Because night has fallen and the barbarians haven't come.
And some of our men just in from the border say
there are no barbarians any longer.
Now what's going to happen to us without barbarians?
They were, those people, a kind of solution.
- Constantine P. Cavafy
With Doom We Come – Chapter 1
"I must say, Seer...I've heard many strange utterances from these mon-keigh in my life, but 'By the Emperor's shrivelled gonads!' is most certainly a new one."
Sinna gave the luckless Imperial Guardsman a kick, sending his lifeless body tumbling down the hill to join the ever-growing heap at the bottom.
"Indeed, I would not have thought these wretches wise to their corpse-seer's dessicated state," Rivaleth answered, expecting Sinna to follow up with one with of his infamously horrendous quatrains. But to her dismay he remained silent, and she reminded herself that he no longer walked the Path of the Poet.
It was a terrible loss to Varantha, all things considered. Not for the loss of talent, as Sinna and artistic talent were but passing strangers, but for the loss of the laughter and joviality that his works inspired across the craftworld. His "poetry" (if one might dignify it with that word) was so incomprehensibly awful that it was said to reduce even the hardest-hearted individuals to tears of laughter. As the mockery grew, so did Sinna's belief in his own genius, and as his ego swelled to titanic proportions the quality (such as it was) of his output plummeted even further, and soon references to his works, either in the form of quotations or subtle gestures hinting at his manic performances, had become commonplace on Varantha, much to the bafflement of those rare visitors from other craftworlds.
But if there were mirth and laughter to be found in these dark times, it was certainly not to be found amongst the dirty, disorganised rabble encamped in the valley below. A company of the Imperial Guard, sent in response to Varantha's swift and thorough cleansing of human colonists, was now situated in what was quite possibly the worst tactical position imaginable. Humans lacked many things – intelligence, grace, dexterity, quickness of wit, basic courtesy, and personal hygiene – but one thing they did not lack was numbers, and thus the accepted wisdom when dealing with them was to fight them in such circumstances that their advantage of numbers could be negated. It was rare, however, that they positioned themselves in such circumstances that their advantage of numbers could be negated. The humans below had chosen to make camp in a box canyon, and despite several opportunities to do so they had not relocated to a more tactically-sound position.
Another wave of Guardsmen charged towards them, firing wildly and screaming like madmen. Truly, these humans were crude things, Rivaleth thought. Their gait was clumsy and sluggish, and their thoughts were as simple and naive as that of a child. They had no concept of the war-mask; their minds were like candles in a howling storm.
Rivaleth raised her shuriken pistol and sent forth a hail of lethal discs, each carefully crafted to slice through armour and then tumble about in soft tissue. A half-second later Sinna and the rest of the Dire Avengers opened fire, cutting the humans down like grass before the scythe. As the front ranks fell, their bodies tumbled downhill into those advancing behind them, and the sight of their comrades dying in such great numbers was too much for their fragile psyches to bear. Panic spread through the ranks, and soon the rest of the Guardsmen turned and fled, having realised that advancing amounted to little more than suicide.
No doubt they would be punished for their retreat, she knew. In the humans' crude hierarchy, it was only the threat of summary execution that could urge their soldiers forward. Three times they had attacked since their arrival, always in the same manner and at the same time, and three times they had been repelled. Rivaleth could scarcely comprehend the stupidity of it all; even a beast would know not to stick its hand into a fire after being burned.
She looked aside at Silevil, who had not fired her long rifle once in the engagement. "My apologies, old friend. I had called you here with the promise of a battle, yet all we've had is a massacre."
"'Old?' I think we are both too young to be throwing that word around so carelessly."
She concluded her sentence with a subtle gesture, made only partially in jest, that suggested Rivaleth was entirely too youthful and inexperienced to be leading people into battle. There was truth to her words, she knew, but self-doubt served no purpose. The humans had to be driven from this world, by whatever means necessary.
One did not have to read the skein to know what would happen if they were permitted to remain, for countless other Maiden Worlds had suffered the same fate: Green would turn to grey, the skies would be choked with filth, and the whole world would become a belching, fuming factory feeding the Imperium's insatiable war machine.
But there was something else, something about the one who led the humans, that gave Rivaleth pause. She did not know his name or his face, but his life's thread burned brightly indeed, though it led to many a dark and frayed end, and she sensed that, if he were to remain alive, he would bring deeper and wider woe upon the Imperium than he could possibly imagine.
"I say, seer, that was a...that was a proper thrashing, that was!" The voice was slurred and uneven. "We...we really showed them, didn't we?"
