7.

The Ork's last push had been a bloody affair. All things considered the Persephonians had done well. A great number of the charging greenskins had been laid to waste by the overwhelming fire arrayed against them. Unfortunately, all that had managed was weeding the chaff from the horde. When the Orks had finally managed to close grounds and engage the firing lines, it had been the biggest and the toughest of them that had made it. Almost twice the size of an ordinary Ork, these brutes, classified as Nobs in the Tactica Imperialis, had sent soldiers flying in various states of dismemberment. However frightful these juggernauts had been, imperial victory was at hand. Eventually the Orks were overwhelmed, with casualties falling within acceptable parameters according to Imperial doctrine.

Reforming the ranks with the help of his entourage, Captain Rommer regrouped with his peers amongst the other companies and charged down the bluff. As colonel Petra had expected, the Orks routed as soon as they were hammered against his siege lines by the Persephonian chimeras. As cathartic as their first offensive engagement had been, when the dust settled, it became far harder to cheer. The ever torpid father Jonas was administering the final blessings to the rows of Departmento issued corpse shrouds lying at his feet. Ragged guardsmen were moving in small groups, helping each other to their platoon medics, who had pooled their resources around a few damaged Chimeras. Rommer winced as a cold eyed medic took the hacksaw to a comatose trooper, severing what was left of a ragged stump below his knee. The smell of burning greenskins, piled high as Emperor-Day pyres, wafted over him. Bringing a handkerchief to his mouth while listened to reports, the paling aristocrat muffled his gagging impulse and set about another direction all together.

His vox operator, who's set the officer was connected to, was suddenly turned on himself as he tried to minimize the distance between his equipment and the captain. Rommer took shelter in the leeway of his command vehicle, desperate to escape the breeze. Casting his eyes about to focus on something else than the nauseating stench, his gaze came across Lieutenant Della and her men. Distracted by the insistent vox operator, babbling something about his equipment amidst an effluvium of apologies, he noticed a tense debate unfolding within his subordinate's vicinity. He was about to go over and set this unseemly gathering straight when he spotted the black clad shape of Commissar Carver. The man was brandishing his bolt pistol at two kneeling troopers. Rommer suddenly found the stench of burning greenskins much more tolerable and marched back where he had come from, a leaning vox operator following on his impromptu leash.

'Wait, you can't just shoot them!' screamed Della as Commissar Carver leveled his bolt pistol with unwavering assurance. Both men knelt with their hands behind their head. The shadow of their deaths something neither of them expected nor understood.

'I most certainly can, Lieutenant.' The dark specter's eyes leered invisible behind the thick black visor of his peaked cap. 'In fact, that I have brought them here instead of executing them in the field is the extent of my magnanimity'. The Commissar's finger rested upon the trigger, set to bring down the hammer of doom upon the deserting pair. 'I have found Trooper Lancer and Corporal Melot guilty of desertion, having abandoned their post, disobeyed orders, and failed in their moral duty to the Emperor in the persecution of his holy war!'

Lieutenant Della had ripped her beret off her head when she had seen the political officer walking her men back to the front line like prisoners. The clearly nervous men were holding a battered and bloody sergeant Trevin between them, having braved the infernal battlefield to finally find him. Medicae auxilia barely had time to take Trevin away that the black clad specter of death had forced her soldiers to their knees and readied them for the Emperor's justice. The man was heartless; Della harbored no doubt the extent of the commissar's compassion had everything to do with needing someone to carry the incapacitated Trevin back to safety.

Guardsmen all around had stopped what they were doing and watched with morbid curiosity as the scene played out. Fires still burned along the tarmac. Men heaved greenskins by the dozen into piles for burning. Chimeras rumbled as they were attended by techpriests. Officers were whipping their men into line with the help of their sergeants. But despite the carnage of wounded men and ravaged wrecks, the air around Misfit squad was uncannily still.

'These men were acting under my orders commissar. Surely you will not execute them for doing their duty?' The golden haired officer pleaded, her headdress crushed in her nervous grasp. Siggurd was by her side and shot her an unreadable glance.

Carver raised his weapon, but did not holster it. 'Is that so Lieutenant? I understand it is every noble officer's reflex to commiserate with their soldiers. But please realize that if you wish to continue along that line and I do not find your answer satisfactory... 'He paused letting the weight of the situation settle, 'then you will join them under charges of incompetence.'

As if brought by divine providence, father Jonas joined the crowd which was slowly building around the commissar and the lieutenant. Needless to say most troopers saw it as a mixed blessing. Guard priest did one of two things, daily services and funeral rites. Only one of which was likely to be needed here.

