Carson did not need to order the attack. He merely had to think it. His men acted as he knew they would. They sprinted the last few metres and launched themselves at the enemy. The heavy butts of lasrifles smashed against the backs of unprotected Charasian heads, smashing their skulls or knocking them cold so there would be no shouts of pain when the lasrifles were reversed and bayonets impaled their flesh. One realised the danger a moment too soon and Carson heard a xenos shriek that carried over the sound of the continual gunfire.
Grenades, Carson thought, and he saw them fly down into the midst of the Charasian hiding places. Their firing stopped and for a split second there was no sound but a single voice gabbling xenos words. Then there was the crump-crump-crump of the detonations and blood-mist sprayed into the air. The screaming began for real: screams of pain from those struck and of panic from those who had been so confident a moment before, but were now realising the peril they were in. They were turning, desperate to target the threat that had appeared right behind them.
Volley, Carson thought, and las-shots from Brimlock rifles flashed around him. Through the spurs and jagged outcrops, few struck true, but the crack of the shots as they splintered off rock and the hiss of the air as the beams passed nearby convinced the remaining Charasians that they had been outflanked by far greater numbers than a mere platoon. There was no return fire. The Charasians were surprised, a few of them were dead, but the rest were safe in their dug-in positions. If the Brimlock Guardsmen hesitated, gave them even a minute to recover and collect themselves, the Charasians could have stayed put and unleashed a withering fire on the Guardsmen now so visible coming over the ridge above them.
His men had to charge, Carson thought, and that is exactly what they did. As his men leapt down upon their targets, Carson launched himself into a knot of the tribe-males. They were still standing, turning, fumbling to bring their weapons around against the new threat. Carson’s pistols were already in his hands. He clenched the triggers, once, twice and a third time, and the bodies of three of the xenos fighters smacked down onto stone, their faces and chests incinerated by the heat of the las-beams.
There was a sharp, shocked inhalation of breath behind him. He whirled about. Another Charasian had been hidden in the shadow of an outcrop. It was younger, this one, and for a split second Carson paused. His gaze locked with the wide, black-eyed xenos. Its youth was not relevant; it was carrying a gun, it would not get any older. Carson fired. He did not look to see that it hit, he knew it had.
He flattened himself against a rock, taking cover in exactly the same position that his enemy had been in a few seconds before. He listened and the only sounds he could hear were the shots of Brimlock lasrifles and the crunching of stone underfoot as men charged in behind him.
He looked up. All across the slope the Charasians were on their feet and running east, staying on the side of the valley, fleeing from Carson’s men above them and the Boy Company below. It was only now that he could see how many of the enemy there had been. Over a hundred of them were running from the thirty Guardsmen who had attacked them. The Brimlock Guardsmen, winded and unable to keep up, kept firing at the backs of those in flight. Every Charasian tribe-male they killed at this moment was one who would never return to strike at them in the future. Carson saw Forjaz, his bayonet and rifle barrel drenched in the blood of the xenos who had been shooting at his child.
‘Sergeant!’ Carson called over to him, his first word since he had worked away from Blunder. ‘Take a section, check on the boys.’
Forjaz stared for a moment, still wrapped in his paternal blood-rage, then blinked and nodded gratefully. Better that he knew as soon as he could whether his son was living or dead.
The sound of Brimlock las-fire lessened as the surviving Charasians went to ground, disappearing amongst the same kind of rock chimneys and gullies that had hidden Carson’s own attack. They would not go far, they did not need to. They knew the country far too well to be rooted out by off-worlders. A few of them at least would turn back so as to stall any pursuit of the main party and perhaps even to creep back and take their attackers off-guard.
It was a merciless war, on both sides, and Carson suspected he would soon see how little mercy his own side had, for Blunder had finally ordered the other two companies to move and they were coming back for him.
Captain Blundell regarded the awkward reunion of Sergeant Forjaz with his bruised, bloodied, but still living son: man and boy, both shaken, yet both firmly restraining the emotions going through them. Blundell looked away from the embarrassing scene and instead shot a scorching gaze up towards the rocks where Carson, Red and the rest of their platoon were still holding. Blundell would be damned if he was going up there to haul the second lieutenant down again. Carson had to come down to him, and he would wait until he did so and then throw the book at him.
Blundell was furious. The captain did not care who Carson had saved; he was finished in this company. With the help of a senior officer or two – Major Roussell was another who detested Carson – the second lieutenant would be finished in this existence as well. He would be handed over to the commissars and they would put him up against a wall and be done with him.
This waiting game he was playing was not going to save him. Lord General Ellinor himself could appear and could not save him from the facts. Carson had defied Blundell’s orders and that was it. His life was forfeit, and a thorn in Blundell’s side would finally be removed.
‘Captain,’ someone alerted him. Blundell looked about. A trooper was walking towards him from second platoon. It was that piece of Cawnpore detritus, Corporal Gardner.
‘Captain Blundell,’ Gardner said, raising his hand and saluting him.
Blundell automatically snapped off a quick salute in reply. ‘Yes, what?’
