance towards Captain Tyrkin’s office, he added, “New blood is just

what’s needed around here. The north-eastern front is the most critical theatre of

operations in this war today. Absolutely critical, mark you! There’s plenty of

opportunity here for fine young officers to earn a reputation.”

“Yes, sir!” said the young lieutenants in unison.

Eschewing further comment, General Krupkov, high commander of the

Vostroyan Third Army and the much-lauded Hero of Hell’s Ridge, spun on his boot-

heel and marched off, leaving Vlastan and Kabanov standing stiffly to attention in a

room suddenly silent.

Silent, that is, until a weary and impatient voice shouted, “Georgiev! Where in

blazes are those two wet-arses I’m supposed to brief?”

* * *

Roughly ten minutes later, Vlastan and Kabanov stood together with Captain Tyrkin

and his adjutant, Georgiev, on soft, muddy ground, facing north-east in the pouring

rain. The air was thick with dampness and the smell of wet earth. The line of the

horizon lit intermittently with the flicker of distant explosions.

Tyrkin, shielded from the rain by his adjutant’s umbrella, pointed to a vast,

shadowy shape and said, “There she is, gentlemen. Mount Megidde, all nine hundred

and seventy-three metres of her. And on her summit sits the notorious enemy

stronghold—Megiddzar.”

Vlastan and Kabanov squinted against the rain. The mountain sat black and

forbidding against a low, thundery sky but, as Kabanov looked, he realised that the

storm accounted for only a small percentage of the flashing and booming near the

mountain’s peak. “Heavy artillery, sir?” he asked.

The captain nodded. “From that altitude, their long guns can punish our forces on

the valley floor with absolute impunity. Until three days ago, when the Emperor

Himself blessed us with these rains, nothing we put across the River Aimes was safe.

Even now, we can get infantry across in trickles, but any attempt to move armour

onto the far bank brings down a punishing barrage. Our own artillery can’t even get

close.”

“Air support, sir?” asked Vlastan. “A bombing run, or paratroopers?”

Under the umbrella, Tyrkin turned to face the tall, darkly handsome youth.

“Neither is feasible, lieutenant, until we do something about their damned anti-air

batteries. Anything we fly in gets torn apart at range. Say what you will about these

warp-blasted mutants, but they’ve got the Sambar Basin held vice-tight. If we don’t

break through the Murgoth Line within the next five days, the offensive at

Therabourg will have to be cancelled. Who knows how much longer the war will last

if that happens?” His face creased in a deep scowl. “General Krupkov needs someone

7

inside that citadel to knock out their damned anti-air batteries, and he needs it done

yesterday.”

Vlastan’s mind, Kabanov knew, would already be weighing the honours he might

win. He made no secret of his vast ambition. Military greatness, he’d often boasted,

ran in his bloodline. Vostroyan military records seemed to bear that out.

Kabanov’s father, on the other hand, had never advanced beyond the rank of

major, but was somewhat famous in his own right. His mastery of the ossbohk-

vyar—the brutal Vostroyan close-quarters combat art—had earned him regimental

honours year after year, and Kabanov was keen to follow in his footsteps, though he

was far less inclined to talk about it.

Glory or not, he didn’t like the look of Mount Megidde. Its slopes seemed filled

with threat, steep and jagged like the serrations on a cruel blade. It stood alone, tall

and grim, utterly dominating the broad, open farmland that surrounded it. The

troopers, he’d heard, had nicknamed it Black Tooth because it chewed up every man

who tried to ascend it.

This whole region had been one of the most productive agri-zones on the planet.

Now, between the constant shelling and the torrential rain, it was a blood-soaked

quagmire, and all too many of the bodies that covered it were Vostroya’s sons.

Vlastan seemed oblivious to that. “If the general wants this mountain, sir,” he

said, “rest assured that we’re the men to take it. Both Lieutenant Kabanov and I

intend to make our mark early on.”

Tyrkin’s smile was more polite than genuine, for he knew how many lives Mount

Megidde had reaped since Third Army’s advance had faltered here, but he said,

“That’s the spirit, lieutenant. Your fathers would be proud, you know. I had the

honour of serving alongside both of them before they passed over to the Emperor’s

side.”

“You did, sir?” prompted Vlastan eagerly.

“Indeed, and they were great men, both. Your father, Vlastan, was a real force

among the officer class—a strong traditionalist and much missed.” To Kabanov, he

added, “And your father inspired us all with his prowess in the regimental

tournaments. If you’ve any of his martial skill, I shall enjoy seeing you compete.”

Kabanov bowed gratefully at the compliment. Vlastan, he noticed, had turned to

face the mountain again. Tyrkin, though, wasn’t quite finished.

“Since neither man lived to see you take your first battlefield commissions, I feel

some responsibility in passing on the wisdom they would surely have imparted

themselves. The vast majority of new officers, you see, are apt to make the same

mistakes. They may feel ready to face foul greenskins, insidious eldar or unspeakable

mutant scum, but few are prepared for an enemy that strikes at the heart. Few are

ready to wrestle their own conscience.”

Vlastan and Kabanov listened while the rain drummed steadily on their hats and

shoulders. One at a time, the captain fixed them with his gaze. “This may sound

distasteful to you, given any youthful idealism you may cling to, but you must remain

objective in putting the proper value on the lives of your men. We officers are noble-

born and must bear the requisite burden of our class. We live to command, elevated

to it by birthright. The troopers, however, were born to die serving the Divine Will.

8

Understand that from the beginning. Your fathers would have impressed this upon

you most strongly.”

From the corner of his eye, Kabanov saw Vlastan nodding in wholehearted

agreement, but his own reaction was markedly different.

His father’s letters and journals betrayed Tyrkin’s lie. Major Urien Kabanov had

been a humanist and squandered no man’s life, guided firmly by the core precepts of

the ossbohk-vyar. Back on Vostroya, Kabanov’s mother had fondly corroborated this.