She turned around to see Arradon emerge from behind a tree, stumbling and fumbling about. He bore the arms and accoutrements of a warlock, though his unsteady posture suggested that he lacked the total discipline necessary for the role.
Silevil eyed him suspiciously, before shifting her gaze to Rivaleth. "Forgive but, I don't believe I've been introduced..."
"I am Arradon, and I follow the Path of the Drunkard," he said, speaking in appallingly vulgar register. "Wandering wastrel, rakish rapscallion, malefic malingerer, frivolous faineant, and a terrible disappointment to his family, nay, the entire craftworld."
"There is no 'Path of the Drunkard.'"
Arradon recoiled in mock offence. "Correction: there was no Path of the Drunkard, at least before it sprang fully-formed from my mind. After all, why should my horizons be constrained solely by the paths laid down by others?"
"Drunkenness is hardly a virtue worth cultivating," Silevil retorted. "And such reckless self-indulgence will only serve to-"
"-to feed She Who Thirsts, I know. But it is only it is only the well of excess that she drinks from, not mere consumption, thus I have spent the past cycle concocting a spirit so potent that it all takes is but one sip to induce total inebriation, thus rendering the very concept of 'excess' meaningless and irrelevant."
"Rivaleth, what is this person doing here?" Silevil, clearly annoyed. "Why have we brought him with us?"
"It was not my choice. Arradon has a peculiar habit of appearing wherever he is least wanted. It is almost unnerving, in a way."
He carried on, oblivious to their remarks. "Have I ever told you of the time I once faced the full fury of the warriors the humans call 'Astartes'? Physically they were formidable, much more so than the mundane mon-keigh, though mentally they had been mutilated beyond all hope of regeneration. I chanced upon them during an expedition to...to...well I don't quite recall the location of our confrontation, nor I do recall the name of this particular band of Astartes; I think they called themselves the 'Bloody Magpies' or some such absurd appellation...at any rate we came to blows after I made a few remarks they took as being rather impious, such as my jest regarding the best way for humans to cook vegetables, which was to set the Golden Throne on fire. Humans are, for the most part, humourless, and thus I found myself locked in mortal combat with this dirty, depraved band of deformed barbarians. Unarmed as I was at the time, I could only retaliate with whatever I had to hand...which just so happened to be a set of finely-crafted set of gardening implements bequeathed to me by my departed father. I fought them for five days and for five nights, inflicting grievous wounds upon them; it would surely surprise you that a trowel worked wonders in finding gaps in their armour..."
"There is something else I did not mention," Rivaleth said. "Not only is Arradon a drunkard, he is also a ridiculous confabulator."
"'Detriment' is a more fitting term," said Silevil.
Now his offence was genuine. "'Detriment'? 'Detriment' you call me? Well, I'll have you know it was 'detriments' like me who built our craftworld-"
"That is abject nonsense. It was-"
Rivaleth stepped between them. "Look," she said to Silevil, "it would be best if you did not engage with his rhetoric. I suspect he knows what he says is absurd, and he derives some perverse enjoyment from confounding people with it." She turned her attention to the valley below. "Instead, let us consider the best way to rid this world of the human invaders."
"We would do well to avoid a prolonged engagement, seer," Sinna said. "The mon-keigh do not lack for bodies to throw at us. Individually they are weak and cowardly, but combined their legions are nearly invincible."
She raised a hand, silencing him, and spoke to Silevil. "Focus your attention on their camp. I foresee an opportunity that is about to arise..."
Corporal Morozov's body fell to the ground, blood rapidly pooling beneath his head.
"The platoon commander has failed in his duty, and will be replaced."
It was said that no enemy of the Imperium could look a commissar in the eye, but even a loyal servant of the Emperor would find it difficult to look upon the face of Commissar Arcand. At one point a fleshborer round had taken off half his face, leaving him with a visage that was truly horrific.
Major Dyer would never dare admit it, but every time he spoke with the man it was inevitable that he would end up fighting down nausea.
"You are in the Guard to die," the commissar continued, "and the Guard will find a place for you to die. But I would rather have you die in battle against our enemies than die by my hand!"
In other words, he can't kill the whole lot of them, so he'll just settle for killing the platoon leader, Dyer thought, trying hard to avoid looking at the commissar. It was such a shame – Corporal Morozov had been one of the less incompetent men under his command, though that was a low bar to hurdle.
Arcand approached one of the men, whose face was spattered with blood and bits of Morozov's brain. "What is your name, Guardsman?"
"Trooper Sefors, sir," he answered nervously.
