Imperial Glory

by Richard Williams

  The small convoy rolled out back down the trail, the troopers on board shooting any ork that tried to pursue them. The Griffons were designed to carry a small mortar crew and so Stanhope had ordered everything inessential to be thrown off so as to cram all his men on board. Even so troopers had to cling on to the sides. Even the wounded, even the dying Zezé. Stanhope would leave none of them behind, not even Carson’s three guards. As soon as Stanhope saw them, they became his responsibility as well and so somehow space was found to carry them too.

  They turned off the main trail, heading towards Fort Eliza. The cohesion of the ork forces had crumbled. The warriors who had been fighting found themselves fixated by the weak creatures they had defeated and the strange items they wore and carried. The primitive tribes had earned a crushing victory over those aliens who had defeated the almighty Stone Smashas and their only thought was to get the choicest loot and to celebrate. Up and down the trail, the victorious orks had only a single chant:

  ‘CHOP-PA! CHOP-PA! CHOP-PA!’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Blood Stripe camp, Tswaing, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 20

  ‘CHOP-PA! CHOP-PA! CHOP-PA!’ Mouse’s ears were filled with the chant. His eyes were filled with death. He walked over metre after metre of bodies: orks, squig-beasts, Guardsmen, all laid out together. The scavengers were hard at work; the ork warriors had already taken their trophies and now it was the gretchins’ turn. Every pile of dead, every platoon’s last stand, was alive with them. They snatched at everything they thought of worth, digging their chipped fingernails into fabric to tear free buttons, medals, crystals, anything that shone, to satisfy their greed. Once done with that on a body they then dug into its flesh to satisfy their hunger. Mouse could only be grateful that the lengthening shadows hid the results of their feasting.

  The orks had tied his hands and put him on a leash to drag him along like a pet. It was humiliating, but better that than what had happened to his comrades. Red was still in the cage. He was awake now. He held the torn cloth to the wound upon his head as a makeshift bandage. The cloth was crusty and the side of his face was streaked in dried blood, but still he pressed it down. He wasn’t moving.

  During the battle he had gone mad. As he and Mouse had heard the sounds of carnage, Red had started shouting to try and warn the regiment. He had slammed himself into the cage to try to break free, the colour of his face going from flesh, to its customary scarlet, to a deep purple that Mouse had never seen before. He only stopped after the sounds of las-fire had ceased and were replaced by the orks’ bellows of victory. It had been for nothing. It had all been for nothing.

  ‘CHOP-PA! CHOP-PA! CHOP-PA!’

  Mouse had tried to talk to him, had tried to explain, but Red had refused to listen. He had seen the comparative liberty that Choppa had granted Mouse and had fixed him with such a look of betrayal that it was as though Mouse were Horus reincarnated. Nothing Mouse had said made any difference.

  Choppa called the procession to a halt. They had reached the remains of the armoured company. The grey hulls of the tanks were mottled black and ash-white from the fires that had burst from their engines. Their doors and hatches hung open; their shadowy interiors were gutted, plastic melted, metal scorched, steering columns and controls blackened skeletons.

  Not every skeleton was merely mechanical, though. While the wounded had scrabbled to get out before they were cooked inside, the smell of charred flesh in the air was testament to those who had not made it. These were not tanks or transports any longer; they were carcasses.

  Mouse did not know how the armour had been overcome so quickly, but that in itself did not surprise him. Guard doctrine taught the Imperium’s soldiers ignorance and contempt for their enemies, not understanding and respect. True knowledge of the foe came only through battle, and there every lesson learned came at the cost of the lives of one’s comrades.

  Mouse remembered Azzabar. Back when they thought the fight was almost done, before the company even knew they were under attack, they had lost their commander. It had been Captain Sandys back then. He had been well under Carson’s thumb and the company was getting on well. Then one night Mouse had seen him touring the defences when he had suddenly sat down. They had gone to his aid only to find blood bursting from his nose and eyes. He was dead in an instant and, moments later, the eldar, who were not even supposed to be on Azzabar, attacked.