Tyrkin, Kabanov realised, was watching him closely, waiting for some cue that

said the lesson had been absorbed, so he nodded grimly despite his inward thoughts.

It was enough to satisfy the older man. He mumbled to his adjutant and, together,

they turned back towards the shelter of their Chimera armoured transport. Over his

shoulder, he called out, “Come, gentlemen. I’ll drop you at the barracks. It’s time you

briefed your men on the specifics of the assault.”

Mount Megidde (West Face, 696m)

“Keep pushing, you worthless dogs,” roared Vlastan. “By the blasted warp, what’s

gotten into you. This is the Emperor’s work, for Throne’s sake!”

His sergeants immediately took their cue and began shouting the men onwards,

pressing them up the mountain metre-by-metre, though stubber-fire stitched the

rocky ground all around them.

He’d lost four men already taking this ridge—the first men to crest it. Taking the

brunt of the enemy’s defensive fire, they’d jinked and shuddered for a moment in the

withering barrage, then tumbled backwards, falling past him and out over the cliff

towards the jagged lower slopes.

An infuriating loss.

Screams of agony sounded from left and right now as the enemy’s bullets found

other unfortunates. Mud-splashed suits of carapace armour protected vital organs, but

some of the whining slugs bit deep into unprotected arms and thighs, ripping open

the arteries there.

The wounded went down howling, blood pumping out over the cold ground.

Their plaintive cries for aid further angered Vlastan. That they were all boys of his

own age mattered not a bit.

Selfish fools, he cursed. We’re in the middle of a firefight! Should I ask the

blasted mutants to take a caffeine break while we patch you up?

He and his Fourth Platoon had been charged with storming the mountain’s

western face—one of the hardest ascents and, for that very reason, the least mined

and defended. He wondered bitterly if Kabanov’s ascent was any easier. RHQ

believed the mountain’s natural defences had made the mutants complacent on the

western and south-eastern sides.

As more enemy fire peppered the rocks around the ascending Vostroyans, it

certainly didn’t seem so to Vlastan. Every metre he won was bought with blood.

Once at the base of the citadel walls, Vlastan was to throw his force against the

defenders, drawing their reserves to the western battlements so that Kabanov and his

platoon could penetrate the south-eastern defences with minimal resistance.

He was far from satisfied with the plan.

9

It’s a load of rot, he cursed. A man of House Vlastan charged with leading a

diversionary force? Nothing less than a damned insult!

A pale, stooped figure with overlong arms and huge, bulbous eyes lunged from

cover up ahead and levelled a stubber at the advancing line. Before the mutant could

pull the trigger, however, Vlastan’s laspistol found him. There was a sharp crack and

the acrid smell of ozone. The mutant’s body toppled forward, trailing steam from the

large, cauterised hole that had appeared in his face.

“Nice shot, sir!” voxed Vlastan’s comms officer, Corporal Korgin.

Seeing the kill, other mutants vented their rage from higher ground, leaning out

from shielding rock to send deadly volleys down the mountainside.

“Blast them, Firstborn!” yelled Vlastan into his vox-bead’s microphone. “Squads

Borgoff and Gurelov, flank left. Sergeant Niriev, I want suppressing fire front-right!

Move up, move up, damn you! Any man who falls behind will be shot!”

Swept up in the noise and madness of the fight, the men didn’t hesitate to follow

Vlastan’s every word. More fell screaming to the concentrated fire of the enemy, but

the Vostroyan advance was inexorable. The mutants on the slopes were a rabble,

relying on sheer numbers to see them through. They lacked the lifelong training of

the disciplined Firstborn. With confidence overfed by earlier success, they were

unprepared for such a continuous, determined assault on ground they had presumed

secure.

Pausing momentarily behind good, solid cover, Vlastan slid a new cell into the

grip of his pistol and looked up the slope towards the summit.

There, up beyond the next ridge, he saw the colossal black walls of Megiddzar.

They seemed so mighty he could almost believe they were propping up the storm-

heavy sky. Misshapen figures moved to and fro on the parapets and, from the right,

he heard the rippling boom of the enemy’s heavy artillery, unmistakably near. The

mountain trembled under his feet.

I’m sorry, Maksim, he thought. I know you’re counting on me for your diversion,

but I can’t pass up this chance to make my mark. You’ll have other chances, my

friend, but this day is mine.

Troopers surged past him, yelling and roaring as they ran. One was struck hard in

the face by a stubber-round and knocked from his feet. He died instantly, lasgun

clattering to the ground.

Vlastan felt a sudden, wet warmth and looked down lo see his clothing and

armour splashed with fresh gore. He felt a moment’s panic before he realised it was

blood from the young trooper, not his own.

His relief soon turned to anger. “Slaughter those mutant freaks!” he bellowed,

careful to stay in cover for the moment. “Show them no mercy, Firstborn! Charge!”

Mount Megidde (South-east Face, 802m)

Kabanov’s men were having no easier time of it on the south-eastern ascent. The

steep cliffs, sharp rocks and tangled lines of razor wire were bad enough, but every

time the young lieutenant sent men forward to cut a way through, there were screams

of agony as yet another died or was horribly wounded.

10

We’ve come too far, thought Kabanov, to be waylaid by their blasted snipers and

stubber-nests. The citadel must be less than a hundred metres further up.

But a creeping nausea was slowly taking hold of him. Each loss twisted his guts

tighter and tighter. He felt each death, each howl of agony, keenly. These men were

following his lead, depending on him. The orders they obeyed were his.

And they were hardly men at all, he reminded himself. Most of the dead were

from his own platoon—teenagers just as he was.

Father, he thought, did you suffer such doubts? How can I prevent their slaughter

and still do my duty? It seems… impossible.

Had Tyrkin been right after all? Was he being an idealistic fool? Had he read too

much into his father’s writings?

If he thought his subconscious mind might answer the question for him, he was

disappointed.

