Imperial Glory

by Richard Williams

  WARHAMMER 40,000

  It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.

  Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse.

  To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

  ‘We ain’t much on paper. A single regiment, a dozen companies, a few detachments of support. Bits and bobs. Not much on paper.

  ‘But you take a million men and you throw them into the fight. And you keep ’em fighting ’til for every ten you started with you got only one man left. ’Til just the toughest, just the smartest, just the bleedin’ luckiest are still breathing.

  ‘And then you send them out again.

  ‘And of the ten men who thought they were tough, nine find they weren’t tough enough; of the ten who thought they were smart, nine find they weren’t smart enough; the ten who thought they were lucky find their luck runs out.

  ‘Imagine who you’ve got left after that. And then you send them out again ’til you’ve only got one in ten of those still kicking.

  ‘That’s us. That’s the Brimlock Eleventh.

  ‘We ain’t much on paper, that’s true. But that’s the only place we ain’t.’

  Trooper Rit ‘Mouse’ Chaffey Brimlock 11th Imperial Guard regiment, Ellinor Crusade

  Prologue

  There is a tradition amongst the crusading regiments of the Brimlock Dragoons. When each new recruit leaves Brimlock for the first, and almost certainly last, time they are told to look at the planet behind them. Then they are told that that planet is no longer their home. From that moment, their home is whatever ground they stand on, the ground they fight on, and the ground that they die on.

  Major Stanhope watched on helplessly as, below him, his men found their final homes. The fight was hopeless, they had known it from the start, but they were standing fast and fighting hard. By the God-Emperor, they were showing the enemy how hard a Guardsman could fight. But one by one they fell and, as each one succumbed, Stanhope felt another part of his soul cut from him. He knew that when the last was extinguished there would be nothing left inside him.

  He ached, he burned to be down there with them. To fight beside them, to share these last moments and then march alongside them into the Emperor’s light. But they had forbidden him, they had entrusted him with a task to give their expenditure purpose. He could not resist them. He held the colours, the immortal pride of the regiment, in his hands and, above, the shining lights of a salvation beckoned to him. But Stanhope knew he could not be saved. And yet. And yet.

  God damn me, Stanhope thought, and he took hold of the first rung and began to climb.

  Charasia – 657.M41 – Year 18 of the Ellinor Crusade

  ‘You have your orders, lieutenant!’

  ‘They’re being slaughtered!’

  ‘I can see just as well as you can.’

  ‘You might be willing to stand here like a gawping fool, captain, but I–’

  ‘You take another step, lieutenant, and I will shoot you where you stand!’

  Captain Blundell-Hollinshed-Blundell of the Brimlock 11th raged at his insubordinate second-in-command. He had not drawn his pistol, but his threat was very real. He glared fiercely at the other officer: a second lieutenant named Carson. Carson was one of those, Blundell knew, who would never amount to anything, who in eighteen years had never been decorated or promoted, and who would most probably be put up against a wall after this campaign if he was not forced to gun him down in the next few seconds.

  There was a look in Carson’s eye, Blundell could see. That stare. Cold, yet calculating. Blundell tried not to glance down at how close Carson’s hand was to his own gun. Everyone knew how fast Carson was supposed to be, how he had survived so long. It didn’t matter, Blundell told himself, this would not be settled by speed. It was a matter of authority and unless Carson wished to place himself in the hands of the crusade’s commissars, he would back down.

  ‘Return to your position,’ Blundell ordered, keeping his voice calm. ‘And we will stay in the line until we are ordered to do otherwise.’

  Carson did not move and Blundell refused to repeat himself. Instead, the lieutenant slowly turned and looked across the valley to where the 11th’s Boy Company was being gutted.

  The Boy Company, or the probationary unit to give it its formal name, was an inevitable part of the decision, poorly made in Blundell’s opinion, to allow a portion of the Guardsmen’s wives to accompany them on crusade. Their offspring earned their keep as soon as they were old enough to carry, until, as adolescents, they were permitted into the Boy Company to prove their worth and become proper guardsmen, or alternatively to stay fetching and serving all their lives.

  That burning desire to prove themselves sometimes made them fearless, but it was no substitute for experience.

  They should have been kept to the rear, that is if anyone could tell where the rear was, or where the front was for that matter, in this damn irritating war. The Brimlock assault had soon booted the Karthadasim soldiers and their mercenaries off Charasia, but they’d left their guns for these pesky indigenous tribesmen who took great delight in snapping at their liberators even as the Brimlock Guardsmen tried to pacify each region.