  Mouse did not have knowledge, but he had kept himself alive all these years by making very accurate guesses. Choppa’s personal glyph totem was the key to it. It might be a weapon itself, or perhaps it was merely an object of focus for some psychic power, those same type of psychic powers that had reduced the brain of Captain Sandys to pudding without leaving a mark on him.

  There was a commotion up ahead; the gretchin were squabbling over a body. The nearest ork waded in amongst them. It grabbed at their prize and held it up. The face was beyond identification, but Mouse recognised the insignia of a major. It had been Brooce. It was not the body that had caused the fracas. Brooce’s uniform had been ripped open and beneath it were the regimental colours. He had tied them around his body to ensure they could not be captured while he still lived. And they had not. The gretchin had already bitten through the knot and so when the ork tugged at them they came away in its hand. It looked at the brightly coloured fabric for a few moments, not understanding what the banner represented, and then draped it around its shoulders like a cape.

  ‘Chaffey,’ a hoarse voice whispered his name. It was Red; he was standing up, looking at Mouse. His eyes were the same steely blue, but for the first time in all the years Mouse had known him, there was a frailty behind them. He was wounded, his face was pale. He was an old man and he knew his time was coming soon. Mouse drew up some of the slack on his leash and then crept over towards the cage, stopping a metre from the bars.

  ‘Colour?’ Mouse asked quietly. Red looked woozy, the blow he’d taken to his head was taking its toll. Red’s lips were moving, but Mouse couldn’t hear any words over the hooting and hollering of the rowdy orks. Red’s body wavered and he started to slump against the cage. Mouse instinctively stepped forwards to try and keep Red upright. It proved to be a mistake. As soon as he reached the bars, Red’s body snapped up and Mouse felt a hand close around his throat. Before he could react he found himself trapped in the iron grip of a very clear, very conscious and very angry regimental colour-sergeant.

  ‘You rat-blasted,’ Red raged at him beneath his breath. ‘You dreg. You gopper. You don’t say a word, you hear me? Don’t you doubt for a single moment that even in here I can’t pull out your throat. I can and I will unless you give me what I want. You hear that? What have you got?’

  Mouse’s eyes bulged as he struggled to respond. Red did not stop, however. ‘You’re a sneak and a thief and a coward, and the lieutenant only stopped me skinning you alive because you always had a trump up your sleeve. I need out of this cage, so whatever you have you give it to me.’

  The grip tightened and the blood pounded in Mouse’s head. He started to raise his tied hands. ‘Slowly,’ Red warned, and Mouse showed him the small blade he had tucked inside the cuff. Red took it and relaxed his hold. Mouse scuttled as far away as he could. He didn’t want to be anywhere near whatever the colour-sergeant was about to do.

  It took Red less than a minute to slice through one of the cage’s ropes and escape. The orks were distracted by their celebrating. One of the gretchin did see and screeched, but the weak noise was lost amongst the general commotion. Red had his chance to run, to escape the orks, but he didn’t. He ran right into the midst of them.

  The orks noticed him then, but Red had a moment’s grace before they could stop him. In that moment Red shoved his way through, booting the scurrying gretchin aside. Mouse gaped at his idiocy, Red had gone mad. He was trying to defeat the whole horde single-handed!

  But Red’s target was quite specific. The mob
rounded on him, but he had reached it. The ork wearing the colours turned around and Red managed a single swipe, catching it across the face, before he himself was struck down from behind. Red stumbled, but as he fell he dragged the colours from the ork’s shoulders. He clutched the precious cloth tight to him as he disappeared under the blows of the mob.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Fort Eliza, Tswaing, Voor pacification Stage 1 Day 20

  The evening had fallen quickly over the deserted Fort Eliza. The clouds turned black and bulged with rain. Stanhope welcomed it. He welcomed anything that would hide them still further from any errant ork that happened to wander past. He kept his men away from the breach caused in the raid, kept them away from the bodies. The orks had been burned, whilst the men were quickly buried, but there was nothing to be gained by dwelling there. Instead he had occupied one of the towers, and used tarps attached between the Griffons and the tower to create a larger, communal tent.

