Blood on the Road, a warhammer fanfic

This is the next short story in this heart-pounding new series of short stories. Experience the gritty realism of war and feel the bullets wing overhead as we follow the valiant 412th Company as they try and complete their mission alive!

Blood on the Road

In the overall scheme of things, it really wasn't really that bad.

The engine block of a Bromomine Pattern Chimera APC, used by the Carcathan Defense Force, among a handful of other planets, ran at 118.3 degrees Celsius when operating at maximum performance for over thirty minutes to an hour. Using an advanced system of coolant, understood by few among the Imperial Guard, the Mk XVII Mod I, 400 Grox-Power, Liquid-Cooled, Eight-Cylinder engines produced a massive amount of heat when in operation. The temperature in the flak-armored interior of the transport typically soared because of this.

Bumping and jostling on the corrugated iron bench inside of his Chimera Transport, Trooper Niall Daleigh wondered how he could be so damn cold with such a furnace of an engine roaring and pounding just a few feet from where he sat.

He'd heard that the tundra wastes were cold. What could one really expect? But he had imagined chilly – maybe uncomfortably so at worst – temperatures for the long-haul to Rewl City from Command-Post C7. Shivering, hugging his body and with his helmet on to prevent any heat from escaping, Daleigh found himself mentally cursing the Munitorium officer who had informed him that the wastes were 'Cold'. He vowed to make him stand naked in a freezer for a few days to make up for this frozen, icy hell, should the two ever meet once more.

"What's wrong with you?" The man across from Daleigh asked, incredulous. Daleigh looked up, and saw Scout-Sniper Mark Hollander glaring at him with those venomous, green eyes. "Got your helmet on like we're about to be in a battle."

Daleigh paused for a moment, then answered "Heard somewhere that 70 percent of your heat escapes through yur' noggin'," the trooper said, tapping his helmet pointedly, "And I don't have any intention of worsening this miserable trip any more than necessary."

Hollander regarded the boy – and he was really a boy – for a moment. He shrugged, dug around in the pack below his feet for a moment, and then slapped an olive-drab green service cap over his starchy, close-cut white hair. He lowered the brim to cover his eyes, rustled slightly to get comfortable, and then seemed to dose off.

Daleigh wondered how someone could fall asleep with this much cold and the violent shaking of the road wrestling for attention. He shrugged, and wrapped himself tighter in his own, warming hug.

Tearing down the road, kicking up icy crystals and frozen dust in their wake, Task Force 'A' rolled along frozen tundra wastes between Rewl and Eyeldin, jutting across the landscape like some single, swooping entity. Consisting of a little over a company of men, thirty three Chimera transports, five Leman Russ Battle Tanks, and four Hellhound Siege Vehicles, as well as ten Conqueror light MBT's, this heavily armed and armored task force was truly reminiscent of the glorious past of the Carcathan Defense Force.

Back before the Chaos planet-wide offensive on the planet, the Carcathan forces stationed on Carcatha and around other areas in the sector had been practically armored regiments. Along with a solid number of well-equipped, highly skilled Infantry, vast rows of thundering Battle Tanks of every shape and size, pounding batteries of artillery that could flatten cities, and veritable hordes of Light and Transport vehicles of every kind, it meant that when Carcatha went to war, there was no stopping it. Entire armies would be obliterated by artillery, before insurgent, precision strikes with Light Vehicles, followed by crushing wave upon wave of grand, destructive Leman Russ's would flatten the opposition for the elite infantry to completely cleanse an enemy of any location.

Back when Carcatha controlled the cluster, no small feat in itself, and when the mention of a fleet of Carcathans meant instant relief from any foe, the fearsome tanks of the Imperial Guard could have asked for no better representative.

However, as the Archenemy attacked, slaughtering any who stood in their way in orbit and on ground, they displayed a chilling amount of forethought. With pounding orbital blasts and crushing waves of demolition strike-teams, the population of fighting vehicles on the Planet dropped to below 18 of its previous prowess.

Jostling along the road to Eyeldin City, Captain Donncha Geriod felt a swelling of pride thinking of his nation's, his planet's, former glory.

"Captain Geriod, sir?" Geriod looked up from his dozing thoughts, and met the small, diminutive gaze of Trooper William Calkshire.

"Yes, Will?" Marshal responded after a moment.

"I'm still not sure what it is we're doing out here. I'm afraid I may have not being paying overly much attention during the incredibly interesting debrief…" The soldier trailed off. Geriod chuckled at the shy nature of the soldier, and the nature of how he had stressed the words in his sentence.

"That's fine. S'why we Guard have old guys like me there, Will – somebody's gotta pay attention somewhere." Calkshire chuckled softly. "Here it is, though – 412th Company and a platoon of Heavy Weapons from our friends at 31st are headin' toward Eyeldin. "

"I thought that it wasn't a tactically viable location, sir?" Calkshire interjected.

"I was getting' there – calm down laddie'," Geriod leaned forward and patted Calkshire on the shoulder with comical amiability. A few troopers chuckled, and tuned into the conversation. "As I was saying, we're headin' toward Eyeldin. Our objective is to reach the city borders, set up a reasonably secure location at the main East Gate, and wait for further occupation forces to arrive."

"Why now, though, sir?" Trooper Connor chimed in.

"Feisty group, ain't ya? In all honesty, I don't know for certain. Could be any number of reasons. I have a couple guesses though."

"Like?" Private Declan asked from the corner of the Chim'.

"Like…" Geriod repeated, "A diversion."

"A diversion?" Calkshire asked.

"Yup. An armored battle group of Imperial Guardsmen, especially considering our circumstances, is going to draw a lot of attention, right?"

The men nodded or murmured something to the affirmative.

"A threat like this," Geriod patted the hull of the Chimera to emphasize, "the enemy will have to react. It'd be imprudent to do otherwise."

"What's your other theory?" Connor asked.

"Is this twenty floggin' questions with Captain Geriod?" The group chuckled. "Not nearly as interesting, and most probably more true, is that we're just moving forward as an advanced placement team. We set up, tanks, heavy weapons and all, get the starting of an HQ going, and then wait for the cavalry to arrive and liberate the city."

"An epic diversion is more interesting." Declan remarked, settling back to catch a little sleep.

"I don't care either way," Geriod admitted, "So long as I get out of this unharmed."