  And now, Blundell considered, the tribesmen had bit on a juicy target. They’d sprung from some hidey-hole after the main bulk of the 11th had passed and struck the rear of the column. The sergeant major in command of the Boy Company had been sniped in the first volley, a mere second after one of the boys had saluted him, unknowingly giving the sniper his target. Without the SM, the company had collapsed. The officer-cadet had tried to organise return fire, but he too had been struck as soon as he had started shouting orders. At that, the rest of them had dived for whatever meagre cover they could find. The ones who raised their guns and tried to shoot were the first targets. Quickly they were down too and the Charasian tribesmen could start leisurely picking off the boys who were cowering, second by agonising second.

  They were in a dreadful pinch, Blundell knew, but he also knew that it was almost certainly a diversion. There was most likely a far larger enemy force, just waiting for him to move his company out of position, to have him expose them, before launching their attack. How did he know that? He didn’t. But he trusted in his chain of command. He had sent his report to Colonel Arbulaster and the colonel
would decide. Until then, his last orders were to maintain his position in the column and he would do so, until he was ordered otherwise. That was the duty of a Guardsman.

  Orders and discipline. That was what made the Brimlock regiments great. That was what held the line at Defiance, that was what had carried them over the trenches at Torrans, and that was what Blundell had tried so hard to impress upon his unruly second lieutenant and the rest of his company.

  Carson was still standing there, still obviously nursing a spark of obstinacy. Or posing, Blundell considered, one hand resting on the butt of one of his holstered pistols and the other clasping the back of his untrimmed blond hair. No doubt trying to draw the men’s attention to their confrontation. Well, it was not a confrontation Blundell intended to lose.

  ‘Return to your post, lieutenant,’ Blundell instructed. ‘You shall not issue any orders to any man until I say otherwise. Understand me? Dismissed.’

  ‘Captain,’ Carson muttered, and walked back to his men. No, Blundell corrected in his own head, slunk back to his men. He was definitely beginning to master the man.

  His men; yes, that was the problem. When Blundell’s own regiment, the 92nd, had been dissolved after the bloody crossing over the Katee on Ordan and had been subsumed into the 11th, he had suspected that he would be given a command at the bottom of the barrel. He had not been mistaken. His fellow 92nder Gomery had warned him. Gomery had told him that the rest of the regiment called it Carson’s company, despite the fact that a second lieutenant, and certainly one with such a stain on his reputation, would never be allowed a command.

  Gomery had told him that Carson’s men were devoted to him. But Blundell could tell that that wasn’t true. His men had just grown used to him; that was all. Carson curried their favour incorrigibly, allowing them far too great a liberty and irreverence. Blundell himself had already heard a nickname some of the men had put about for him, ‘Blunder’, and he intended to come down with the severest sanctions the next time he had so much of a whiff of it. And trash encouraged trash; Blundell had been lumbered with several survivors of the regiments from the debacle on Cawnpore. One of them, a corporal named Gardner from the 412th, had emerged particularly maladjusted and without use.

  A few of the company showed promise, however. His steward, who’d acquired the name ‘Mouse’, seemed a salt-of-the-earth, hard-working fellow, whilst Colour-Sergeant Towser, or ‘Old Red’ as the men called him, was an inexhaustible pillar of strength and fortitude. Blundell did not doubt that it was he who had kept the company effective in spite of Carson’s indulgence. It was these kind, of men who were the rocks on which Blundell would build the new spirit of the company. He had disciplined them mercilessly on the journey from Ordan to Charasia and drilled out their bad habits and eccentricities, and here on campaign it was paying off. They were obeying his orders in spite of the tribesmen’s provocation and, for all his posturing, their lieutenant could not fight it. Carson had become an irrelevance.

  Blundell watched Carson until he had returned to his assigned position, ensuring his obedience. Blundell then returned to his vox-operator to wait for the colonel’s orders. The distant cries of the wounded and dying boys gave him no pleasure, but at least the pitiful situation had allowed him to crush the last traces of Carson’s influence. By the end of this campaign, no one would be talking about Carson’s company any more; it would be known by its proper name as Blundell’s company, and it would be he who would take them on to glory.

  A few minutes passed and still there was nothing from the colonel. Still the boys were suffering. A doubt emerged, unbidden and unwanted, into Blundell’s mind. He had won the point with his lieutenant; he had no further use for delay. If only the colonel would reply he could be calm. Whether it was to hold and defend their position against some attack, or to strike out and drive the tribesmen away themselves. Blundell did not care which way. He just needed to be told.

  He caught a particular look in the eye of his vox-operator. He stared at him in reply and the operator quickly focused back on his machine. Blundell wanted to question him, wanted to tell him to make sure it was working properly, ensure he was using it correctly, but he knew such questions would be redundant and might be taken for the first signs of panic. He knew he had no choice in the matter. He had told them all to wait for orders; he could not now countermand himself. He could not tell them to wait for orders and then decide that orders were not necessary. If they weren’t, then he should have moved at once, and as he hadn’t, that meant they were.