The only answer was the rattle of gunfire from further up the mountain, followed

by the earth-shattering boom of the citadel’s long guns.

Behind him, about two kilometres to the south, on the flatlands of the Sambar

Basin, great fountains of earth and flame burst majestically into the air. The enemy

was shelling the town of Sambariand.

At least here, thought Kabanov, momentarily glad to be on the mountainside, we

can strike back at our foes. The Guardsmen dying down there have no such chance.

The thought lent him further purpose. Megiddzar simply had to fall today.

A stubber-round ricocheted close to his head and he pushed himself flat against

the cold, wet surface. “Holy Throne!” he spat.

Sergeant Sergiev rose from cover, returned fire, then hunkered back down.

“Mind yourself there, sir. Those bastards will be keen to bag any man with

stripes.”

Through the vox-bead in his ear, Kabanov heard his comms officer hailing him

on the platoon’s command channel. “Message from RHQ, sir.”

“Let’s have it, Pitkin.”

“One word, sir: Orpheon.”

“Orpheon,” Kabanov repeated. “Excellent, corporal. Keep me updated.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Orpheon?” asked Sergiev. “As in the Flaming Saint?”

“It’s the go-word, sergeant. Our comrades on the western face have initiated their

diversion. We’ll give the Valisians some time to be drawn away. And then the real

work starts.”

Mount Megidde (West Face, 962m)

Vlastan looked to left and right, making sure his men hadn’t revealed themselves.

They kept down, tight behind jutting spurs of rock on the final ridge. The citadel’s

defenders certainly knew that attackers had come, but Vlastan had been careful not to

show his full numbers as he’d neared the citadel’s curtain wall. Moments ago, he’d

sent false confirmation of his attack to RHQ. His vox-man, Korgin, had protested. “I

thought you said, sir, that we were to create a diversion?”

11

“No plan remains intact on the battlefield, Korgin. Don’t you even know that

much? Diversionary forces have a nasty habit of getting obliterated. Is that what you

want, soldier?”

Korgin gulped and the blood drained from his face. “But Sixth Platoon, sir…

Lieutenant Kabanov and his men—”

“Have no better chances of taking out those anti-air batteries than we do. No,

simultaneous attacks on two sides will double the likelihood of operational success.”

Korgin didn’t look satisfied, but he caught the dangerous look in Vlastan’s eyes

and said, “Understood, sir.”

“Excellent,” said Vlastan. “Trust me, Korgin. There will be decorations for this.

Now, get my sergeants over here. It’s time they received new orders.”

Mount Megidde (South-east Face, 951m)

“Khekking hell!” growled Sergiev as he threw himself prone and rolled into the lee

of the nearest boulder. Stubber-fire blazed out in torrents from atop the rain-slicked

citadel wall. He called over to Kabanov. “Are you sure about that transmission, sir?

This doesn’t seem like much of a reduced defence to me.”

The citadel towered over them, ancient, dark and utterly menacing. A utilitarian

structure, its only artistry was in its solid construction. It was not a fortress built to

inflate some warlord’s ego. It had been built for a single purpose only—to resist

assault. But its architects had lived in the days when even basic las-technology had

seemed lost forever. No matter how thick its rough-hewn walls of black stone were,

they could not resist the modern Imperial Guard for long.

Still, Kabanov’s expression was grim. The wall was one matter, the godless

mutants were quite another.

He was sure he’d held his men back long enough for the enemy’s defensive focus

to shift west. Had Third Army intel got it wrong? Was the enemy garrison far larger

than expected?

Either way, he thought, we’re committed now. We breach that wall and take out

their anti-air, no matter what.

“Squads Tolgin and Zunelov,” he voxed, “move into position. Mortar teams,

deploy behind those outcrops on the left and right. When I give the word, I want

coordinated fire section-by-section. Herd the defenders towards the centre. They’ll

get a nasty surprise when the whole damned thing collapses under them. Lasgunners,

help keep the bastards occupied while the sappers work.”

A series of short acknowledgments broke the static.

“Sapper-team, move under cover of smoke only. I don’t want you taking

unnecessary risks. Is that clear? If we lose you now, we might as well pack-up and go

home.”

“And everyone would hate that, sir,” quipped Sergeant Ivanenko.

On hearing his voice, Kabanov could picture the man’s wry grin. The nineteen

year old Ivanenko was a gambler, a notorious risk-taker. That made him a natural

choice for a sapper-team leader, but it also made him unpredictable.

“I mean it, Ivanenko,” voxed Kabanov. “Your sappers are no good to me dead.

Just open me a nice big hole in that wall.”

12

“We’ll get it done, sir. You’ll see.”

Squads Tolgin and Zunelov were in position now and raking the battlements with

las-fire. Kabanov saw the bodies of careless defenders fall from the heights like

stricken birds. There was a sickening crunch every time one of them struck the rocks.

“Mortars ready,” crackled the vox.

“Sappers in position, awaiting your go, lieutenant,” voxed Ivanenko.

“Mortars are cleared to fire,” said Kabanov. “I repeat, mortars are cleared to fire.”

There was a familiar, almost musical whoomping sound from left and right as the

mortar tubes spat explosive loads up onto the parapets.

Kabanov watched with satisfaction as the old stone defences exploded outwards

in a rain of shattered blocks and dust. Pale bodies were thrown outwards too,

smashing open on the mountainside like sacks of raw meat.

“Let’s have that smoke, sergeants,” voxed Kabanov. Squads Tolgin and Zunelov

immediately began lobbing their smoke grenades into the mossy depression between

their cover positions.

“Sappers, move up!”

“Yes, sir!” answered Ivanenko.

Kabanov watched the sergeant and his men race forward from their cover into the

protective shroud. They wouldn’t have much time to wire the charges. He ordered his

lasgunners to standby with another round of smoke grenades.