The vaulted chamber of the City Hall Ecclesiastical Center was utterly defied. Horrid, screaming insignia of foul Chaos things etched onto the walls seemed to leak taint, and beautiful murals on walls and ceilings of saints and heroes were scribbled over with hasty, brutal red markings. The very place seemed to reek of chaos and suppressed warp-power rustling under a thin veil of existence. All semblances of Imperial Religion, and for that matter Imperial Society, had been either removed or defiled for the presence of the Lieutenant-Lord. He had desired a place to dine, and he figured that the massive room may suit his needs for the time being.

Through the darkened, defiled hallways, the scream of a man who was being cut into, gutted, and cooked alive echoed vibrantly into every dark corner and crevice. Lieutenant-Lord Linge Hangour grimaced, and savored the sweet, sweet screams of pain. Blood rolled down his clean, pale chin as his sharpened teeth cut into his lip.

"Why is it so damn cold?" Daleigh finally yelled. The men inside the Chimera looked up in somewhat surprise.

"What the hell got into you?" Hollander asked. Daleigh was about to answer, but that damn sniper's gaze made him stop dead for a moment.

"Do you not feel that?" the trooper asked.

"Feel what?" Private Dairre asked. Dairre was a big, well-rounded individual. His usual Nine O'clock Shadow gave him a lovable, endearing look about his shallow, squinty face. Justly so, Trooper Emmit Dairre was a well-loved, funny sort of character among the Imperial Guard.

"What the flog do you mean, feel what?"

"You're too skinny, s'all." Dairre commented.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Trooper Finbar chimed in, "Just look at you. How old are you? Seventeen, eighteen tops,"

"Nineteen years old, standard, thank you very much." Daleigh spat triumphantly.

"Exactly," Dairre said, "You look like a bean-pole with a uniform and a Las."

"Look at Hollander," Daleigh, very much on the defensive, said with a gesture, "he's practically as skinny as I am."

The sniper looked up at the trooper across from him venomously. He obviously didn't want to be drawn into the conversation.

"Well…" Dairre interjected, "He's thick packed – no offense Holls – and he's older."

"What the flog does that mean?" Daleigh asked.

"He's had more time to, I don't know…"

"Set." Finbar finished.

"Exactly. Thanks Fin."

"Not a problem." He nodded.

Up the line a good ways, in the third Chimera from the front, Geriod was having a hell of a time trying to explain the basics of a Planetary Engagement to one Trooper Connor.

"The objective is to crush your enemy in resources, and then in spirit, before you destroy their fighting forces."

"Like shouting battle cries?"

"No, no, no… it's like… our tanks!"

"Sir?"

"What was the first thing the enemy attacked when they began their assault?"

"Civilians!" Connors shouted triumphantly.

"What the hell…?" Geriod stared at the trooper for a moment, and then answered, "Our bloody tanks man! They killed our biggest tactical advantage on the ground."

"Oh… I get it."

"I don't think you do."

"Nope." Connor said happily.

"You know, sort of like a siege?" Geriod ventured, very much discouraged already.

"So, you try and tear down the walls?"

"Gah…" Captain Geriod petered out.

"High Command of Planetary engagements is primarily a focus on creating and maintaining supply to the front lines while accentuating your strengths as both a Military Power and as a Morale Boosting unit; simultaneously, one should continue cutting off your foe's resources and destroy their advantageous units." Lance Corporal Ciarion Cathal remarked from some dark corner of the Chimera.

"Somebody remembers schooling…" Geriod remarked teasingly, laying back in his seat.

Cathal leaned forward, exposing his smooth, striking features in the dim glow-globe lighting. His face was handsome, like a razor's edge. "I take pride in applying to memory everything our late Schola Carcathea had to teach us." The Corporal glared at the Captain for a moment, unblinking, then added "Sir."

Geriod was startled by the curtness of the statement.

"Just joking around with you, there." Geriod tried to shift the topic easily. Cathal stared at Geriod for a long, uncomfortable moment, then turned to Connor

"As I was saying; in a nutshell the objective is to strike where your opponent is weakest, as well as use your own strengths to attack, and protect your own weak points."

"I see…" Connor said, legitimately. Cathal just nodded. He folded back into the shadows.

Geriod regarded the man for a moment. One of the elite Carcathan Marine Corps Reconnaissance Troopers, Ciarion Cathal was an efficient, lethal military unit; the epitome of years of training and experience, with the scars and skills to prove it. Back in the day, before the Carcathan Overhaul, all troopers were required to go through four months of intense schooling at the Schola Carcathea, the most advanced Military School in the Sub-Sector. Any of those who did not pass were required to start over, or washed out. Every soldier walked out as a better soldier, and could all easily take command status if the situation called for it. Particularly intelligent persons among the group received additional Officer's Training.

However, with the new foundings on Carcatha, the amount of time, money, and resources required to put over one-hundred thousand men though the school was incomprehensible. Only Officer Candidates were allowed in the school, and only the best of the best of those received the additional training. The result was a more stupid, but more well equipped and drilled fighting force.

From his ease of recollection and smooth explanation, Geriod assumed Cathal had was an old-timer who'd been though the Advanced Officer Training. He couldn't fathom why the man would have chosen grunt work with the Marines over Command. Different strokes for different folks, Geriod thought to himself.

In the infectious halls of Rewl Hall, a diminutive, red-robed servitor rolled into the Chapel Room. It entered at the far end, and hummed along the length of the long, ornate table toward the other side of the room, where a lone figure was sitting patiently. Through the curtains, slivers of silver light flashed on the automaton's body as it took its tray toward the Lieutenant-Lord.

The heaping, almost elegant display of fresh, still-steaming meat, basted in some curious dark red sauce filled the room with a delicious scent of roasted animal. The man sitting at the end of the table whipped the blood from his chin with a dainty dab of a white napkin.

The servitor finally rolled to a stop just to the Lieutenant-Lord's right. It turned 90 degrees, and small, hydraulic pistons started to whine as the thing raised itself up to deposit the grandiose silver platter onto the dark wood table.

Grinning maliciously, the Lieutenant-Lord extended a sizable, gilded gold gauntlet. The sharpened fingers glinted in the cold light, a stark contrast with everything else in the dark chamber. He delicately rubbed his fingers along the temple, and down across the cheek of the Servitor. Black-Red globules of blood-substitute beaded along the three thin cuts that the gauntlets made. The Servitor had once been a woman. A beautiful woman, Carcathan no doubt. Eyes grey and staring blankly forward, oblivious to the slivers of gooey blood welling on her face, the thing merely idled and let the man scrape his segmented, bronzed golden fingers, sharp as razors, to defile her once attractive features.

