‘Come on, Red. Let’s get it straight from the horse’s mouth.’
They crossed through the camp until they had caught up with their target.
‘Lance-Corporal Diver,’ Carson hailed him.
‘Yoo halloo, lieutenant,’ Diver hailed him back. He sat on his horse, lance in hand, not a stitch of clothing on him. He did it after every battle. Something about cleansing himself or some such thing. The cavalry always considered themselves the best, the most pious, of all the Brimlock units and, as such, developed all sorts of strange ideas about sin and salvation. Lancer Diver’s was a unique peccadillo even for them.
‘I’m concerned, lance-corporal, about the health of dear Commissar Reeve.’
Diver shook his head sadly. ‘Aren’t we all. Aren’t we all.’
‘Do you know how he is faring?’
Diver considered it. ‘He’s being monitored carefully. Whatever struck him has buried itself too deep to be extracted without worsening the damage. I don’t think he’s woken up yet.’
Carson relaxed a fraction. ‘Should we not be sending him back to Dova?’
‘Oh, no,’ Diver said, shaking his head and placing his lance across his thighs. ‘The captain, that is Captain Ledbetter, will not let him out of his sight. After all, if the colonel tried to kill him once, he might well try again.’
‘The colonel?’ Carson said, surprised.
‘Oh, yes. Why, who else could have ordered Drum to try to kill our captain and so leave the commissar without protectors?’ Diver said gleefully, pressing his bare heels into his mount’s flanks to spur him to walk on. ‘We don’t know the how, but we certainly know the who. Take care and keep your pecker up!’
So, Ledbetter was determined to demonstrate some kind of connection with the colonel. That meant he would have to keep Reeve away from the regiment until he recovered, if he ever did.
‘It sounds very promising,’ he said, turning to Red. ‘Thank you for your help today. It worked out well enough in the end.’
‘So long as Chaffey doesn’t open his mouth, sah,’ Red scowled. ‘Or have it loosened for him.’
‘Why don’t you call him Mouse? Everybody else does.’
‘That’s cos he’s not a mouse, sah. He’s a rat.’
‘Quite a collection we’ve built up, eh, Red? A mouse, a marble, a blank slate and one solid piece of Trouble.’
Red grunted noncommittally.
Carson, relieved, and feeling the effect of the toasting liquor and his tiredness, was gripped by a fit of whimsy. ‘What do the men call me?’
‘Don’t know, sah,’ Red said, closed off.
‘Yes you do.’
‘Wouldn’t like to say, sah.’
‘I am telling you to,’ Carson pressed.
‘Not my place, sah.’
‘I am making it your place.’
‘It’s Dead-Eye, sah. Cos you’re a fine marksman.’
‘I am, but that’s not what they call me.’
‘It’s Crackshot, sah.’
‘No it isn’t.’
‘It’s Two Guns, sah,’ Red said, his imagination running short.
‘Really, colour, you are trying my patience. Now this is a direct order, what do they call me?’
‘Well…’ Red said with a type of anguish Carson had never seen on his face. ‘You know how your first name is Laurence, sir?’
‘Yes… Is that it? Is it Larry? Laurie? It’s not Loll is it? I had enough of that when I was a boy. It’s not one of those?’
‘No, sir. It’s Florence.’
‘Florence… Florence? Florence!’ Carson laughed loudly. ‘Excellent! How exceptional. From now on you must call me Florence as well.’
‘I’d prefer not to, sir. Out of respect.’
‘Red, I’ll never doubt the respect you have for me.’
‘Thank you, sir. But I didn’t mean you, sir. My wife’s name was Florence.’
Carson suddenly felt the warm glow of the liquor recede.
‘Your wife?’
‘Yes, sir. Florence Elsie Towser.’
‘I didn’t even know you were married. She wasn’t one of the wives who came with us?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You said her name was… She had… she’d already passed into the Emperor’s light?’
‘Oh no, sir. She was as right as rain when I volunteered.’