The mortars were traversing their fire inwards, bunching the surviving defenders

into an increasingly small space atop the wall and keeping them too busy to pour

significant fire on the smoke-shrouded sappers below.

Soon enough, however, they noticed the smoke below. Worse still, the rain and

wind was stripping it away faster than Kabanov had expected. One of the mutants

shouted something and others leaned over the top of the wall to fire straight down.

There were howls from within the smoke as some of the sappers were hit.

“Ivanenko,” voxed Kabanov. “Report!”

“Two of my lads down, sir. Where the khek is our covering fire?”

“Mortar-teams, keep the pressure up,” Kabanov barked. “We’ve men dying out

there.”

The mortars could only fire so fast, however. The protective smoke dissipated

further, laying the sappers naked to fire from directly overhead.

“More smoke, now!” roared Kabanov over the vox. Another sapper cried out,

struck hard in the thigh. He went down. Kabanov saw one of the man’s comrades

turn to aid him. Ivanenko shouted furiously, and the sapper reluctantly turned back to

the matter of the explosives.

Squads Tolgin and Zunelov lobbed the last of their smoke, and the remains of the

sapper team enjoyed cover once again. Kabanov prayed they’d have enough time to

finish up. There was little he could do for them once the smoke cleared for the last

time.

The wall was vast and wide, and the mortar-teams were overwhelmed with

targets. Kabanov’s lasgunners did all they could, but the crenulated parapet offered

the mutants outstanding defensive cover. Having watched their fellows fall

13

screaming to the rocks, few of the mutants were careless enough to present viable

targets now.

Instead, they poked out only briefly and, when they did so, they fired directly

downwards again. Kabanov saw that the last of the smoke had cleared.

“Ivanenko,” he voxed. “Status!”

From a team of eight, only three sappers remained, working frantically at the base

of the wall. “More time, damn it. I’ve lost too many. I need more time!”

Even as Ivanenko said this, another of his men crumpled soundlessly, shot

through the top of his hat.

Kabanov felt sick, almost dizzy. “Ivanenko,” he voxed. “Get to cover, damn you.

We’ll work something else out.”

The last of the Ivanenko’s men screamed and spun, his face a bloodied mess, and

only Ivanenko himself was left.

“Did you hear me sergeant?” shouted Kabanov.

“No time, sir!” replied the sapper-team leader. He stood alone at the base of the

wall, hands working frantically. Above him, a score of mutant guns zeroed in. His

time had run out. There was only one option left.

“Good luck, you men,” he voxed. “Keep your heads down, won’t you?” With

that, he stepped back from the wall, raised his lasgun and fired into the central mass

of the high-explosives.

“Ivanenko!”

Kabanov was thrown onto his back by the blast. Utterly deafened, the breath

ripped from his lungs, he felt as if the universe itself might be ending.

Stone blocks rolled down the slopes in a great, dust-trailing torrent, and only

good hard cover prevented more Firstborn from being killed.

The dust, thought Kabanov as he coughed and spluttered. Don’t let the dust settle.

Sergiev was standing over him, hauling him up by the edges of his breastplate.

“He did it, lieutenant!” he gasped. “The damned citadel is wide open!”

In Kabanov’s mind, he saw Ivanenko’s face staring back at him with a sardonic

smile. There was grief, like a lead weight in his belly, but he knew he had to put it

aside, at least for now.

“Firstborn,” he voxed determinedly. “You know what to do!”

With a booming battle cry, the men of Sixth Platoon surged forward towards the

breach.

Megiddzar (West Wall)

Vlastan snarled as another of his men fell screaming from the face of the western

wall. “Keep climbing, you dogs,” he yelled over the vox. “Mortars, keep them

covered, damn you!”

Only moments ago, he had seen groups of defenders running southwards along

the parapet. It was exactly what he’d been waiting for. Sure that Kabanov’s efforts in

the south-east had secured the mutants’ attention, he had ordered his men to scale the

walls using the grapnels they carried. RHQ had issued the grapnels for the mountain

ascent, not for the citadel walls, but to Vlastan, that mattered little. It only mattered

that his plan was working.

14

Even with the distraction of Kabanov’s assault on the far side, however, Vlastan’s

men still had to climb under enemy fire.

His mortar-teams launched shell after shell onto the parapet with worthy accuracy

and, slowly, the Vostroyans charged with being the first up the ropes made progress

towards the top.

There was a rattle of gunfire and one fell screaming to his death, followed all too

quickly by another. Hard contact with the ground cut their screams off sharply.

“Heavy covering fire, ground-teams,” demanded Vlastan. “They’re almost at the

top. Damn your eyes, give them cover!”

Three of his troopers were within centimetres of the parapet now. Then, as

Vlastan watched with growing excitement, the first crested the wall. There was a

shout and the glare of raking las-fire. The mutant defenders turned to return fire on

the Vostroyan intruder, but Vlastan’s mortars spat at same moment, and the mutants

were blown from their roosts in a shower of rock and ruined bodies.

The second climber hauled himself over the wall, ably covered by the las-fire of

the first. Then the third scrambled over. At the bottom of the ropes, others began their

climb.

“That’s it, Firstborn,” voxed Vlastan excitedly. “Keep moving!”

With ropes secured and an increasing section of the wall being taken and held,

more and more of Vlastan’s men were able to clamber up and over. Soon, it was the

turn of Vlastan, his vox-man, Korgin, and the mortar teams.

Vlastan—young, fit and long-limbed—climbed the rope with impressive speed.

Korgin was slower, but managed despite the weight of his back-mounted vox-caster.

The mortar-teams followed, tying their heavy firing-tubes to the ends of two lines,

and hauling them up after themselves once they’d reached the top.

The rest of Vlastan’s platoon had deployed in textbook defensive patterns,

pressing back the waves of mutants that raced towards them from other sections of

the wall.

We made it, thought Vlastan. I knew it could be done. Diversion, my eye! Just

wait till Maksim hears about this.