The man quickly retracted his hand, and waved the lightly bleeding thing away, out of his sight. The Servitor lowered, turned, and zoomed back across the room. Removing his armored glove with a few turns of metallic latches, the Lieutenant-Lord reached down daintily and grabbed a small piece of the glazed, seasoned meat in front of him.

He sucked the human digit of all of its meat and marrow before tossing the remains over his shoulder.

"Sire!" a voice called out from across the chamber. The Lieutenant Lord looked up suddenly from his meal, mostly devoured.

"Come forth." The man said with a hint of disgust. The man, wearing gold and black robes of chaotic nature, scurried across the room and kneeled at the man's side. The Lieutenant-Lord allowed the man to kiss his un-gauntleted hand before the man could speak.

Not looking up from the ground, the man said, "Lord Hangour, we have just received word that a unit if Imperials are moving through the tundra, toward the city."

"Why does this concern me?" the Lieutenant asked, not looking from is meal as he ate.

"Sir, I was a-a-advised that-"

"Don't babble like an idiot." Hangour spat venomously.

"I am sorry, sir. I was just saying that the unit poses a potential threat to the security of our city if left unchecked." The man said, trying hard to repress his stutter.

"Options?"

"There is a unit that can move and intercept them before they reach the city, sire."

"Alright." Hangour said. With surprising quickness, he reached across and grabbed the man by the throat with his still gauntleted hand. Tiny dribbles of blood dripped where the razor fingers cut into the man's flesh.

Gnawing at a particularly chewy portion of flesh, mouth open and flecks of meat flying with spittle on the servant's face, the man almost gagged at the horrible stench exuding from Lieutenant-Lord's mouth. The man chewed disgustingly for a few more moments, then swallowed the tough meat with a forceful gulp.

"I should cut you open and drink your blood just to quench my thirst for interrupting my diner," The man whimpered at this. "But, I will not."

"Thank you, s-sir." The man gasped through the choking grip.

Hangour flung the man to the floor with a flick of his wrist. "Go. Tell whoever it is that needs be told to initiate an attack on this Imperial Force." He paused for a moment considering his words. "Make them bleed."

Reaching down into his bag, Scout-Sniper Mark Hollander casually took off his service cap, and pulled his helmet free from its binding on the side of his bag. His movements were calm, eerily so, even as he stowed a few personal belongings from his bag directly to his person. His helmet was at an awkward angle for a few moments as he dug through his things.

Niall looked up from his nails, which he was picking at mindlessly, and put a look of confusion on his face.

"Got your helmet on like we're about to be in a battle." Daleigh sniggered, and procured a few laughs from his fellows.

"Very floggin' funny there," Hollander remarked.

"I thought so." Daleigh returned.

"I'd recommend you all do the same." Hollander called out to his companions in the Chimera. He was met by blank stares and zero movement.

"Why the hell would I do that?" Dairre asked.

"One doesn't survive long in the Emperor's Imperial Guard without a knack for certain things. Like knowing when you're about to be balls-deep in battle, for example." Hollander said.

"Oh-Kay." Finbar said comically.

"Suit yourselves." Hollander remarked simply, then pointedly snapped the chin-strap of his helmet on with a loud click.

Somewhere distant, a dull, hollow thump sounded.

"Holly," Dairre remarked, reaching for his bag and slapping his helmet on his head, "Go flog yourself sideways."

The artillery round from the heavy Chaos field piece located the tip of the speeding Chimera, wreathing it in flames and sending it flying into the air, and putting the rest of the convoy to a screeching, crashing halt.

Struggling to remember just where the flog he was, Trooper Daleigh was vaguely aware of the biting chill on his nose and fingers. His vision was foggy and blurred. He could see the cold, natural sunlight of the day shining in from somewhere. As his vision slowly started to return, he saw slowly drifting flakes of snow meandering down from the bleak, cloudy sky. The dusting of snow had made the thinnest of layers inside the Chimera. I didn't know you could open up a Chimera, Daleigh thought to himself.

In a sudden snap, a las-round flared off the door frame of his Chimera. The sudden flash of light and sound sent a stream of adrenaline through Private Niall Daleigh's veins. He found himself, his vision suddenly bright and clear, sprawled along the inside of the Chimera Transport he had previously been riding. The vehicle was tipped over on its right side, and a great mighty hole had appeared right by the hatch to the driver's seat. Daleigh saw blood splattered on the wall, and turned away quickly.

He found himself face-to-face with the limp, dead Finbar, whose body was hoisted up by some fluke of snagging metal and uniform. The cold, pale eyes stared blankly at Niall's, and the man's nose was so close Daleigh could have leaned forward and poked it with his own nose.

The Trooper fell back suddenly, right on top of another soldier. The man was dead. Horrified, Daleigh quickly backed himself up against the wall, which was, coincidentally, the floor. Gulping hard, and closing his eyes before taking a deep, calming breath, Daleigh grasped the situation. He became suddenly all too aware of the harsh zing of las-rounds flying outside, the screeching zip of energized weaponry.

He stooped down, grabbed a Lasgun off of the floor, and then righted his helmet, which had been dismantled in the crash. He felt a large dent in the thing. He quickly took it off, and saw that he had hit his head sometime in the crash. Had he not been wearing his helmet because of the cold, he would have been killed. Thank god for the cold, he found himself thinking, painfully, as he leapt out the now-sideways rear deployment hatch of the Chimera.

He tripped over the ridge as he bounded out, and it saved his life. Just as he came flopping out of the hatch, a small cluster of red and white laser-like projectiles pounded into the Chimera. The rounds would have nailed the unwary trooper.

Trying desperately to avoid further fire, Daleigh made a clumsy roll toward another downed Chimera directly behind his on the road. The hull was smoking from a large, blasted hole from some sort of anti-tank weapon or artillery round. Shots spanking off the thick armor of the Chimera, Daleigh ventured a look out across the battlefield.

The long line of the convoy was shattered and broken, and the hard tundra road was quickly becoming soft earth with the falling liquid dirt falling from the artillery bombardment. Huge geysers of mud made great plumes of fire and soot skyward as the artillery pounded the earth. Hiding behind still functioning but not-moving Chimera's or tanks, the scattered remains of 32nd and a handful of 17th company tried desperately to fend off the attackers.

And there were plenty of those to choose from. From where he was, Daleigh estimated that there was a handful of Battle Tanks and a number of Lights or Transports as well. A brutal infantry assault sent waves of violent red rounds flying along with streaking green tracers bounding gleefully among them. Men were shouting, and hugging the cover of vehicles or fox-holes created by the artillery, all the while shooting back as best they could at the enemy. Daleigh, the new recruit, had never seen such utter chaotic action.