‘Then why did you say…’
‘Well, she must be dead now, sah,’ Red commented. ‘It’s been twenty years for us, but with all the time we’ve spent travelling... system to system, through the warp and all… It’s been a lot longer for them. They’re all dead, aren’t they?
‘But it’s what you sign up for, isn’t it, sah,’ Red continued. ‘They tell you up front, you’ll never go home. And even if you did, even if you got picked as one of the colour-guard and they sent you back express all the way, it’d be the place you started, but it wouldn’t be home.’
‘So you left without her?’
‘Had to. There was nothing else for it. No honest work in the rookeries, and I could never turn my hand to thieving. So there it was. “Starve, steal or soldier”, that’s what they say in the rookeries. It’s even on the recruiting posters now. So I chose soldiering. And I’ve not done badly by it. It’s kept me fed. Kept me warm. And I know that every week she was alive, my Florence went up to the recruiting base and she was given my pay.
‘And then this came. Back on Kandhar, back when we got on board ship to come here, I got a message from the Munitorum. My account.’
Carson took the paper and looked at the figure at the bottom.
‘Well, Red, you’ve got quite a surplus here.’
‘I know. And that’s how I know she’s dead.’
‘I…’ Carson started and then stopped. ‘I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you, sah. Now, sah, if you’ll excuse me.’
‘Of course,’ Carson said and let him leave. Carson stayed put for a while, then left to track down Van Am.
Major Brooce stared thoughtfully at the piece of paper in his hand as he sat in the signallers’ tent. It was the communiqué back to Crusade Command, notifying them of the victory. Arbulaster had, for the first time, left him in charge of it. It was a simple enough task, but as a message that might be read direct to the First Lord High General, and possibly repeated across the sector by the Voice of Liberation, commanding officers tended to be quite jealous about the responsibility. Still, Brooce had had plenty enough examples to copy and now it was finished, all but for one detail.
‘Good evening, sir.’
Brooce looked up and saw Lieutenant Mulberry. ‘Oh, good evening, lieutenant.’
‘Just here with requisition orders,’ Mulberry said conversationally, taking a puff from his long clay pipe. ‘Going to need quite a bit of oomph if we’re going to bury that thing tomorrow.’
‘Good,’ Brooce replied without interest.
‘If you don’t mind me saying, sir, you look like a man with a problem, sir. Care to run it by me? We’ve got a good head for solutions, us beards.’
Brooce regarded the cheerful lieutenant. If it had been the colonel sitting here rather than him, Brooce doubted Mulberry would have tried to be so familiar; and if Mulberry had tried, the colonel would have sent him away sharpish with a flea in his ear. Brooce was about to do the same when he had a sudden change of heart. Did he really wish to model his way of command after the colonel’s in every single way? Brooce had seen his face before he left, had seen the agitation, the hint of terror in it. But he had not wished to share it even with those closest to him and, whatever it was, it had led him running back to Dova.
Brooce knew he himself was to be one of the colour-guard, he knew the colonel needed someone to return with him to confirm all his adventures and the h
eroic role he had played in them. After he was done with that, Brooce wanted a regiment of his own, to build a reputation of his own. He had immense respect for the colonel and gratitude for all he had done; he simply did not want to end up like him, isolated and gnawed away by something inside. With that in mind, he turned the paper over to the lieutenant.
‘For immediate dispatch, Crusade Command, Ellinor Crusade,’ Mulberry read. ‘On 072660M41, the Brimlock 11th Regiment (Consolidated), under the command of Colonel Arbulaster PC VL OSV, engaged with a sizeable orkoid force numbering several thousand warriors at _____ on the Imperial planet of Voor. Despite being greatly outnumbered, the Brimlock attack was pressed home at close range and with determination and coolness in the face of fierce resistance. After several hours’ fighting, the enemy force was annihilated and the regiment took full control over their fortified base in the name of the Emperor, of Brimlock and of the Ellinor Crusade. Praise the Emperor, all glory to His name.’
‘It’s very good, sir,’ Mulberry concluded, handing the paper back. ‘Just the one detail left.’
‘The name of the battle.’
‘Is it that important, sir?’ The lieutenant took the opportunity to sit.