  He stood and faced away from the decimation of the boys, staring at the rest of the regiment. The other companies were manoeuvring, dust-coloured Chimeras transporting some platoons, others marching on foot, a few of the horse dragoons galloping on their mounts, but none of them were coming back towards him. From where he was, he could not discern the pattern in their movements, but he continued to stare into the distance beyond as though he could see some enemy force to which they were responding.

  He peered from the corner of his eye in the direction of the regimental colours where he knew the colonel must be. He strained as though he might pick out Arbulaster somewhere within the group, then see him stoop down so as to pick up the vox and give him his orders.

  Blundell looked down expectantly at the operator. Still nothing. Now, Blundell suspected, he was beginning to look like a fool. The whole company must have realised that there was no immediate threat to their front, and that the closest enemy was behind and filleting the regiment’s sons. Blundell knew that some of his men had sons in the Boy Company. Sergeant Forjaz was one. What could he possibly say to him if the worst happened? How could he explain why he held him back, why he held the whole company back, when they could have intervened? He knew he could not possibly countermand what he had previously said, but how could he explain that to a father who had lost his child?

  Still no orders! Blundell clenched his jaw tight. He should not have been placed in this situation. Arbulaster should not have done this to him. He should have replied. There should be orders!

  He turned around, ready to snatch the vox from the operator’s hand and demand answers from command, when he caught sight of what was happening. Help had finally arrived. A platoon of Guardsmen had ghosted along the side of the valley. They were moving fast, but carefully. Blundell could believe that the Charasians, from their positions, would not even catch a glimpse of them, and yet within a couple more minutes the Guardsmen would be right on their flank.

  Suddenly, it all became clear. Evidently, the Charasians could see his company further along the valley. They would see his company move as soon as he gave the order and disappear once more. So, instead, the colonel had left his company in position, letting the tribesmen believe they were secure, whilst he brought another force in to catch them before they could run and annihilate them.

  Blundell knew he should never have doubted the colonel. He only wished that on this occasion it could be another company acting as distraction, whilst his men went in for the kill.

  He paused a moment as he caught sight of the distinctive pair of pistols that one of the attackers had holstered on their hips. He looked sharply down at his company in their positions. Carson, Forjaz, Red, nearly a platoon, they were all missing. Furious, he turned back to the attack just about to begin. Damnation, they were his men!

  Carson scrambled over the rocks at the head of his men. He hadn’t given any orders; he hadn’t needed to. His men knew what was happening, and they knew what to do. Every single one of them was a veteran. Every single one had been fighting since the first campaign of the Ellinor Crusade to here. They’d been soldiers for more years than everything else they’d ever been. He had left his position on the line; Red had gone with him, and the men silently laid down their packs and followed after. Words were simply no longer needed.

  He had led them hard south, taking them around onto the reverse of the ridge that led back down t
he valley. They ran in amongst the stacks and rock chimneys which made the craggy terrain look almost as though it were a field of giant wheat made of stone. They went fast, swarming up the slope and over the broken, treacherous ground. Their step was sure, their movement confident and quiet. Anything they had been originally issued which rattled or clinked or flapped had been secured or disposed of long before.

  The men grouped automatically in their sections, each man knowing his place in formation behind his corporal. The corporals focused ahead, each one forging his own path so as to avoid congestion or bottlenecks that would slow their advance or draw the enemy’s eye. The sections rushed through concealed gullies, the men tightening into a column to thread their way through narrow gaps between chimneys and then dispersing back into formation once on the other side. They kept low over rises to reduce their profile and, no matter how steep their path became, they always kept their lasrifles in their grasps.

  They went fast. Faster than they should. Faster than doctrine allowed. Carson knew it was a risk, but neither he nor any of his men could abide any further delay. Their attack was a strike to the throat that would take grip and then throttle the life from their foe.

  It was a risk that paid off. Whilst the Charasians had some fine shots amongst their kind, Carson knew they were not soldiers. The tribe-males had allowed their attention to focus entirely on their victims in the Boy Company; they all wanted to score a kill against their liberators. They thought they had hidden themselves well, but the faint discharges from the Kartha weapons their former overlords had left them were all Carson needed. Their very firing stances, low and crouched over, helped conceal the Brimlock platoon as it closed in on them from their left and behind. There were only a dozen or so metres left between Carson and the rearmost of the Charasian positions and still no warning had been shouted. Just like their targets a few minutes earlier, the Charasians did not stand a chance.