"Why the flog aren't these tanks firing?" Captain Geriod barked at a very frightened looking vox-operator.

"I don't know, Sir." The man stammered.

"Dammit, son… just give me the floggin' horn."

The trooper obeyed, and the Captain began shouting orders on system wide to try and scrape up some sort of defense.

Hiding behind the same burned out wreck of a Light Reconnaissance vehicle of some kind with Geriod, the vox-officer, and a number of other guardsmen, Marine Lance Corporal Cathal had his modified Lasgun to his shoulder, and was finding targets with calm and killing them with a few well-placed semi-auto shots each.

"We need some Emperor-Damned heavy weapons over here!" Cathal shouted, after calling out that he was reloading and crouching back into cover. He had lost the black beret of the Marine Reconnaissance he had been wearing previously.

"Workin' on it, Cath," the Captain yelled, looking up from the vox-horn.

The Marine shook his head, slammed his new clip home, and raised back up to rest his rifle, sighting through his 3x Magnification ACOG assault scope. A series of shots from the enemy flickered over his head, but he calmly placed the red-dot reticule on top of a sprinting Chaos Cultist and made a simple, one-shot kill.

"Up shit-creek, aren't we now Holls?" Dairre said, flinging himself onto his back so he could reload. Sitting in a muddy fox-hole, just an Imperial Guardsmen and a Marksman, Mark Hollander could do nothing but nod and sight another cultist through his Long-Las.

"We need to get our floggin' asses out of here, Dairre." The marksman said after taking a shot which Dairre assumed had killed some poor sap, and then sliding down the bank of the hole to reload.

Dairre paused for a moment to take a look at the Marksman's fine, fine custom rifle. A Long-Las, Mk IV Bromomine Pattern, incredibly rare Mod VII bolted rifle, it was a truly one-of-a-kind sort of weapon; Hollander had called it a Las-Lock variant weapon. Dairre had coined the phrase Long-Las-Lock. The rifle fired specialized Hot-Shot sniper rounds, but not the kind usually seen or used among snipers. Each hot-shot round was approximately the size of an Ogryn's little finger, and was a brass casing with a condensed energy core. The chamber directly in front of the trigger assembly could house up to six shots at any one time, which had to be loaded by hand, and only when the bolt was slid back. Sliding the bolt forward would chamber a round, and a pull of the trigger would activate the incredibly powerful chemical primer, and send the super-charged, white-hot las-round flying through the air. Sliding the bolt up and back would eject the sizzling, empty shell and sliding it forward and down again would cycle a new round in, ready to be fired.

Dairre had known Hollander for quite some time; both were members of the original Carcathan Defense Force, before the overhaul. Hollander had carried his rifle all the way back then, and Dairre was just as amazed by it now as he was back in the day.

The sniper finished loading the rounds into place, and turned to look at Dairre, "What the hell got into you?" he asked, before scooting up again and sighting for six more kills.

"Nothin' there, Holls, nothin'." Dairre said, and then joined in with the sniper's fire with his own Lasgun.

"Flog this whole Emperor-Damned situation! What's wrong with this piece'a junk vox?" Geriod yelled, flinging the vox horn rather violently at the bewildered vox-officer.

"I, I'm not sure, Sir."

"Gah," Geriod proclaimed as a load moan, "Bloody useless." He added in a mumble as he turned around and faced Cathal, who had just slid from his position to load another cell into his Lasgun. "We've got a jammer of some sort floggin' up the vox."

"No shit, Sherlock." Cathal responded, easing in the new cell and turning to resume his firing position.

"Well, you got any idea how to reverse it, smart-ass?"

"If I did, you think I'd be spending my time hangin' around with your sorry ass?" Cathal shot back.

"Dammit, Cathal! I'm your Commanding Officer, and that shit is borderline insubordination!" Geriod yelled, furiously. Cathal had just sighted up into position, but hadn't taken a shot yet. With deliberate slowness, he unsighted, withdrew from his stance, and appraised Geriod with an almost side-long glance.

"Sir." He added, utterly devoid of expression. The faintest flicker of a smile curled across his thin, hard lips, but then faded just as quickly as it had come, like an abruptly ending candle wick being extinguished. He moved back up, and began aiming up again against the hull of the Chimera.

"Yeh-yeh, floggin' sarcasm…" Geriod trailed off. He sent a brutal scowl at the very judgmental looking vox-officer, and reached for the service issue Laspistol at his waist.

The Captain took out the las-cell to check the charge, re-inserted it, and had just flicked off the small safety on the side of the pistol when he heard a feint noise sound to his right, on down the line. Through the thick black smoke of the bombardment and ruined vehicles, and the intense flicker of red las-rounds as they whined past, the Captain's eyes struggled to find the source. He heard the sound again, and started to pin-point it. After a few more moments, he finally found the noise, practically right in front of him. About 50 meters down the line from his Chimera, across the wide open expanse between ruined vehicles; a young trooper stood and waved his rifle frantically to signal the Captain. Geriod waved his Laspistol in the air, and grunted something loudly, trying to signal that the soldier had gotten his attention.

To Trooper Niall Daleigh, it was all the signal he needed from his Commanding Officer that it was clear for him to sprint over to his vehicle. The soldier slapped his badly dented helmet once excitedly, wrapped both of his young, pale hands around his wood-framed Lasgun, and leapt out into the open ground to defy death.

It took approximately four paces for Daleigh to realize it was a horrid, horrid idea for him to attempt to make it to the other Chimera. Sprinting at full pace, almost floating over the ground in massive, bounding strides, the trooper ran through the incoming enemy fire. His shoulders rolled back and forth with every flying pace, the slightly overly-large shoulder pads bobbing with his now obviously too-small shoulders. Squeezing every ounce of speed out of his young, wiry frame, Daleigh was speckled with a shower of mud from a heavy mortar round that detonated only a few meters in front of him as he stormed on through the smoke and fire. He saw Captain Geriod gain a confused look, and then curse loudly as he yelled for his men to provide some covering fire for the stupid trooper bounding across no-man's land.

Las-rounds spit and crackled all around him, and Daleigh couldn't seem to run anywhere near as fast as he wanted. Flying through the air at top-speed, he felt as if he were striding through molasses. Scorching red lasers made glaring ghostly lines on his retina as they zipped by his face and body, creating dull burns on Daleigh's exposed flesh as they flew past. A bright red lance screamed through the air, and hit the heel of his foot. Chunks of semi-liquid rubberized boot heel flew in all directions, coated faintly red by the small chunk of Daleigh's ankle that had been hit. As the trooper forced himself to go faster and faster, noticing now how incredibly heavy his gun and gear were, the smoking heel of his cauterized boot gave the impression that he was running so fast his feet were on fire.