  The men had survived many rainy nights without cover before, but tonight he wanted everyone in the same place. Aside from Zezé, who passed into the light shortly after they arrived. Stanhope left Heal and a few of the other men to arrange for the body to be buried. Not many, for the company could not be allowed to forget that they were still in the midst of battle. Fighting and his orders came first; grief, mourning and loss all had to wait.

  He was giving orders easily now. His self-imposed taboo had been broken and they were coming to him naturally again. One just needed to have the vision of how things should be and then impart it to the rest. But his orders carried the weight of borrowed authority, as Carson had said to him as soon as the opportunity to speak privately arose.

  ‘I’ve been asking myself,’ he had said, ‘why was it that you came after me. I realised, you didn’t come after me. You came after my authority.’

  ‘I’m a major, lieutenant,’ Stanhope had replied. ‘I’ve commanded platoons, companies and regiments. I don’t need your authority.’

  ‘Yes, you do. Here, you do. With my men, you do.’ Carson almost left it at that, but then he felt his body’s weakness, the embarrassment of not being in control of basic functions. He knew that, right then, he could not lead.

  ‘You can have it,’ he added. ‘Just take care of them. You damn well keep them safe.’

  Stanhope agreed. He had taken weeks to accept the responsibility of these men’s lives, and now he had, he was going to pull them through, no matter what it took.

  One immediate disappointment, though, was that they were alone. When they arrived, it became clear that no other survivors had made for the fort. For a long while, Stanhope had to consider that his men might be all that was left of the column from that morning. Until finally, just before dusk, another unit had appeared.

  ‘It’s the cavalry,’ Blanks had reported, coming down from the tower.

  ‘The cavalry?’ Stanhope had said. ‘Blessed Marguerite, that’s the last goddamn thing we need.’

  Stanhope was not the only man of the company to think so either.

  Gardner sat hunched in the corner beside his autocannon and his ogryn. Trouble was dozing, the panic of the evening and the hardship of the night having had no effect on him. He had looked mournful only when Gardner had told him what little there was to eat. Such a straightforward life, so full of content and bliss at trivial matters such as food and companionship. What a fool, Gardner thought savagely and then instantly felt guilty about it. He could not help it.

  The waiting was driving Gardner mad. He had stayed awake, pistol, knife and grenade ready, waiting for Reeve to send men for him. He must have already told that tin belly captain who had shot him. He had probably told him the day before, as soon as they had ridden him to safety. Damn cavalry. Damn Carson who had stopped him when they had been here last, when he had been ready, and when he’d had surprise on his side.

  Now that was gone, now Reeve knew he was out to kill him. He knew it, and he would know he was here as well. The commissar was just toying with him, toying with him as he’d done on the Execution Boards with his brother. He was putting him through one last night of torment and then he’d have him seized before dawn, when all the rest of the company were asleep. He’d be put up against a wall and that would be it. The other brother dead. Another skull for his coat.

  Damn him, Gardner decided. Hope: that was what they got you with. They let you think you had hope. Made it all the sweeter for them when they snatched it away. Well, this Gardner would not give him the satisfaction. He cast his hope aside. He knew he was a dead man in a few hours anyway. He would not be led like a lamb into the Emperor’s light. He rose to his feet, a few joints cracking as he did so. He felt for the grenade in his pocket; that would do for Reeve. He felt the knife hidden at his back; that would do for any tin belly that got in his way. He looked down at his gun, too cumbersome. He looked down at Trouble, much the same.

  Trouble would be okay, Gardner told himself. Blast it, give him a few extra portions at his next meal and he’d probably forget all about him. And if they came for him first, the ogryn’d probably get caught up and they’d take him down too. Best this way. Best this way for both of them.

  He walked out and excused himself to Private Heal who was on sentry duty. Said it was a call of nature. Benefit of being a corporal, privates didn’t question him too much. It was raining. Perfect. It would cover his footsteps and keep anyone else from wandering around. He walked blithely off until he was out of sight and then doubled back towards where Ledbetter had sited his men. Most of them would be in the main tent, little more than an awning really, set up against the remains of the fort’s wall. Gardner bet Reeve would be there, briefing the men on the raid he wanted.

