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Last Stand on Archos
EMERGENCY COMMISSIONED OFFICER PERSONNEL ACTION REPORT FORM.
TO BE FILLED IN AND HANDED TO A SUPERIOR OFFICER IN THE EVENT OF THE HIGH COMMAND OF THE REGIMENT - 2ND PRAETORIAN GUARD – BEING DESTROYED.
THOUGHT FOR THE DAY: EVEN A MAN WHO HAS NOTHING CAN OFFER HIS LIFE.
Checking his pen was still working, the officer sighed and prepared to finish the report with his signature, beside him, his cup of half finished tea lay steaming gently. Briefly pausing to check how many of the emergency forms he had left in his possession. This was the last one. Bugger.
Captain Malcolm Peregrine looked over what he'd written. Muttering out loud at certain phrases, before nodding and signing the report. He just hoped there weren't any more combat actions before the main force arrived, in the next few days preferably. He'd rather not be executed for failing to fill out the paperwork.
Sat down, his report lain on the desk in front of him, on the right side of said desk was his bolt pistol and on the left side was his Pith Helmet. Finally deciding on a course of action in the event there was more enemy action, Captain Peregrine signed his report and then slid it into the back of the dossier. Setting it down, he let out a long sigh. Finally, the paperwork was done, he'd detailed the previous days skirmish. Damned Xenos, they seemed to be testing the Praetorian Guard positions weakness. Which was to say, weak. No artillery support. No heavy weapons. Just 100 men and their Lasguns and side arms. Not a single plasma pistol and the Commissar had died two weeks ago to a snipers shot to a grenade on said Commissars belt. If that wasn't enough, said Commissar had also happened to be standing next to the major. Both had been blown to bits. Malcolm had decided to make sure he didn't carry grenades around until it was time for battle, and had also decided to sum up the entire debacle in a single word.
Bugger.
Standing, The Captain walked over to where he kept his small hygiene kit. He ran his right hand through his dark brown hair, before smoothening it with a comb. Appearance was paramount in the Praetorian Guards. He caught himself in the mirror. Grey eyes, a brown pencil thin moustache, a prosthetic right hand from halfway above the elbow upwards, or downwards if the hand was pointed down to the floor. 5ft 9inches of a middle-aged man whose health certainly wasn't lacking for the usual people of his age.
He could handle whatever was thrown at him, he was a veteran, a survivor, and not a cowardly survivor. Turning away from the mirror, Malcolm tilted his head back and looked down his roman nose at the milling soldiers visible through the open tent door. Slipping on his pith helmet and holstering his bolt pistol. The Captain turned back to the mirror and checked his appearance.
Black highly shined leather boots, dark blue trousers with a vertical scarlet stripe on the outside leg. A white tee-shirt tucked into his trousers. Which wasn't visible as over it was the infamous scarlet tunic. On either of his shoulders were three pips, as well as on his cuffs. Denoting him as a Captain. If that wasn't enough to mark him out on the battlefield, he also had his epaulettes and aiguillette, and his white belt, around the waist and around his right shoulder from the left side of his hip. It was difficult to put into words exactly how the belt went. The few adornments on his belt were few indeed compared to what he'd seen on some other poor fellows. His steel water canteen, the field telescope holder(as it was referred to in the Captains vocabulary) and the ammo pouches.
At least he didn't have to lug around maps, grenades and throne knew what else. He had officers privileges, he could just designate some poor bugger as his aide and make them lug around everything instead. A Power sword was sheathed and hung from the right hand side. His bolt pistol was holstered on his left hand side. Finally there was his pith helmet. A rather simple helmet in the standards of other Imperial Guard helmets. A brown leather chinstrap, the helmet interior was padded for comfort and the outside was a light cream colour with the silver badge which displayed the Regiments symbol and the Imperial Aquila below it. A sort of reminder that the Praetorian Guard were borne upon the back of the Imperium and thus it was their duty to support it. Finally came the leather strip above the rim but below the badge. The Captain didn't know what it was there for, decoration probably.
A Lasgun fired.
Malcolm's attention snapped to the crackle of fire that returned the shot. He burst outside, drawing his bolt into his right hand and then his power sword into his left hand. He sprinted over to his self-designated position. The calls to arm were already being relayed around the camp by the NCO's. For whom Malcolm was thankful he had such damned good men. Reaching his position. The captain surveyed the enemy force. The position was relatively defensible, a whole abandoned town, with the bulk of the forces garrisoned in the Church, which had a wall around the front in a semi-circle. A weak wall, so it had been reinforced with metal sheets and sandbags with Firing steps to aid the men, Inside the semi-circle was the camp where the captain had his tent located. Intelligence reports had been lenient and suggested that the enemy possessed no vehicles. Just more long-ranged weaponry and a whole load of infantry.
Damn Kroots.
"Alright men. Listen up. We're being attacked and I'm afraid I'm going to have to say that this will be our last fight. All or nothing. We are Praetorians! We'll face this like we faced the Eldar at Quelas. That is to say, with our backs to the wall, side-to-side and a hymn on our lips. Say your prayers. Today we do what the Imperial Guard has done since the birth of this great Imperium. We stand and we hold the line, no matter what is thrown at us. For the Emperor!"