The citadel’s interior lay before him, its low, square buildings whipped by sheets

of driving rain.

He scanned the flat rooftops for a moment, noting those that vented smoke. One

building boasted a long-range communications antenna. Still, these things were of

secondary importance. There, on a series of broad platforms built atop the

southernmost section of the wall, Vlastan’s eyes found what they were looking for—

the enemy’s devastating long-range artillery pieces. And there, flanking them on

either side, were the deadly anti-air batteries—the ultimate target of this entire

operation.

I take those down, thought Vlastan, and I’ll have my first damned medal at the

age of eighteen.

“Push south along the wall,” he ordered his men. “Our victory is close at hand.

Press those damned freaks back!”

Megiddzar (South-east Quarter)

15

Having penetrated the citadel’s south-eastern extent via Ivanenko’s breach,

Kabanov’s men soon found themselves fighting desperately through the dark,

cobbled streets that criss-crossed the interior. Wind gusted between the buildings,

stinging their faces with battering rain, but the Firstborn were hardy, had trained

since childhood in far worse conditions than these, and didn’t stop to notice. They

were far too busy strafing the insane enemies that poured through the streets towards

them.

The Chaos-crazed mutants displayed an almost suicidal eagerness to engage.

They were utterly insane and, despite superior numbers, seemed unable to exploit the

tenuous position of the attacking Vostroyans. It occurred to Kabanov that these

freaks had never been drilled for this. Valis II had never raised Imperial Guard

regiments and had maintained only a small PDF force before the coup.

More likely than not, these sickly, long-armed aberrations were the mutated

offspring of simple farmers who had laboured far too long in the corrupting radiation

of the system’s twin suns.

“We should press west, sir,” offered Sergiev. He had remained close to

Kabanov’s side throughout, almost as if he’d charged himself with personally

protecting the young, inexperienced lieutenant. “The anti-air defences will be

clustered close to the main artillery.”

“Agreed, sergeant. All squads, cut us a path west. We can’t afford to get pinned

down here. I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary.”

Of course, it wasn’t as easy as that. Even as his platoon poured blazing las-fire on

another wave of charging foes, Kabanov wondered just how many of the defenders

Vlastan had actually drawn away. There seemed to be an awful damned lot of them

where there shouldn’t have been.

Megiddzar (South-west Wall)

Vlastan fired shot after shot into the enemy ranks as they charged desperately along

the wall towards his men, ready to die to save their precious artillery from the

Vostroyan assault.

The parapet was becoming littered with smoking, twitching mutant corpses.

Without the advantage of high ground, the enemy was taking tremendous losses now,

and Vlastan was losing very few of his own. The tide had turned. His men, he knew,

had the treacherous twists completely outclassed. He stepped over another pale body,

noting with distaste the ugly Chaotic sigils branded on its cooling, naked flesh.

The sickening fools, he thought, grinning as his pistol carved a smoking black

crater in the body of another on the wall ahead. They race towards us as if they’re

invincible, and we slaughter them like grox before a feast.

His men were gaining ground quickly. The proximity of their objective had re-

energised them. The artillery platforms were only metres away, and many of the

mutant gunnery crews now broke from their duties to engage. As his men slaughtered

them, Vlastan ordered his sergeants to organise two-man demolition teams. They

were to knock out the anti-aircraft batteries at once.

The massive, devastating artillery pieces could wait. His first priority was to

make the skies safe for a subsequent aerial assault.

16

Unlike Lieutenant Kabanov’s platoon, Vlastan’s men hadn’t been issued with

satchel charges. They were meant to provide a mere diversion, after all. They would

have to make do with grenades. Still, Vlastan thought, five or six detonated in the

firing mechanisms of each quad-barrelled anti-aircraft gun will render them just as

useless.

“Korgin,” he shouted. His vox-man trotted over, pistol in hand, firing at anything

that moved.

“Sir?”

“You and I will have the personal honour of destroying that battery there.”

Vlastan nodded towards the battery on the farthest platform.

“I’m with you, sir.”

Vlastan turned to the nearest troopers and barked, “Give us good, solid cover all

the way, you lot.” Then he and Korgin broke into a crouching run while stubber-

shells whizzed and whined over their heads.

Loping mutants raced to intercept them, but both men fired their pistols with

deadly accuracy, and the troopers behind them laid down good cover as they’d been

told to. A dozen mutants fell by the time Vlastan reached his objective.

Over the din of gunfire and incomprehensible battle-cries, Vlastan shouted,

“Hurry now! Give me your grenades.”

Korgin stepped over a scarred, smoking body and handed his commander a

bandolier with four “fraggers” fixed to it.

Vlastan snatched it from the young trooper’s hands. As he did so, he saw

movement on the floor of the platform. “Watch out!”

The warning came too late. One of the downed mutants was only wounded. He

sprang up, whipped his long arms out towards Korgin, and caught him by the belt

and breastplate. Then, holding the young trooper in an iron grip, the mutant plunged

them both over the parapet wall.

Korgin’s chilling scream stopped abruptly on hard contact with the rocks below.

Vlastan cursed angrily as he fixed Korgin’s bandolier to the anti-aircraft gun,

pulled one grenade pin after another, and ran like hell towards the protection of his

men.

Twice he staggered as enemy rounds struck his carapace armour with frightening

force, but he ran on in adrenaline-fuelled desperation. He’d gone about thirty metres

when the grenades went off with a deafening crack. Sharp metal fragments whipped

through the air, wounding a dozen nearby mutants. Vlastan threw himself to the

ground.

He looked back towards the gun and saw only a twisted metal ruin shrouded in

black smoke.

Pushing himself up quickly, he continued his stooping run, skidding to a stop

when he reached the relative security of his troops.

“Sergeant Gurelov bit one, sir,” reported Sergeant Niriev immediately. “But all

anti-air batteries have been destroyed. Permission to pull out?”