Just as he neared twenty meters from the Chimera, he was hit. His left shoulder over-extended because of the bulky nature of his shoulder-armor, a brutally heavy hard-round careened through the air and impacted, scorching across the trooper's flak-vest first before blasting into the shoulder. The massive impact of the hard-round sent shattered chunks of matte-grey-brown flak armor flying in every direction, and demolishing the shoulder-pad.

The huge weight from the impact of the round sent Daleigh flying. Just as he was hit, his shoulder whipped around with the tremendous force of the impact, and the trooper was sent in a giant, leaping, tumbling roll through the air. His forward momentum combined with the crushing blow, and he made a complete spin and almost a complete forward roll while air born. He slammed into the ground with a cry, and was sent into a sprawling, violently uncontrolled tumble as he impacted on the ground, hard.

"Oh, flog." Geriod said, almost surprised.

"Ah, flog." Cathal cursed. He loaded a fresh cell into his modified Las, and called out "Covering fire!" as he leapt out from the hull of the Chimera. Geriod yelled loudly and he started firing along with the rest of the men as the Marine darted out into the line of fire.

By some far-flung twist of fate, Marine Reconnaissance Lance Corporal Ciarion Cathal wasn't hit once as he darted out into the heavy enemy fire, his seasoned grip tight around the matte-light-green of his Lasgun. A truly incredible volume of fire, hardly slowed at all by the pathetic amount of covering fire from Geriod and his men, rained down like a storm in a Deathworld jungle. He flung himself forward lightning quick, his sprint short and controlled yet bursting with energy. His lungs felt like the billowing furnaces of a Forge World, and his legs pumped battery acid.

A huge, wailing whistle of a shriek screeched through the sky. An artillery round of some sort dove from the smoke-thick heavens, screaming violently before plunging into the ground with a huge show of fire, mud, and debris. Sent into a jumbling, stumbling stagger, Cathal didn't stop his break-neck pace across the no-man's land even after the insane jarring closeness of the artillery round had nearly killed him. He finally reached the limp form of the trooper, laying in a slightly fetal, crumpled stupor on the ground.

Cathal quickly grinded to a roaring halt which sent dust and stone flying, and then threw his rifle into his right hand as he reached the boy. He entered a low crouch as shots flew overhead.

Cathal swung out his left hand, yanked the trooper viciously by the back of his fatigue collar, and checked to see if the kid was alive.

"Get you Green-Ass up off the ground!" Cathal yelled after he saw that the trooper was in fact alive, by evidence of his whimpering.

"I'm hit, sir." He managed to yell over the din, still bumbling.

"Tough-Titty! We're getting our shit out of the line of fire! Move!" He yelled, and yanked bodily at the soldier's jacket, hoisting him up with one brutal pull.

The Trooper went up, stumbling and tripping over his own feet, and was pushed forcefully in the right direction by the Marine. Gaining his footing, but still shambling about in a daze, Cathal was forced to run up and began ushering the dumbfounded trooper, practically under his arm. His rifle was in his right hand, and as shots zinged by and singed their skin, the Reconnaissance specialists sent punishing bursts of lasfire from his rifle, firing one-handed from the hip.

Sprays of dirt flew high into the air and fell down at them with increased frequency, as their exploits drew the attention of an enemy light-armor piece on down the line. Skittering bursts from the enemy hard-round weapons ricocheted off of the ground, and smatterings of mud licked up at the two soldier's feet. A las-round punched into Cathal's leg, and the Marine made a half-grunting yell as it tore a chunk of sizzling flesh from his calf.

"Hurry up!" Cathal yelled through girded teeth. Trooper Daleigh whimpered in response. Almost on cue, a light hard-round bounced heavily off of Daleigh's helmet, as if to emphasize the haste required. The impact made the young soldier yelp and an odd additional spring appeared in his step.

Enemy fire fell like hail around the two soldiers.

That was when the artillery round hit Cathal. A little over a meter away, a massive mortar round impacted the ground with tremendous fury. Fire and shrapnel screamed out of the roaring blast. From the furious inferno, a huge white-hot chunk of shrapnel spewed forth and flew like a bolter-round right at Cathal. Yelling and covering his face with his arms, the Marine violently shoved Daleigh out of the way before leaping out of the way. The screaming chunk of shrapnel tore across Cathal's back, tearing uniform and gear, and creating a festering, burning scar across his body. A veritable fusillade of smaller chunks of shrapnel ripped into his side, flaying the skin on his shoulder, arm, leg, and ribs.

Daleigh stumbled into the shelter of the burnt out hull, crashing into the vox-officer.

Geriod, very much enthralled with the scene that had just unfolded, cursed loudly and stepped over the gasping Daleigh. It was a short few meters out to the prone form of Cathal. Geriod swung around, dropped low, and aimed with both hands on his Laspistol. He shot two different Chaos warriors square as they rushed at him with wicked blades waving high in the stained air. How did they get in among us? The Captain thought to himself as he quickly holstered his pistol and dragged the Marine back into the cover of the Chimera.

"When the flog did the enemy start to charge us?" Geriod pronounced generally as he gestured for a medic to come and check out Cathal. The Marine was propped up against the Chimera, blood-soaked pants stretched out in front of him.

"Captain, you see, there was this attack on our convoy about fifteen minutes ago…" Cathal started, and then started laughing. The laugh turned into a cough, and a mix of blood and saliva dibbled lightly on his dried and cracked lips.

"How did I miss this shit?" Geriod joked, dumbfounded. "How's the kid?" the Captain asked as the Medic, whose name was Filey, quickly stepped over to look at Cathal.

"The kid? He's fine. Just shookin' up. It's this bag of flog that you've got to worry about." Filey said as he appraised the Marine's condition. He quickly took a thick roll of medical wrapping from his pack and started to apply gauze and white tape. Cathal grunted in pain as Filey splashed alcohol on the bubbling sore scorch-mark across the soldier's back.

"You're one tough bastard, you know that?" Geriod said, nodding toward Cathal.

"Yeh, Sir. Just doin' my job."

"And Cathal," Geriod said as he reloaded his Laspistol, "This is the Imperial floggin' guard – we haven't got any room for sappy stoic shit."