And the carefully aimed shot from a Kartha rifle burned through the back of Blundell’s head and blew his face out from behind.
Chapter One
The Fortress of Kandhar – 659.M41 – Year 20 of the Ellinor Crusade
The conquest of Kandhar by the Ellinor Crusade ended not with a bang, but with a crackle. It was the crackle of the flames from the funeral pyres that burned twenty metres high around the ruins of the enemy’s last stronghold, cremating the bodies of friend and foe alike. They lit up the dark sky and their light reflected off the low-hanging clouds bathing the cold valley with their warm glow.
The trooper watched them burn through the wide hole in the side of the manor house. He sat in comfort, sunk down in a red, velvet chair. Someone had lit a fire in the fireplace to keep the place warm against the cool night air. The men, the rank and file, were huddled around the pyres, the bodies of their dead comrades keeping them alive. But no officer could be expected to debase himself in such a manner, and so the manor house had been appropriately refurbished.
The trooper gazed at the small but happy fire in the fireplace, and then looked outside at the great vengeful flames soaring up in giant columns towards the heavens. There was a beverage on a side-table near his right hand: a good, fine-cut glass with a measure of heavy liquid the colour of oak. It sat there untouched as he drank in the view instead. This was one of the moments, one of the moments of wonder that needed to be savoured.
‘You got the drinks? Where’s a good spot?’
‘Over there by the fire?’
The two officers stepped lightly towards the fireplace, looking to take their ease in the chairs around it. The trooper was sitting so low in his seat that the first of them did not see him until he had nearly sat down in his lap.
‘Oh! Apologies, I didn’t–’ It was then that the officer took a good look at the trooper, as much as he took a good look at anything, and he saw his dirty face, his battered uniform and, most importantly to him, the insignia of a private.
‘What are you doing in here?’
The trooper did not respond.
‘Do you h
ear me, man? Officers only in here. Get back to your section.’
The trooper’s heavy eyes stayed staring at the fire.
‘He looks pretty far gone,’ the officer’s friend said. He had noticed the stains on the trooper’s grey fatigues: sweat, smoke and most definitely blood. ‘Maybe we should leave him to it.’
‘Damn him!’ the officer replied. ‘He’s just playing dumb. I’ll have your name and regiment, man, and your commanding officer will have a mite more, I’ll warrant, after I’ve had a word with him.’
The trooper still didn’t reply; in fact, he had not moved an centimetre, even to blink, during the entire confrontation. The officer’s friend shook his head and went to get a steward.
‘Name and regiment, soldier!’ The officer tried to sound commanding, but the order came out as petulant.
‘Very well, I’ll find it for myself.’ The officer reached for the tags around the trooper’s neck. He leaned in and suddenly yelped in pain. The trooper’s hand was clamped around his wrist, twisting it into a lock. The trooper’s head whirled around, he blinked and stared wide-eyed at the officer.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ the trooper asked, his tone one of genuine concern. ‘Why are you shouting?’
‘Unhand me, you dog, or I’ll have you on the wheel!’
‘Is there a problem here, sirs?’ One of the heavy-set, politely threatening stewards closed in, the officer’s friend behind him.
The trooper saw what his hand was doing and released his grip. The officer shrank back, cradling his injury and spitting nails.
‘I want this private’s name and regiment,’ he ordered the stewards, ‘and then I want him slung out of here!’
The trooper stood and presented himself. ‘Major Stanhope, commanding the 1201st.’
‘That’s a lie!’ the officer blurted out. ‘There’s no such regiment. Not on Kandhar at least!’
‘Sir,’ the steward began. ‘Sir?’
It took a moment for the officer to realise that the steward was focusing not on the fraudulent major but on him.
‘What?’
‘Major Stanhope is currently seconded to the 371st, whom, I believe you’ll find, are on Kandhar. Now,’ the steward raised his hand for two of his colleagues to approach, ‘it will be no trouble for us to arrange chairs for yourself and your friend with a very pleasant outlook upstairs.’
‘No,’ the officer retorted.
‘Sir?’ the steward replied with seemingly infinite patience.
‘You’ll not fob us off. He assaulted me.’
The steward allowed a moment to pass to indicate his silent disappointment.
‘In that case, I shall have to ask you to vacate these premises before continuing any further.’
‘Very well.’ The officer turned to the trooper only to discover he had slumped back down in the chair once more. He contained his irritation and rested his uninjured hand significantly upon the hilt of his sword. ‘Major Stanhope, if that is who you are, you will accompany me outside. Do you have a second you wish to contact?’
Stanhope did not reply. He was gone again, once more gazing at the fire.
The officer walked round pointedly to stand right in front of him. Stanhope blinked back and the officer gritted his teeth and repeated his challenge.
‘Of course. Of course,’ Stanhope replied and stood up.
‘Do you have a weapon,’ the officer said disdainfully, ‘or do you need one to be provided?’
‘You’re right. You’re right. Got to have a sword or might get you into trouble. Had a sword somewhere… Where’s it gone?’ Stanhope turned his back and bent down near double, searching under his chair, and incidentally displaying his trouser-covered rump to his opponent.