Vlastan shook his head. “Permission denied, sergeant.” He turned his eyes to the

citadel’s interior once again. Among the buildings in the streets below, he found what

he was looking for. The comms antenna he’d noticed earlier was much closer now.

17

“Sir?” queried Niriev.

“We just lost our vox-caster, sergeant,” said Vlastan stiffly. “But, if I’m not

mistaken, that building by the fountain down there is a communications bunker. RHQ

must be informed of our success immediately. Move out, gentlemen!”

Megiddzar (Southern Quarter)

Corporal Pitkin threw himself into cover behind the thick stone wall of the hab that

shielded Kabanov and gushed, “Just had the damnedest transmission from RHQ, sir.

I can’t get my head around it.”

Stubber-shells spanged off the stonework all around them.

“Well, don’t keep it a secret, corporal,” said Kabanov.

“Well, it seems, sir… it seems that Lieutenant Vlastan and his men have

successfully managed to destroy all of the citadel’s anti-air defences.”

“They what?” exploded Kabanov.

“My reaction exactly, sir, but RHQ are adamant about it.”

“The enemy must have compromised our communications network, Pitkin,” said

Kabanov, but he already suspected the message was genuine. It had Vogor’s

ambition written all over it.

“I double-checked, sir. The broadcast codes were spot on, verified by the Officio

Communicatus and everything. It’s definitely legitimate.”

“What the hell happened?” asked Sergeant Sergiev. “Wasn’t he supposed to lead

a diversion?”

“That would explain the massive opposition we’ve faced so far. Damn him. What

does RHQ advise?”

The diminutive Pitkin blew a breath out between his teeth. “We’ve been ordered

to pull out, sir. A naval assault wing is inbound from Fortune Bay. Marauder

bombers, sir. Sixteen minutes out. They’re going to level the place. And if we’re still

here…”

“And Lieutenant Vlastan’s platoon?”

Pitkin looked deeply uncomfortable now. He wouldn’t meet Kabanov stare.

“They’re pinned down in a comms tower west of here. Completely surrounded, sir.

RHQ says they won’t make it out.”

Vlastan, you bloody fool, thought Kabanov. Damn your ego to the warp, look

what you’ve done to yourself! Am I supposed to just walk away?

“Pitkin, contact RHQ. Tell them we’re close to Lieutenant Vlastan’s position and

believe we have a solid shot at opening a corridor of escape.”

“Sir?”

“Sixteen minutes, you said, until those Marauders level the citadel. That leaves

no time for argument, corporal. Do it. If RHQ objects, I want you to fake a vox-caster

malfunction.”

Pitkin reddened and seemed about to argue, but Sergiev preempted him. “Listen

to your lieutenant, corporal,” he said. He gestured at the rest of the platoon. They

hugged the corners of the ancient stone habs, poking out to fire back at a gradually

thinning enemy force. “If these men walk away from their brothers now, it’ll weigh

heavy on them for the rest of their lives.”

18

Something in Sergiev’s voice told Kabanov the man was speaking from bitter

experience. “We’re talking about other Firstborn here, corporal.”

Sergiev didn’t need to say any more. Pitkin had heard enough. He set his jaw and

nodded. “Firstborn, sergeant. You’re absolutely right, sir. I hope you don’t think me a

coward.”

“There are no cowards among the Firstborn, Pitkin,” said Kabanov with a grin.

“Least of all in my platoon.”

In his mind, however, he was praying feverishly to the Emperor and the Grey

Lady, patron saint of Vostroyan, for the protection of his men. He’d already suffered

more than enough losses for one day.

Megiddzar (Communications Bunker)

“All sides, sir,” reported Sergeant Niriev. “If there’s a way out of this, I can’t bloody

well see it.”

Vlastan stood with Sergeants Niriev and Borgoff in a small room dominated by a

communications console and several low-grade cogitator units. The concrete walls

were covered in bizarre, blood-painted glyphs that hurt to look at, and the floor was

strewn with bodies—mutants in strange, ribbed uniforms of black metal and leather.

These freaks—Vlastan guessed they represented some kind of officer class—had

been caught off-guard when his men had stormed the building.

He cursed under his breath. “Then you’re not looking hard enough, Sergeant

Niriev. If you think I conquered Megiddzar only to be flattened when the place gets

bombed, you’re out of your mind.”

The sergeant looked angry, but he said, “The men will fight on, of course, sir, but

the enemy has us locked in tight. We lost a lot taking this place. I understand that you

had to get a message out, sir, but unless we get external help, we won’t survive this.”

Damn and blast, thought Vlastan. To have come so far, to have achieved so

much, only to be trapped here at the very end. I won’t have it. A posthumous

decoration doesn’t appeal to me at all.

“Have the men hold firm, sergeant. Tell them that the honour and reputation of all

Vostroya is at stake here.”

Sergeant Borgoff cleared his throat and said, “Sir, we’ve barely ten minutes left

until the bombers arrive and we’re running low on powercells for the lasguns. We

should lock ourselves in and meet our deaths honourably in prayer to the Emperor as

Omnissiah.”

“Bloody fool! I have no intention of meeting my death here. This is a comms

tower. I’ll petition RHQ to delay the bombardment. I’ll request assistance from Sixth

Platoon if I have to. We will not fall!”

“Be serious, sir! Sixth Platoon must be halfway down the mountain by now.”

Vlastan almost cuffed the young sergeant for his tone, but he struggled to rein in

his temper. No, he thought. Kabanov will come. He would no more leave me here

than he would renounce his beloved ossbohk-vyar. I’m sure of it.

Unsettled by the faraway look in their commander’s eyes, the sergeants backed

away, returning to their men to fight, and most probably die, alongside them.