"You are platoon leader now, Trooper Sefors. I trust that you will serve the Emperor better than your predecessor. Prove that my trust is not misplaced."
"Yes, sir!"
Major Dyer twitched. Did the commissar have the authority to do that? Not that he would have protested if it turned out he did not; if there was one thing Dyer had learned over the years of his service to the Imperium it was that it was never a good idea to antagonise those who had the power to make your life miserable (or, in the case of a commissar, the power to bring your life to a sudden and brutal end). And if he somehow ended up getting on a commissar's bad side, well, he still had his connections in the royal court back on Sternhagel to ensure that he never ended up facing the bolt pistol. It seemed to be universal truism that what one knew was always less important than whom one knew.
"You see the sort of men the colonel gives me?" Dyer said as soon as the commissar was out of earshot of the troops. "Faithless cowards, the whole lot of them!" He kept his eyes facing forward, desperately trying to avoid catching a glimpse of Arcand's grotesque countenance.
The two men headed into the major's tent, where a freshly-uncorked bottle of Amasec awaited them. Dyer had yet to meet a commissar whom he could not ply with liquor, and keeping them in a constant state of mild-to-moderate inebriation usually made them far more agreeable. Nothing seemed to make Arcand agreeable, however; the man had apparently made it his mission in life to be as dour and humourless as possible.
"Miserable little planet, isn't it?" Dyer continued. "Nothing but trees as far as the eye can see, and everything is so bloody quiet! I don't know why those xeno scum are so desirous of this world, but who knows how their foul little minds work, eh?"
"There are some things we need to discuss," Arcand, speaking in that hoarse, gravelly tone of his that made him sound as though he gargled a glassful of hot coals and acid each morning. "The men of the 997th are not fit for service. I have never seen a company of Guardsmen so lacking in discipline and proper military bearing. Many do not even know how to stand to attention or how to address a superior officer!"
Dyer knocked back a swig of Amasec, and for a brief instant he caught sight of Arcand's face, forcing him to muster every ounce of willpower to keep from retching. "That's what I've been trying to tell the colonel, but that contemptible little shag-bag isn't having any of it. I swear, he's deliberately trying to get me killed. Can you believe he did not even provide me with any artillery?" A smile suddenly crept up his lips. "But I have a plan, you see. It is true that men of the 997th could not hit the broad side of a starship if they were standing inside it, but as the old saying goes, you march to war with the army you have, not the army you want."
"And what is this 'plan' of yours, major?" Arcand asked, speaking the word "major" as if it were synonymous with "idiot."
With a childish grin he grabbed a canvas bag from underneath and emptied its contents onto the table. Inside were a number of small, plastic figures, which Dyer had clumsily painted in an attempt to make them resemble the soldiers of the Sternhagel 997th.
"Here is the brilliant new stratagem I have devised. It is so brilliant, in fact, that I have no doubt it shall become part of the Tactica Imperium in short order." He began quickly assembling the plastic figures into a series of rows. "The men will march towards to the enemy in a single line like so, with the formation being about a hundred men wide and two or three ranks deep. Once they have closed to the distance to those damnable eldar, they will fire their lasguns simultaneously in one tremendous volley, and the sheer volume of fire being directed towards the enemy will surely overcome the individual soldier's lack of accuracy. Is there anything in this galaxy that can withstand the fury of a hundred lasguns firing at once? I think not, especially not those frail degenerates lurking over the ridge. Tell me, commissar, what do you know of the eldar?"
Arcand clenched his glass so tightly it seemed he might shatter it. "What does matter? Victory lies in destroying the enemy, not understanding them."
"Well, I've heard they are a dying race, but if that is true then why do they never just go away?" he asked in the tone of a petulant child asking his parents why couldn't have more dessert. "Why do they insist of inflicting their vile presence upon the good, Emperor-fearing people of Sternhagel?"
The commissar sighed in resignation. "Because, major, one of their craftworlds lies in close proximity to our world. It is only natural that we would come into conflict, considering how perfidious and treacherous the eldar are."
Major Dyed recoiled in horror. "What? Do you mean to tell me, commissar, that we have been living next to a nest of xenos all this time, and not once have we ever made an attempt to exterminate the lot of them? I shall have to bring this up with the colonel the next time we speak. I would bring it up with the planetary governor, but these days he doesn't do much aside from drooling and screaming for dumplings every now and then...not that he ever did much else, mind you."