‘Of course it’s important. How many battles do you remember that didn’t have a name?’
Mulberry thought about it. ‘Well, none come to mind.’
‘Quite. And you normally just name it after the nearest town or landmark or the like, but this entire continent has barely been scratched. There are no towns, no settlements; we don’t even have names for the mountains.’
‘What about the name of the rok: Brutal Fury?’
Brooce stared at him. ‘Much as I respect the fine, talented strategists at Crusade Command, they can get rather excitable when it comes to nomenclature.’
‘Why not just the battle of the crater then?’
Brooce considered it. ‘Needs to be a bit more specific.’
‘Orks Crater? Orks Rift? Ork Gulch?’ Mulberry started to reel off.
Brooce stared at him. ‘Don’t be facetious, Mulberry.’ The lieutenant managed a look of contrition. ‘No, it needs a proper name. I wonder where that Voorjer girl is?’
‘Ah, I might be of use there,’ Mulberry exclaimed, jumping up. ‘I spent quite a bit of time with her on the path from Dova, to try and get her help filling in my map.’ He pulled a folded sheet of laminate from his uniform and laid it out. ‘She had a lot of local names for places hereabouts… How close does it have to be?’
‘Not very,’ Brooce admitted. ‘You know of the Battle of Defiance, of course?’
‘Oh, of course,’ Mulberry nodded, ‘Lord Ferresley’s greatest victory, it’s compulsory study.’
‘Ever wonder why it was named after a town that was over fifty kilometres from the actual site of the battle?’
Mulberry searched his schola education. ‘I thought it was because that was the place he spent the night after the battle.’
‘Yes, but why did he spend the night there? It was so he could name the battle after it rather than any of those towns with Vostroyan names nearby. He would rather have been hanged than split the credit with the Vostroyan commander.’
‘Is that true, sir?’
‘Oh yes, he told me so himself. Lord Ferresley had an undoubted ability to win battles, it’s true. But even that was outstripped by his ability to win the credit afterwards. So what’s the closest?’
Mulberry arched his thumb and forefinger across the map, measuring the distances. ‘Looks like either Bronkhorstspruit or Schuinshoogte,’ he announced.
‘Anything a little less… foreign?’ Brooce ventured.
‘These mountains here, they’re very close by, she had a name for those. That would be perfect.’
Brooce read the map, and then read it again to be sure he had read it right the first time.
‘I think she might have been having some fun with you there, lieutenant. Would you care to read it?’
‘Beeg Nokkers? What’s funny about that?’
Brooce stared at him harder this time, but Mulberry appeared completely innocent. ‘I’d prefer not to have a name that will provoke guffaws in every cadet studying the regimental history.’
Mulberry still appeared confused, so Brooce peered closely at the map.
‘What’s this one?’
Mulberry looked where the major was pointing. ‘That’s just a cabin they put there on one of their climbing expeditions. It’s just a shack really. There are no people there.’
‘High Point.’
‘Or high place. It’s not a name, it’s just a description.’
Brooce was already marking it down on the communiqué, however. He handed it over to the signaller who started the transmission to Dova, which would then be redirected off-planet and to Crusade Command. Mulberry saw the look of satisfaction on Brooce’s face.
‘Thank you, lieutenant,’ Brooce said as he left. ‘I do believe it’s all downhill from here.’
Interlude
Orkoid birthing sac, Tswaing, 659.M41 – One year prior to the Battle of Highpoint
The creature that would become the ork known as Choppa shifted in his birthing-sac. He was uncomfortable. Confined. It had never felt this way before. He had always felt safe and protected inside it, but now he felt cramped, constrained. The sac had shrunk, or maybe it was his body that had grown bigger. Either way, he wanted out.
His nails had not yet toughened, but still he managed to use them to score a groove on the inside. He dug his fingers into the groove and pulled it apart. After a moment’s resistance, the sac tore and split apart. Choppa felt a new sensation, that of loose earth between his fingers. It crumbled as he grasped at it; he had never felt anything crumble before. He liked it. He tried the taste of it, then felt the muscles of his face grimace and scowl. The taste he did not like and he spat it out. He was angry now. He had never experienced it before, but he recognised the sense of power he felt with it.