A cheer went up. The men knew that Captain Peregrine was blunt, he didn't give false hope. If it was bleak, then it was bleak. Turning to face the approaching force. His eyes scanned the incoming Kroot auxiliaries, then he bellowed his orders.
"Wait until they're at 100 yards lads. And let off a volley, then 50 yards and then until you can see the whites of their eyes. Until they reach that. Fix Bayonets!"
The sergeants relayed the orders. Bayonets scraped out of their scabbards. A noise that seemed to briefly slow time for the Captain. He looked around, spied a soldier, a boy, clearly no more than the age of fifteen. Bone-white skin betraying his fear, but still staying in his position. Then the Kroot cried a horrible screech and doubled their pace. The Captain broke out from his stupor. His military mind now kicking in, like it always did in times like these, and it hadn't failed him yet.
"Take Aim! FIRE!"
The harsh bark of the Lasguns pummelled through the air. Felling a number of the Xenos, The Captain would fire his Bolt Pistol now and then, a Kroots head seemingly exploding or a fist sized hole in its chest in the aftermath of each shot. The whole universe seemed to quieten for a brief moment, before the orders were shouted again.
"Take Aim! FIRE!"
Still the Kroots pressed onwards. His Magazine empty, The Captain reloaded and waited until the last moment before levelling his bolt pistol and shouting for the last time.
"FIRE!"
He fired a single shot before deflecting a jab by a Kroot with his sword, sliced off the head of said Kroot. Before meeting another, deigning to simply block a blow and reply with his Bolt Pistol. All around him similar fights were going on, but none were as fierce as the Captain's fight for survival. A parry, feint and then a slicing of the throat before moving on to another Kroot who leaped at him. Slowly, but surely, the sheer pressing number and mass of enemy forces drove the defenders back. Step, by step, by bloody step. Until at last only fifty men remained. The pile of Kroot bodies were piled in the doorway and among the screams and the blood-soaked ground, the fight continued. For the next few hours, the battle raged over the doorway, the sheer press of Kroots in a single coordinated rush eventually toppling over the makeshift barricade and a torrent of Xenos flowed into the hall. Small knots of men formed around various places in the cathedral. Captain Peregrine stood on the altar, Clasped in one hand was the regimental standard, raised high and soaked in blood, but not fallen. Twenty three men stood and faced the enemy. The last of the praetorians, the rest lay dead or dying.
The hallowed hall of the cathedral was silent for a brief moment, defender and attacker paused to look at each other. Before finally the Kroots called their war cry and leapt forwards. The Praetorians too called their war cry. It was only three hours until dawn.
"For the Emperor, the Imperium and Praetoria!"
The Fighting became more vicious, more brutal, more bloody. The Kroot flood began to dwindle, but so too did the Praetorians. Until at last three men stood tall, above a pile of bodies, of both Human and Xenos. Three men against one hundred. A lucky stab got Corporal Jenkins, but he quite a few of the damned Kroots with him in the last moments before he fell, unpinning a grenade and chucking himself into the baying mob. Sergeant-Major Smith bellowed and brawled, until at last he was swarmed. But above them All, Captain Peregrine continued his fight, the standard still clasped in his left hand, his sword in his right. His Bolt pistol lay at the foot of the pile, the barrel glowing from the amount of rounds it had fired. A steady and heavy wisp of steam flowing from the empty pistol as hot air met cold air.
Twenty against one.
"Come on you Xenos Bastards!"
The Captain roared the challenge and the battle entered its closing stages. The Kroot died, the captain bled and fought on, until at last only two remained, the Captain and a single, fearsome and deadly Kroot. The Duel was long and began with a thrust by the Kroot, a parry, before the bladed rifle of the Xenos swung up only to meet the sword. Whilst it seemed to be happening in Both an Eternity and mere moments, the fight was slow, two, tired warriors, slugging it out until at last the Kroot got in a lucky strike, The Captain bellowed in pain and halted, his back arched, he hoped that was the last blow, only for a blade to bury itself in his side, blood gushed out. The Kroot raised its weapon and proclaimed its victory.
The Captain made a proclamation of his own, With one final drop of energy, his sword brought itself upwards and erupted from the Kroots chest. The surprised Xenos looked down and then collapsed to its knees and onto its side, defeated. Captain Peregrine closed his eyes, the blood having stopped gushing and now simply dripping onto the floor, as the drips became slower, the Captains eyes became heavier. He leaned on the standard, exhausted, bloodied and broken, but unbowed. He let out a small smile, before clearing his face of all expression and allowed himself to close his eyes.
As his eyes closed, he saw the sun rise, lighting the hall, then he saw nothing, save the shadow of death in the doorway coming to claim him.
A.N: Well, there it is, the re-updated chapter. Leave a review if you wish.
I've left the ending a bit more ambiguous this time, is that death in the doorway? Or is it reinforcements? I'd quite like to use Malcolm again, so I changed the ending. I've also furthermore not really specified how many Kroots there were to leave it to the readers imagination just how many the Praetorian's were fighting against.
Anyway, if you'd like to see more adventures of Malcolm Peregrine, just leave a review or something. Anyway, on that note, farewell and have a damned fine day.