Cathal grinned, then winced in pain as Filey ripped a strip of cauterized skin from his back.

"Where the flog are the Conquerors going?" Dairre asked as Hollander slid back down the fox-hole to reload his weapon.

"What?" Hollander looked up from his reloading to look at Dairre.

"Look around – the floggin' cowards are pullin' out!" Dairre yelled suddenly.

The Conqueror Battle Tanks, about Eight of them left, were revving engines and sending black smoke into the air from numerous impacts. Leaving dust and smoke in their wake, the tanks pulled out.

"Emperor dammit …" Hollander trailed off. He rocked the bolt forward and threw himself up onto the rim of the hole. "Flog!" he yelled suddenly. Dairre looked up as Hollander was sent flailing into him, tackled by some crazed Chaos warrior. Bowled over by the sudden impact, Dairre was sent sprawling away.

Hollander, fending off the flailing arms of the Cultist that had sailed through the air to tackle him, was sent slamming into the muddy bottom of the hole. Mud and dirt flew into the air as the warrior slammed feet and fists into the struggling sniper. In an almost comical exchange of blows, Hollander and the Cultist traded slapping blows, flailing in the mud. However, the crudely fashioned, blood and dirt stained war-knife the Chaos soldier drew from the folds of his clothes was not funny in any way.

The struggle for dominance suddenly became brutal and animal. Balling up his fist, Hollander sent a crushing right hook into the cultist's nose. A thin mist of blood flew up from the nasal cavity, and the soldier was sent sprawling back. Yelling with animal furry, the Sniper launched himself up at the soldier. The Cultist was trying to regain the initiative, but was slammed back, hard, into the mud by Hollander. On top of the foul warrior, Hollander slung fist after fist into the wailing soldier's face. Blood welled up and was sent flying into the air by the relentless blows. Suddenly, the soldier jerked his knee up, right into the Sniper's groin. Wailing, Hollander fell off of the soldier.

The cultist scrambled through the mud as the sniper rolled around in pain. After a moment of searching, he located his knife, neglected on the embankment, and gripped it furiously as he flew toward Hollander. The Sniper reacted at the last possible moment, knocking the furious stab away with a barbaric hit. The Cultist responded quickly with a jab into the Sniper's nose. Just as he went to stab down into Hollander's throat with his knife, the Sniper reached up and gripped the soldier's wrists furiously.

The two struggled for a moment, the Cultist pushing down with both hands, Hollander trying to push the blade away with his. Time seemed to slow down for the Sniper. Hollander could see every detail on the foul man's face. His bloody mug was stained with grit and dirt. Mud, sweat, and blood dripped down onto the Sniper's face. Sound seemed to fade away as the Sniper focused all of his attention on his attacker. The Cultist's teeth were brown and misshapen, and his breath smelled like rotting flesh. Human flesh. The jagged blade pushed down closer and closer, the Cultist pushing down with his entire body weight. Hollander grunted and writhed as the knife was driven closer and closer. The tip of the knife lowered down and dug into the Sniper's rough, bristled throat. A bead of blood welled, and grew larger.

With a frightening suddenness, the steel but of a Lasgun smashed into the Cultist's head, and time came rushing back into full force. With a great smattering spray of blood, the Chaos warrior was sent flying off of the Sniper, knife and all, soundlessly. Sound, space, time, and everything Hollander had been blotting out rushed back with sudden clarity.

Looking up, very disgruntled, Hollander looked up at Dairre. He stood, heaving heavily, his large, bear-like hands wrapped around the barrel of his Lasgun. His eyes were filled with fire. The bloodied butt of his lasgun dripped Cultist. Hollander noted that, just then, if Dairre had not been human, he would have been breathing smoke and flame.

Dairre then dropped his Lasgun into the mud, reached down, and hoisted Hollander back up.

"You alright?" Hollander asked.

"Me?" Dairre said, joking.

"Yeah-Yeah… Thanks." Hollander said, snatching up his rifle and then crouching back into cover from the light las-rounds that had begun to flicker over their position at the two standing soldiers. He sighed heavily. Dairre dropped in beside him again.

"No problem." Dairre said.

"We certainly are flogged, aren't we?" Hollander asked.

"If I ever see that floggin' Conqueror Commander again – Aengus, was it? – I'll gut him alive." Dairre grumbled. He sent a short burst out of the trench, and hit a Cultist with a trio of shots that downed the man, arms flailing.

Hollander had sighted up, and then pulled the trigger. Somewhere, far away, a Warrior Sergeant was dropped cleanly with a perfect kill-shot. "Dairre," he said calmly.

"What, Holls?"

"I think you might get your chance."

Roaring in with the pounding fury of an orbital bombardment, the wedge of Conqueror Battle Tanks tore into the enemy formations from the flank. Hull and Sponson Heavy Bolters ripped huge bloody chunks of flesh from screaming, fleeing cultists and even full fledged warriors. Wild las-shots and random hard-rounds pounded into the armored hulls of the tanks, and bounced off harmlessly in the face of the relentless onslaught. Soft, human bodies were struck and popped like juicy melons on the front of the thundering vehicles. Along with the literal river of high-explosive heavy-bolter rounds, the Conquerors fired their lethal main-turret rounds.

Enemy tanks turned to face the oncoming force, but couldn't adjust quickly enough. Huge tank-rounds tore into their armor, sending tons of reinforced steel and stored ammunition and fuel into fiery, swirling conflagrations of screeching metal and screaming shrapnel.

One enemy tank, further on down the line, sent a single, lucky Anti-Tank shot. The heavy armor-piercing turret-weapon blasted into and through the heavy front armor of the Conqueror tank. The tank rolled to a halt, turned slightly, and rocked on its right treading. Then, with sudden furry, the tank exploded. Huge twisting, orange flames licked up at the sky, the fire grimacing like a wicked daemon. A secondary explosion lifted the turret mounting up into the air, spiraling. The wedge formation kept on rolling, suddenly viciously angry at the enemy who had gained the nerve to slay their fellow tank.

Spitting fire and death with each relentless salvo, and unrestrained, uncaring Cultist splattered over the front of their vehicles or crushed under their treads, the enemy vehicles and troopers had no choice but to fall back. The command tank of the formation, the Fury of Redemption, commanded by Captain Folstus Aengus, sent a lethally accurate shot toward an enemy tank trying to turn and flee the scene. The sluggish tank had multiple vox-aerials of some kind sprouting from the hull. Upon being hit by the Commander's tank, and then struck by another two shots from two separate Conquerors, the Vox-line flooded with chatter and confirmation, relieved from the shroud of static. The vox-jammer had, evidently, been struck.