He grabbed the soil in front of him and started shovelling great handfuls of it. He did not know what was before him, but he knew that his future was out; there was nothing left back inside for him. He felt his fingers break out of the earth, and he reached up until there was nothing more to grasp. He pushed with his other hand, shuffled forwards and straightened his spine to shove his head through as well.
He felt a chill on his hand, outside the soil. Something moved past it; something light, just brushing over his skin. He felt his mouth and throat reverberate into a growl. He tried to speak but more soil fell into his mouth. He spat again, as hard as he could this time, and pushed himself up with all his might. The top of his head broke out. He felt the air sweep over his hairless scalp and around his pointed ears. He pushed again and he felt his face scrape free. He opened his red eyes and saw for the first time.
There was a figure there. He was facing in Choppa’s direction, but he didn’t see him. Choppa saw that the figure was in light while he was in darkness. Choppa looked up and saw the twisted gills of a blackened toadstool casting shade where he emerged. The figure looked his way and Choppa held still. He knew it was bad to be seen. The figure pulled something from the ground, turned and walked off. When he was out of sight Choppa moved again. He pulled himself entirely free, pushing the canopy of the toadstool out of his way and stretching out to his full height. The figure was larger than him, he could tell. That meant he was small. That meant he didn’t have power. He was not safe. He must find more strength to protect himself. He looked in the direction the figure had gone and then in the direction he had come from. It was a simple choice. He took his first step after the figure.
His steps were halting at first as he swayed and staggered, grabbing at the fungus growths around him to keep him steady. His balance came to him quickly, however, and then he could walk with more confidence. He could see the figure ahead of him now. He
saw him bend down and pull something from the ground. He straightened up, looked closely at what he held in his hand, then pulled a small object from around his neck and blew into it. Choppa heard the noise. The figure was calling others to him. Perhaps he had seen Choppa, perhaps he had let him follow after him so as to bring him to these others. Others would be coming here and Choppa knew that would be bad. He knew he was weak. If he faced others then he would have to be strong.
He took a step back and lowered himself behind a thorny stalk. He put his weight on it as he crouched and felt it bend a fraction at the base. Its roots were loose in the soil. It was weak as well. He went on again, interested, then pulled, and it came free in his hands. Choppa gripped it tightly. This was strong. He was strong now and so had nothing to fear. He rose and left his hiding place behind. The figure blew on his object again and stood there waiting. Choppa walked up behind him and, as the figure turned, swung his weapon hard down on his head.
His enemy’s head jerked away at the blow. The enemy whirled around and snarled and Choppa struck him again. The enemy stumbled this time and Choppa went after him to strike him once more. This time, however, he raised his arm and so Choppa’s blow struck that and not the head. The enemy’s other hand curled into a ball and struck Choppa in his body. Choppa felt pain for the first time. It made him even more angry, and from that anger he felt even more power flow.
Choppa took a step back; the enemy did as well. Choppa noticed that where he had struck the enemy’s head a liquid had spread from the wound. He felt his own midriff where he had felt the pain. There was no liquid there. That meant he was winning. He saw the enemy reach down to his leg. He had a weapon as well. Choppa swung again, but this time not for the head; rather, he struck at the enemy’s knee. The enemy howled and fell over. Choppa stood over the fallen enemy for a moment. Did that mean that he had won, he asked himself? His anger had the answer and he struck the enemy once more, twice more, a dozen times more until his face was covered by the liquid. Now Choppa knew he had won.
His enemy no longer moved and Choppa took his time studying the body. Then he looked at his own. It was only then that he realised that he and his enemy looked the same. Choppa found it curious, but it did not concern him greatly. The shape of things did not matter to him nearly as much as what was strong and what was weak. And he had proved himself the stronger here. The enemy’s weapon intrigued him, though. He pulled it from its strap upon the body. It resembled the stalk he himself carried, but it was bigger, its surface was harder, it did not bend no matter how hard Choppa twisted it. It was stronger.
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