"That is something else I wished to discuss with you," said Arcand, lowering his voice. "The planetary governor has fallen deathly ill, and word is that he will not survive the week. With no heir to the throne there will almost surely be a succession war between House Dorroenal and House Ungern, although House-"
Dyer clenched his fists. "Warp take it all! Why are you bringing this up now? There's nothing I despise more than court politics! Is there anything more tiresome than hearing about how House Rumpypumpy is scheming against House Houghmagandie in collusion with House Fustyplugs...it's all so dreadfully boring! House Dorroenal and House Ungern are both branches of the same family, anyway." What he left unsaid was that he himself was a member of the nobility, albeit a minor house, which meant he seldom had to worry about being murdered in his sleep as part of a power play by his father's brother's uncle's nephew's third cousin thrice removed.
Arcand leaned in closer, making Dyer shrink back from the sight of his grotesque face. "I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation, major. Members of those two houses command nearly every Guard regiment on the planet. A succession war will pit the entire Regimentum against itself, with each side viewing the other as traitors. Need I remind you that the last succession war on Sternhagel reduced half the planet's cities to cinders, and that we have only now just recently finished rebuilding?"
It made Dyer wonder, if only for a moment, if there were not a better way of selecting their rulers. House Haselburg, the family who produced the current planetary governor, had acquired substantial amounts of territory through marriage, and being disinclined to lose territory through the same manner they had chosen to marry within their own bloodline for generation after generation. The predictable outcome was that House Haselburg had become hopelessly inbred, and the end result was the degraded monstrosity now sitting upon the throne.
"Well, if there's a succession war looming then why in the Emperor's name did the colonel send me all the way out here?"
For a brief second Dyer thought he caught a slight smile creeping up the commissar's lips. "I can only guess at the reason, major."
Dyer narrowed his eyes. "Are you mocking me? Anyhow, I predict that this cunning new strategy will lay waste to our foes in short order, and then those knife-eared bastards will regret ever setting foot here."
The commissar finished his drink, stood up, and began slowly walking out of the tent. "Do you know what I think of your 'plan,' major?"
Dyer got out of his chair and followed Arcand outside. "You are overawed by its brilliance, no doubt."
"No, major. In fact, what you have just proposed is the most obscenely imbecilic 'stratagem' I have yet heard. It is proof that the officer class of the Sternhagel Foot Guard is more concerned with connections than ability, though your deficiencies as a commander were apparent to me the moment you manoeuvred us into the most tactically disadvantageous position imaginable."
His face flushed with rage. "How dare you! Just because-"
Before Dyer could finish his sentence, the commissar's head exploded.
"Sniper!" someone yelled, and Dyer instinctively ducked behind a pair of large metal crates. Some of the Guardsmen fired wildly at the top of the ridge, while others frantically ran about in search of cover. Far from being the disciplined soldiers one would expect, their behaviour was more akin to a herd of frightened animals.
"Cease firing, damn you!" he screamed. If the men of the 997th couldn't hit a man at ten paces then they sure as the Warp couldn't hit a sniper lurking in the trees.
For a minute or so Dyer remained in cover behind the crates until he was certain he wouldn't have his head blown off the moment he stood up. He glanced down at the remains of Commissar Arcand, feeling a mixture of relief and disgust. The shot had taken off half his face; to Dyer's dismay, it was not the ugly half.
Still, it was a burden off his mind. He knew that Arcand would never turn his bolt pistol on him, knowing full well the political maelstrom that would result back in the royal court, but one could never feel entirely at ease around a commissar. Being outside the chain of command tended to inflate one's sense of importance, and every now and then one would come along who really did believe all that rubbish about being the living embodiment of the Emperor's will.
Dyer wondered how many commissars he had served with over the years, having lost count after two dozen or so. They had all gotten themselves killed, either in battle or in bizarre, inexplicable accidents that seemed to defy all sense or reason. The last one had died after a frag grenade exploded in his tent while he slept, and being unable to ascertain how such a thing could happen, Dyer had assumed that the man must have slept with a frag grenade under his pillow, and that it must have somehow gone off accidentally.
Damned fool commissars, he thought. They think themselves fit to lead troops just because they spent years at the Schola Progenium learning how to hold a fork and knife!
At least now there was no one left who could oppose his plans. Victory was so close he could taste it, and it was about damn time, too. Tradition in the Sternhagel Foot Guard was that any regiment who suffered a catastrophic defeat would not be reformed ("Wipe the name, wipe the shame," the saying went). Instead, its surviving members would be assigned to a new regiment, with its old regimental number incremented by one. The 997th had the highest regimental number of them all, which was edging perilously close to four digits. Dyer swore that he would not be the one to bring that particular disgrace upon the Foot Guard...or if he did, that someone else could be made to take the blame.