The enemy in route, the Redemption rolled up toward Captain Geriod, who had liberated a lasgun from somewhere, and was taking shots at the running enemy. The tank's top-hatch lifted, and a heavy-bearded man emerged from the top.

"Aengus!" Geriod waved.

"Captain Geriod!" Folstus appraised the foot-commander, "What's the status, sir?"

"Sir?" Geriod responded.

"Didn't you hear? Major Heubrik didn't survive the attack. That puts you in command."

"Flog." Geriod said simply, taken a little aback. "Well, we're not out of the woods yet," he said, walking up and hopping onto the Redemption, "We need to get mounted up and headin' off again before the buggers regroup for another attack. We can't be hear when they get their wits about them. Get me your vox."

"Yes, Sir." Aengus responded, and reached down to grab the Company-Power vox-horn from his vehicle.

Grabbing the offered horn, Geriod began issuing instructions over the recently freed vox-channel. Hearing the orders, the men, wounded and all, mounted up into or onto the remaining vehicles. The process took a little while, and, on the horizon, the enemy was beginning to return to the scene of the battle. Geriod wished the men would hurry up.

He leapt down from Aengus' vehicle, and found his way onto a Command Salamander. He exchanged a few words with the tank commander there, and then signaled for the convoy to take off again. Pulling out from the tar-black smoke of the battle-field, the task-force had been reduced to just one-hundred men, nine Chimera's, two Leman Russ Battle Tanks, seven Conqueror Battle Tanks, and a handful of armored humvees and covered vehicles.

'Sir?' The Vox-Mic in Geriod's Salamander Tank sounded. The Captain grabbed the horn.

"This is Captain Geriod. Who is this?"

'Good, it's you. Listen, this is Lieutenant Cearny.'

"Yeah, Leman Russ, Flaming Brand, right?" Geriod cut in.

'Yes, Sir. I'm also speaking for Lieutenant Alroy. His vox is down.' Cearny's voice crackled through the vox.

"Alright. Go ahead, Lieutenant."

'Sir, our Russ's took some heavy fire in the battle. We can hardly keep up with the convoy.'

"Cearny, don't be stupid."

'Don't worry, Sir. I'm just suggesting that that Alroy and Myself stay back a little, to slow down the opposition.'

"Unacceptable, Cearny! I've only got a handful of men."

'We'll join up with the convoy once we've taken a few of them out.' The vox was empty except for static. 'Please, Sir.'

After a long while of silence, Geriod finally said, "Alright. Pull out of formation. The Emperor Protects."

'The Emperor Protects, Sir.' The refrain came back over the vox.

From the back of his armored humvee, Sniper Mark Hollander turned to Dairre. "What the flog are they doing?" he asked. He gestured at the two badly wounded Leman Russ tanks that peeled out of the formation.

"I have no idea." Dairre said plainly.

"Emperor rest their souls, I think I know what's goin' on." Hollander said after a long thought.

The two Russ's turned and faced the oncoming horde of enemy vehicles that tailed the Imperial Convoy. Twenty main battle-tanks, seventeen light-vehicles, and a couple captured Chimera transports thundered down the road after them.

In a true display of courage, skill, and valor, the two Leman Russ tanks fended off the advancing Chaos attack. Just the two tanks took on the advancing horde, accounting for six Battle-Tanks, four Light-Tanks, and one of the Transports. No soul saw the valiant, truly epic tank battle. The two tank-commander's tremendous efforts were never recorded or respected. The effort to stall the enemy, though valiant, couldn't prevent them from catching up to the fleeing Imperial convoy.

"How much time till we reach Eyeldin?" he asked his familiar vox-officer.

"I can't give you an exact time, Sir, but within the hour."

"Within the hour…" Geriod repeated, "Listen, you've been with me for a while now. What's your name?"

"Trooper Brian Kevan, Sir."

"Well there, Kevan, I appreciate your efforts." Geriod turned to look back at the convoy behind him. "Kevan, vox down to the tail elements of our convoy. Ask them how long we have until the enemy catches up to us."

"Sir?"

"How long until they over-take us. Their vehicles are cheaper made, lighter. They'll catch up to us eventually.

"What about Lieutenant-"

"Don't talk about that Kevan. It's one of those things… just one of those things one doesn't talk about."

"Yes, Sir." Kevan said. He adjusted his vox and began asking questions.

"Hey, Hollander, Sir?" Trooper Daleigh inquired toward the Sniper who sat at the back of the humvee, staring out, stone-faced, at the approaching enemy.

"Don't call me 'Sir'." He said plainly.

"Okay… Hollander?"

"What?"

"Geriod's on the horn. He's askin' how much time you think we've got until the enemy convoy takes us over. I was thinkin'-"

"You probably thought wrong." Hollander said.

"Well, what do you think, Sir? I mean – Hollander?"

"I'll give 'em ten minutes, tops, until we start engaging back here. Fifteen minutes until their alongside us."

"Okay, Hollander." Daleigh began to turn and talk into the mic, when Hollander stopped him.

"And Daleigh,"

"Yeah?"

"Tell him this shit is gunna' get real, real soon."

"Hey, there's Eyeldin!" Declan gasped.

Dairre cackled madly, and sent a burst at one of the remaining vehicles.

After a long haul of combat, the Imperials were finally reaching their destination. Redemption was at hand. The convoy had been engaged in furious combat for almost the entire journey to the city. The enemy had shown no quarter, and the tank battle had been brutal and non-stop. By the end, the Imperial Forces had been reduced to just four Conquerors, seven badly injured Chimeras, and three Salamanders along with seven humvees.

After a few moments in silence, Dairre had, reluctantly, crawled down from the support gun mounted on the swivel turret at the back of the humvee. He had been there for the larger part of the running battle, defying death merely by standing there. In an effort to break the tension, he produced a withered pack of Lho sticks and handed them out amiably to the survivors. Covered in the blood of their comrades, and down to just Dairre, Hollander, Daleigh, and Declan, it was an awkward first few moments.

Daleigh leaned back onto a seat, sticky with blood. He took in a long, shaking drag, and exhaled.

"That was some floggin' shit." Declan said at last.

"You're telling me." Dairre responded. He was bleeding from multiple cuts on his face, and he ripped a piece of cloth from a fatigue jacket on the floor to dab the blood away.

After exhaling a long geyser of smoke, Hollander remarked "I'm down to two floggin' rounds. Two."