19

Kabanov and his platoon found Vlastan’s position all too easily. The sounds of

stubber-fire and las-fire, and the smell of ozone, led them there like shift-workers to a

fresh pot of ohx . They could see a veritable army of mutants firing at shuttered

windows and gun-ports in the thick walls of a two-storey comms bunker. The

mutants were using stacks of supply crates and water barrels as cover, but their backs

were wide open.

“All sergeants,” voxed Kabanov quietly, “have your men take up assault

positions now.”

“Aye, sir,” came the response.

“There won’t be time to set up mortars,” voxed Sergiev. He stood only a metre

from Kabanov, but spoke low over the vox rather than give their presence away.

“We still have grenades and satchel charges. It might be enough to drive a wedge

in their forces.”

Kabanov wasn’t wrong. On his command, Sixth Platoon hit the mutants from the

rear with everything they had. Fragmentation grenades wreaked terrible damage on

the unwitting freaks. The satchel charges blew their cover positions to pieces, killing

dozens in a hail of flying debris. The mutants turned to defend themselves far too

late, with predictably grisly results.

Inside, Vlastan’s men didn’t hesitate to exploit the change in the situation. They

saved their cheers and shouts of joy for later. Instead, with the mutants forced to fight

on two fronts, they launched a concentrated attack on those whose backs were now

turned towards them. Searing volleys of las-fire blazed out from the comms bunker.

Kabanov watched scores of the enemy fall with a dark feeling of enjoyment.

“Vogor,” he voxed, “if you can hear me, get your men out of there now. We’ve

opened a corridor for you, but we can’t hold it forever, man!”

Vlastan’s voice returned to him through the static. “I was just about to call you,

Maksim. I knew you’d come. Late to the party, perhaps, but here all the same. Hold

that corridor steady, we’re coming out!”

A heavy steel door was kicked violently open and the survivors of Vlastan’s

Fourth Platoon surged out to take positions of cover alongside Kabanov’s men.

Lasgun powercells were quickly shared and, together, the united Vostroyans loosed a

staggering amount of fire at the howling, raging mutants.

Vlastan was the last to exit the comms tower. When he came out, he kept his head

low, his laspistol high, and ran in a zigzag towards Kabanov’s position. Stubber-

rounds whipped at the soaked cobbles and crates all around him.

“Warp damn and blast it all!” he spat. “Let’s get a move on, Maksim. Those

bombers will be here in a heartbeat!”

Kabanov scowled, keyed the open channel on his vox-bead and said, “All squads

pull out at once. Make for the breach. Don’t stop to engage. I want every last man

sprinting for his life. This whole damned mountaintop will be dust and flame in about

four minutes!”

Sergiev rose to send lethal las-bolts into the bodies of two closing mutants, then

turned to Kabanov. “Better lead by example, sir.”

Kabanov nodded. “That goes for all of us. Let’s move!”

20

Four minutes. Not nearly enough time to get clear. But, if they could just make it

beyond the citadel walls and into the cover of solid rock…

With a final burst of las-fire, Kabanov, Vlastan and Sergiev broke from cover and

began pounding the cobbles in the direction of the breach. Enemy stubber-fire

smacked into the stone walls on either side as they ran.

The surviving Firstborn followed close behind, though a number were cut down

by the mutants as they tried to break from cover. Others, too, were struck in the back

or legs as they raced through the wet streets.

Kabanov could hear their cries of agony and frustration, but he dared not look

back. He had already detected the throaty growl of Marauder engines on their deadly

approach vector.

As he, Vlastan and Sergiev turned a corner, they ran into tall, emaciated mutant

who had looted a lasgun from the corpse of a fallen Firstborn.

Kabanov, running at the head of the group raised his pistol just a fraction too late.

The hideous mutant, his face a gaping mess of fleshy strips and strange, bony ridges,

pulled the trigger and emptied the weapon’s remaining charges at them.

Kabanov’s pistol barked a moment later, burning a deep tunnel into the brain of

the disgusting freak. Strained curses from behind him made him turn.

Sergiev was down. He rolled on the wet ground in agony. One of his knees had

been reduced to a cauterised stump. The severed lower leg lay where it had fallen,

smoke rising in wisps from charred tissue.

“Sergiev!” gasped Kabanov as he turned and crouched by the older man. “Damn

it, Vogor. Help me get him up.”

“There’s no time, Maksim,” hissed Vlastan. “He’s too badly wounded. We’ve got

to get out of here.”

Kabanov replied without turning. “I said help me, you son of a bitch!”

Vlastan cocked his head and listened to the sound of the bombers closing fast.

“You’re a fool, Maksim. We have to go now! Where the hell is that damned hole you

made in the wall?”

Booted feet sounded on the cobbles and the surviving Firstborn charged round the

corner. When they saw Kabanov crouching by Sergiev, they skidded to a halt.

“I need two fast men!” Kabanov barked.

Sergeant Zunelov reacted immediately. “Vlenin and Borsky, front and centre!”

The troopers in question quickly had Sergiev supported between them. The men

resumed their sprint and, in moments, the massive, ragged gap in the citadel wall

loomed before them.

The bombers were much louder now, almost deafening. Kabanov knew they must

be almost directly overhead. His legs began to throb as a dull pain worked its way

through the damping effects of adrenaline, but he kept on.

Seeing their prey leap over the rubble and out onto the bare mountainside, the

pursuing mutants roared and screamed. Shots whizzed through the air all around the

Vostroyans as they ran, slid or tumbled down the uppermost slope.

“Get to cover,” shouted Kabanov over the vox. “Get into cover right now!” The

roaring of the Marauder engines was joined by the whistling of bombs as they fell in

their hundreds.

21

“Down, all of you!”

The mountain erupted like a volcano. Fire exploded in great pillars that thrust

upwards from inside the walls. Then, with the massive outward pressure of the blast-

wave, the walls themselves blew out.

After long millennia on the very crest of the mountain, the ancient citadel of

Megiddzar, offering protection to local people since before the Age of Strife, was

utterly obliterated.