‘Ah, there it is!’ Stanhope saw the unusual thick sword with its distinctive inward curve entangled under the chair and reached in, grabbed the hilt and gave it a tug. It slipped out halfway and then stuck fast. He grunted in annoyance and took a second grip with his other hand.
‘That’s a fell-cutter,’ the friend exclaimed. ‘He’s a bloody fell-cutter!’
‘Blessed Marguerite!’ the officer gasped.
There was the smash of glass and the bang of furniture being knocked hastily to one side.
‘Aha! Got it!’ Stanhope declared as he pulled the sword free with a great ripping of fabric. He waved it triumphantly in a small circle above his head and then turned his attention back to his challenger. Or, at least, where his challenger had been.
Stanhope looked about in sluggish confusion. The steward righted the table and chairs that the officers had toppled in their flight.
‘Can I get you another, major?’
Stanhope looked down at the empty side-table.
‘Did I have one already?’
‘Yes, sir. The glass broke.’
‘Oh, sorry about that,’ Stanhope said. ‘I suppose I’d better have another then.’ He reached into his pocket.
‘No need, sir,’ said the steward, bowing: the coin that the major had given him for the first drink had been enough to cover a round for an entire platoon.
‘Take it anyway.’ Stanhope pressed another coin into his hand. This one was enough for a whole company.
‘As you say, sir.’ The steward vanished and Stanhope settled back into his chair, jamming his sword underneath again. The fresh drink appeared on the side-table.
‘Shall I stoke the fire for you?’ the steward offered, reaching for one of the lance heads propped up beside it.
‘No, no, leave it be,’ Stanhope replied, as he returned to his moment. ‘It’s happy.’
Medicae Station, Kandhar
The man who would become known as Blanks opened his right eye a fraction. They’d finally turned the luminators down. He scanned the room; all the medicae were gone and the wounded were in their beds. He held his breath, listening intently to the sounds of their breathing. None of them snored. Any troopers who snored had been killed many years before. Hopefully, the medicae had drugged them to keep them quiet just as they had been doing to him. He raised his hands a few centimetres from his bed and felt the tug of his restraints. There had been some kind of panic today. More wounded arriving. Many more. The medicae had not paid him much attention and had forgotten to shorten his wrist straps after his meal. It was his opportunity.
The medicae were lying to him. They had told him that he had lost his memory because of his injuries and yet he had no injuries. How could he have lost his entire memory and not have a scratch on him? He had been injured before, he had scars, but they were all long healed. He had tested every part of his body and everything functioned as it should. He was not wounded, he was not sick, and that meant they were doing something else to him.
When he had first awoken, he had tried to break free, but he had been too confused and there had been too many medicae standing ready, and so he had been restrained. One of the medicae had tried to comfort him, telling him that the paranoia would fade in a few days and then he could be released back to his regiment, but then another one had said that his regiment were all dead. He asked them why he was being kept here; they said they were only keeping him until he was fit, but he was fit already. More lies. He asked to see his service docket, but they refused. When he continued to ask, they stopped listening to him and started drugging him until he stopped. Tonight was the night that he was going to find out the truth.
He slowly arched his body up. His bedclothes rustled slightly as they slid down him. He pushed his hands behind his back, the fingers from one hand stretching to reach the restraint on the other. It took nearly half an hour to undo one; his muscles should have been screaming, but his body was strong.
Once one restraint was off, the others quickly followed and then, at last, he was out of bed. His legs wavered a moment as they readjusted, but then they responded. He had obviously not bee
n off them long. Another lie. He took a blanket from the bed and padded softly along the ward and out through the door.
There was no alarm. There was no guard. There were wounded, however. There were wounded everywhere: lying on pallets, slumped against walls, standing and trudging slowly down the corridor. The ones nearest him looked up plaintively for a moment, but then saw he was not one of the medicae and so ignored him. He threw his blanket over his head and shoulders and held it close. He started trudging as the other walkers did, looking for his path.
He had tried to get information from the others in his ward, but they had all been officers and uninterested in conversing with a private soldier. However, they had been free enough in talking with one another and he had gleaned the information he needed from that. There was a blue line painted on the floor ending at his ward. He shuffled along it, passing soldier after soldier, bandaged, missing limbs, burned, and with every other injury he could conceive of. None of them were screaming, none of them were crying out, but there was a general groan of suffering that permeated the air. There were no medicae, no one tending to any of them.
He reached a junction and there the blue line intersected with a half-dozen more. A thick red line terminated in another ward the size of a cavern: double, triple-stacked with pallets and more men upon them. There were more than a thousand of them in that one room alone. It was not his destination. He found the thin grey line and started following that. There were no wounded along this path and so he picked up his pace. He jogged lightly down the empty corridors until he found his destination: the records room. In there, he had heard, was a service docket for every patient within these walls. The door was locked, but he was not going to be halted now, so close. He forced his way in and flicked on the emergency luminators. There they were.
There were thousands of them. Maybe tens of thousands of them. But they were all ordered and filed. He ran through the aisles until he found the right rack. He searched through them, looking for his service number. There it was. There he was.
Imperial Glory Page 2