"Can't you recharge them?" Daleigh asked.

"Yeah. It takes a while, is all. Special tools, too."

"Sorry."

"Don't be."

Silence returned. For some reason, they seemed comfortable. They seemed content to sit there, with each other, having been pulled through the thick of combat and escaping with their lives. They shared the burden of guilt, the thought that they had lived where others had died. It had united them. There was silence because silence was all that was needed.

Daleigh reached down and pulled his dented helmet from the floor. He slapped it on his head with a slow sort of deliberation.

"What's wrong with you?" Hollander asked, looking up at Daleigh.

Private Niall Daleigh couldn't rightly say. There was something, just then that told him to put his helmet on. As they rolled up toward the looming black arch of Eyeldin, the very tips of the tallest buildings throwing shadow over the dim light of dusk. Something about the way the burning ember of his Lho flickered. Something about the shadows. Some far off sound.

The young trooper looked up, and realized the men in the humvee were all looking at him, even Declan, glancing up furtively at the split rear-view-mirror. Daleigh breathed in, and then sighed out heavily.

"One doesn't survive long in the Emperor's Imperial Guard without a knack for certain things. Like knowing when you're about to be balls-deep in battle, for example." Daleigh said, stoically, without a hint of irony.

Without a moment's hesitation, Hollander slapped on his helmet, and extinguished his Lho on the broken windowsill.

"Thanks, kid." Hollander said.

A moment later, the Chaos Lascannon hiding in the tall building next to the arch slammed a blinding red stream of energy into the front of their vehicle, wreathing the hood in flame. The Humvee was sent flying into the air as the rest of the convoy came under attack.

Daleigh blinked. He was looking up at the sky. It was peaceful. A light snow had begun to fall, and there was no other sensation, no feeling, no sound, no smell, except for the lightly drifting flakes.

Without any real regard for his own safety, Daleigh sat up. He saw the flicker of lasguns, the fury of combat. The buildings around the entrance had lit up, and now spewed fire and death from the hidden gun emplacements. An ambush, he thought plainly to himself. He looked around, and found a wooden-stocked lasgun with a bayonet attached to the front. He grabbed it, and realized that it was his. He wondered vaguely what had happened to the humvee.

He stood up. Everything seemed sort of distant, detached. He was vaguely aware of the chunk of shrapnel in his leg, and the huge gash that gushed blood on his left arm. Daleigh took in the scene. He saw the Imperials fighting, and the relentless chaos attack. He saw tanks trying desperately to fend off the ambush. His eyes settled on a chaos soldier in black furs.

Almost medieval looking patches of jet-black fur, extravagant and offering no protection whatsoever, flared off of the man's squat, bulky shoulders. His face and skin were dark, walnut colored, a tainted skin disease of some sort. He carried a black mace, which crackled noiselessly in Daleigh's silent world, and he killed Guardsmen with ease as he strode across the ground. Daleigh saw a man run up to him, and recognized it to be Captain Geriod. A Marine that Daleigh didn't recognize, wrapped with medical gauze and looking nowhere fit for combat was beside him. The two men charged at the Chaos Commander. With a flick of his wrist, both soldiers were sent sprawling away, screaming soundlessly.

It occurred to Daleigh that he should kill the Chaos Commander. Looking down at the weathered weapon, the trooper walked forward. Shots winged by, killing men or destroying vehicles. Clods of dirt sprung up where they were hit by the hail of fire. Daleigh walked, almost casually, across the battlefield. He was not hit the entire stroll up to the Chaos Captain.

Approaching him, a meter away, Daleigh was repulsed by him. His appearance, his demeanor; although he couldn't register the smell, his body repelled the disgusting Chaos taint. The commander turned around from slaying a trooper, and found himself a breadth away from Daleigh.

With a simple, unimportant gesture, Daleigh pulled back, and thrust into his foe's throat, jamming the large, serrated blade to the hilt.

The Commander grabbed the bloodied knife with his free hand, and swung a massive blow with his mace. The crushing force of the blow hit Daleigh like a round from a Leman Russ. The trooper was sent sprawling through the air.

With a startling suddenness, reality came back to Trooper Daleigh. He felt the cold, hard ground and the gentle sway of the dead grass, and the heat of energy weapons. He could smell the chemical stink of burning promethium and fyceline, and the ozone discharge of las-weapons. He heard the screams of dieing men and furious combat, and the blast of lasguns and of heavy weapons. A Conqueror cannon boomed.

Then, Private Niall Daleigh died, alone, on the cold, hard ground.

The engine of a Salamander Scout vehicle revved. Lieutenant Belhuden of Imperial Task force Eyeldin A7 snarled angrily through the optic lens of his covered vehicle. A lone soldier patrolled along the road, curving gently to wrap around back to the city on a fairly routine looking path. At the mouth of the city gate, a small Imperial encampment sent withered, wispy trails of smoke from a handful of small camp fires. The camp was far, far too small. The men that occupied that camp couldn't have numbered more than seventy, at very best.

Belhuden saw the patrolman stop for a moment to look at the Salamander, then drop a Lho stick and crush it underfoot before lighting up another as he began walking again. The trio of Scout vehicles for the Imperial Guard Primary Eyeldin Liberation Force started moving again, and pulled to a stop right next to the patrolling trooper.

The man had, stopped, and looked up at the armored vehicle with an unimpressed glance. For a long moment, all three of the forward scout vehicles did nothing but sit and idle. The muted rumbling seemed to bore the trooper, and he was about to move again when the lead vehicle was opened up at the back, and a single man emerged. The patrolman noted that the man was a Lieutenant.

Striding forward, fire and brimstone, Lieutenant Belhuden screamed "Trooper, what's your name?"

The trooper just looked back at him blankly. The Lieutenant was stopped a few inches from the trooper's face. He retreated a little when his eyes locked with the Private's. Those, green, venomous eyes. Like a snake, Belhuden thought to himself.

"Is this the task force sent to Eyeldin three days ago?" Belhuden asked.

The trooper merely nodded, and blew out Lho smoke.

"You were given strict orders not to advance into the city!"

Again, the man merely nodded, a hint of agreement in his face.

"Trooper, where the flog is everybody else?"

"What everybody else?" Mark Hollander said, and then walked off along his patrol route.

Stay tuned for the next story, a look into the dark, dark past of Trooper Mark Hollander, while experiencing the horrors of a Tyranid invasion, before the Chaos attack, on the far away planet of Almanac IV. Valiant last stands await!

Thanks for reading,

-S.B.