Flaming rubble rained down from the sky.

Mount Megidde (South-east Face, 961m)

Kabanov shut his eyes tight and hugged his rocky cover until long after the cascade

of stones had stopped. Then, slowly, he arose, shook off the debris that covered him,

and began leading his men down the mountainside. He did not look back.

As he passed Vlastan, he didn’t feel like speaking. Vlastan’s mood, however, was

jubilant. “Stop and look for a moment, Maksim. Revel in our glory. We did it, man,

you and I. We’ll be decorated for this. Decorated. Mark my words!”

As his friend spoke, Kabanov caught sight of Vlenin and Borsky carefully

helping the one-legged Sergeant Sergiev down the difficult terrain.

Good troopers, thought Kabanov. All of them. And so many lost.

Vlastan hadn’t stopped. He stood, still crowing about honours and medals and all

the worthless tin that men died for, and suddenly Kabanov had had enough.

Before he could stop himself, he’d raced over and gripped Vlastan tightly by the

throat. His face twisted into a vicious snarl. “You make me khekking sick, Vogor,

you know that? Don’t ever, ever compromise the lives of my men again!”

Vlastan was taken aback for only the briefest moment. Aristocratic indignation

quickly took over. With a disgusted snort, he tried to knock Kabanov’s hand away,

but he’d forgotten just who he was dealing with.

Kabanov moved in a blur—none who saw it could later demonstrate the

technique—and before Vlastan knew what was happening, he was on his back with

the wind knocked painfully from his lungs.

Kabanov stood over him, eyes aflame, poised to deliver a killing blow.

To a man, the Firstborn stopped and watched in statuesque silence.

Vlastan waited, heart racing, muscles tense, staring into his friend’s wild eyes. It

was in those eyes that he saw a terrible rage being slowly, gradually mastered, and he

knew the blow would never come. “Striking a fellow officer is a capital offence,

Maksim,” he said softly.

“That’s not why I hesitate,” hissed Kabanov through clenched teeth. He rose,

turned and continued his long march down the mountainside while the exhausted

men behind him followed in heavy silence.

51 years later,

Seddisvarr Cathedral, Danik’s World

The God-Emperor towered over the congregation, dominating the cavernous interior

of the cathedral, making even the largest of men feel almost microscopic by

comparison.

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It was a mere statue, of course, but it radiated an undeniable power over all

present. The points of its stylised halo reached the frescoed dome some fifty metres

above a white marble altar draped, today, in the rich red silks of a Vostroyan

remembrance service.

While Bishop Zarazov, Twelfth Army’s senior ecclesiarch, droned on in his

gravelly bass tone about honourable servitude and the afterlife, Vlastan gazed at the

Emperor’s golden face in numb silence, waiting to be called forward onto the dais.

Hundreds of wooden pews had been removed from the cathedral hall so that

every off-duty trooper in Seddisvarr could attend the service, whether they wished to

or not. Almost two thousand men stood packed together, standing in silent respect for

fallen comrades. Their breath misted in the freezing air of a space far too large to

heat.

“And now,” said Bishop Zarazov, “if General Vlastan will approach the altar…”

Vlastan tore his eyes from the Emperor’s golden face and willed his mechanical

chair into motion, his brainwaves translated into spidery movements by the augmetic

interface at the base of his skull. As the chair jerked its way forward, each metal claw

struck the marble steps with a ringing sound that echoed loudly from the grey stone

walls.

Vlastan was angrily conscious of the clatter. It felt disrespectful to make such a

terrible din here, and it seemed to take forever to reach the lectern at the altar’s side.

In fact, it was only seconds before he faced it, his eyes on the red book that rested

there.

Beside the book, which lay open, sat a gold inkpot and a single white quill.

Vlastan leaned forward slowly, dipped the quill’s nib in the ink and, with all the

steadiness his ravaged body could muster, began to write in the book.

As he carefully scribed each letter, he felt the eyes of all those present upon him.

One pair of eyes in particular burned hotter than most.

Grigorius Sebastev, that damnable upstart captain, stood with the remains of his

shattered Fifth Company, his eyes stabbing at Vlastan from the front row. The old

woman, the inquisitor to which Sebastev and his men had recently been assigned, had

sent one of her Astartes giants too—a man whose unnatural proportions resembled no

other in the cathedral so much as the great statue of the Emperor Himself.

A special honour for you, Maksim, thought Vlastan, to have a legendary Space

Marine present at your remembrance. But then, you were something of a legend

yourself.

He finished inscribing the last of the letters and rested the quill in the inkpot.

Then, for a quiet moment, he sat unmoving, staring at what he’d written.

Colonel Maksim Kabanov, 68th Infantry Regiment (699—767.M41), KIA.

His eyes kept returning to the first of the words.

Here it ends, Maksim, he thought. A four-star general writes a colonel’s name in

the Book of Remembrance, and fifty years of soldiering are over. I wonder if you

ever resented it, that I made general and you did not. You must’ve known why. Old

Tyrkin laid it out so plainly, that first day.

One of Vlastan’s useless legs shuddered in a brief spasm, and he looked down at

his ruined, artificially-sustained body.

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I never hated you, Maksim. You saved my life twice, though our friendship was

long dead that second time. I sometimes think you should have let me die. That’s

weak, I know. And, besides, that was never your style. The great White Boar left no

man behind, eh? Only, here I am, and you are gone, and I find no victory in that.

He turned from the book and, as the clattering legs of his chair carried him back

down the altar steps, found himself inexplicably angry, though whether at himself or

at his old friend, he couldn’t say. In his head, he imagined Maksim’s voice. It said:

History will not be kind to you, Vogor.

Then, it was gone.

From his pulpit, Bishop Zarazov waited until the echoes of the chair’s footfalls

had faded, then lifted his hands and said, “Sanctioned hymn number two-six-six.”

The cold air filled with the mournful sound of the Cantus Militaris Deorum.

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