  Gardner headed towards it, but skirted around where they had tied up the horses. He didn’t want some panicky beast giving him away. He hunkered down against the sodden earth further along the wall and peered into the barracks. There were a few lights on, kept pointed down at the ground. Most of the tin bellies were lying down. A few were up, but Gardner could tell that none of them was Reeve, and he doubted that Reeve would be bedding down with them. He obviously wasn’t there.

  That made sense, Gardner realised. Reeve wouldn’t call everyone together until the last moment. He’d be in one of the tents, telling Ledbetter his orders. He circled around, keeping out of sight of those locations where Private Heal and the other sentries were standing. Their attention should be focused out into the jungle, but with Emperor-only-knew how many orks prowling around, they’d shoot at anything they didn’t recognise.

  He closed on the tents. There was a light on in one. Dampened, but noticeable up close. That was it. He checked on his grenade. He could just toss it in from outside, but they’d still catch him anyway and he wouldn’t see the look on Reeve’s face when he saw his end. Better to make it quick. He’d just walk in there and–

  ‘Bruvva?’

  Gardner whirled around, then gasped and swore when he saw Frn’k standing a way off, dripping wet.

  ‘You lefda gun? Isda danger? You needa gun?’

  In the gloom, Gardner could see that Frn’k held the autocannon in his hands.

  ‘Blessed Marguerite, Trouble,’ Gardner hissed. ‘Get back to the barracks!’

  Frn’k could hear the panic in his friend’s voice. Something must be wrong!

  ‘Danger?’

  ‘Be quiet!’ Gardner rasped.

  ‘Danger!’ Frn’k decided and shambled over, looking all about for whatever was threatening his friend. ‘Tell Trouble whereda danger!’

  ‘You idiot! Get back! They’re going to hear you! You’re going to ruin it!’ Gardner flew at the ogryn in fury, smacking him with the hilt of his knife, anything to try to get him away. Frn’k backed off, dropping the cannon, confused and stricken at his friend’s assault. Why was his friend doing this? If there was danger then Trouble should be with him. They were always to
gether. They were brothers, that’s what he’d said!

  Frn’k hid his face between his thick arms. ‘Don’t hurt Trouble! Trouble sorry!’ he whined.

  ‘Get back!’ Gardner ordered. ‘Go back to the barracks! Leave me alone!’ But it was too late; the men in the tent had heard the noise. Gardner saw the shadows shift and one of them emerge. It was Ledbetter.

  Gardner swore again. They would have him for sure now. Just knowing he was there would force them to take him. This was his only chance. He sheathed his knife and pulled his pistol. He’d have to take that man out now, his bad luck, but he was only a tin belly after all.

  A hand the size of an artillery shell gripped his pistol arm.

  ‘What Bruvva doin’?’ Frn’k demanded. ‘Thatsa friend. You don’t shoot friends. Bruvva told me thatsa bad thing!’

  ‘Get off me, you stupid oaf!’ Gardner stopped whispering as he erupted. He pulled to free his arm, but Frn’k held it with ease. If he’d had time he could have reasoned with him, but the tin belly had seen him and was about to raise the alarm. He reached up his left hand, tossing the unprimed grenade it held to the side, and grabbed the pistol from his right. Frn’k saw the grenade fall.

  ‘Krumper!’ he bellowed. He pulled Gardner in tight and turned away, interposing his own body to protect his friend from the explosion Frn’k thought was coming.

  There was a roar, but not of an explosion. It was the roar of a human as Ledbetter charged in, chainsword whirling.

  ‘Get your hands off that man!’ he cried and brought the chainsword down on Frn’k’s shoulder. The chainsword’s high-pitched whine became a throaty drone as it chewed into the ogryn’s flesh. Frn’k spasmed in agony, instinctively clenching tight. Too tight for Gardner in his grip; beneath the bloody chewing of the chainsword could be heard the sickening sound of bones breaking. The ogryn rolled away from the pain, his rain-slickened friend slipping from his grasp. He did not know why the grenade had not exploded, but someone was hurting him and he needed to get them to stop. He grabbed at the nearest weapon he could find.