The one sided stare down continued for long seconds before Della realized he was waiting for her testimony. 'After their carrier crashed I was forming my platoon to establish a beach head as per orders. I was obviously handicapped with one squad out of operational range and so I could not advance as I should have.' She licked her lips nervously, why was she sticking her neck out for the biggest torn in her side? Siggurd certainly would have counseled against it. Then again he had no love for Trevin and his flunkies. Neither did she, but somewhere deep down she still felt she owed them for the call she had made on the battery hills.

The squad had been ordered to protect a Manticore battery on the defensive hillocks of the second trench along the Kursk battle line. Della had ordered the battery to change their arc of fire to cover the center of the line. It had been the tactically sound thing to do. It also had left them without support to quell the tide of Orks climbing their hillock. She had condemned them all to a horrible death at the hands of the barbarous greenskins. But they had not died; in fact they had held the line against all odds. This was the least she could do, Honor demanded it, she demanded it from herself.

'Proceed' said the commissar matter-of-factly.

'Misfit reported the loss of their squad leader, and they were pinned. I sent Veteran sergeant Siggurd to rally them and hold their ground, as dutiful guardsmen should.' She hoped she wasn't overselling it. 'No doubt when the line had pushed parallel to their position, Corporal Melot and trooper Lancer had seized the opportunity to go looking for their squad leader.'

The commissar's head swiveled slowly to Siggurd, piercing him with his unknowable stare. 'Do you corroborate this account Veteran sergeant Siggurd?'

Frak! Thought Della, now she had dragged another good soldier into this mess of a farce. She owed Misfit but Siggurd had no such debt of honor and he would not lie to those he openly disdained.

But he did.

'On my record commissar, sir' Siggurd twisted at the waist slightly and spit a wad of congealed blood from his tussle with the Orks. He never took his eyes off the blank visor that hid most of the vulture's face. 'We had... comm difficulties. I judged it safe enough to let the boys go.'

With that, Carver slipped his powerful pistol in its cradle and nodded. 'Lucky for them, your record is spotless sergeant.' And indeed it was. As chief officer responsible for discipline in the Persephonian 1st, he had studied the best and the worst of the regiment's trooper's files. It was rare to find both of those extremes in the same instance, such as with Siggurd and Melot.

'I will be requesting a writ of permission from you lieutenant, confirming this account and the fact that these troopers were under order. The Emperor protects!' snapped the black clad specter as he clicked his boot heels. As he walked away, Jensen slumped in relief. Freddy still held his hands behind his head and let go of the nervous giggle he had been holding back.

...

The hum of the moving air was all he could hold on to. Fire lanced along his limbs when he tried to move them. The agony was a constant, each breath like crushed glass rattling in his chest. Darkness was the only other constant, pain and darkness. All he knew was that the shaking tremors, when they came, always ended with the agony of splintered limbs and then helpless paralysis. He had no clue as to where he was or what was happening. It seemed pointless then to try and figure it out. Instead, he focused on the strange hum of the moving air.

...

Slowly, lucidity came crawling back. His pain addled mind found fitful rest in blissful morphium hazes. Though he couldn't remember how he had been hurt. He knew it must have been terrible.

What seemed at first a limbo of agony and senseless torture was eventually replaced by the soft weightlessness of pain salves. He was dimly aware that time flittered by, but he could not have cared less. The blazing purgatory had eased, and memory found its way back to him through the cracks of his shattered skull.

...

Trevin woke again to the strange smell of spiced smoke wafting over his bed. Bandages wound tight around his head robbed him of his sight. His body was as good as useless, encased in thick synth cast. Only his hearing and sense of smell were still of use to him.

True enough, the dosage of his pain salves sometimes made even those senses questionable but he took comfort in being able once again to tell the difference between his dreams and those fitful waking hours.

The curious scent came to him in slow puffs and was not all that unpleasant. He always felt tingly and lighter when it was around. Testing his hand, Trevin found that he could make use of his fingers and slowly tried to move his arm. Dull pain throbbed along its length but even that was a shadow of its former self. He brought his hand to his face with great difficulty, finding that scruffy facial hair had grown over it. Despite what felt like a monumental step in his recovery, Trevin still couldn't manage to free his eyes from the bandages.

'Oy, soldier boy is' wake! Nah nah, rest. Before angry lady shows 'gain. Rest, I watch over ya dreamin.' Trevin couldn't understand what the voice was trying to say but the heady weight settling over him convinced him it didn't matter.

...

Insistent voices woke Trevin again. They came from time to time to check up on him. They prodded at him and changed the plastek tubes and bags that allowed for his waste to leave his body. Some spoke as if he was not there, others tried to ask him how he was doing, but Trevin never said much. Speaking hurt too much. Any movement of his head did. So he developed a series of grunts which sounded more or less positive depending on what he could understand of the queries.

Trevin didn't know how long he had been at the medicae center, for surely this was where he rested. The smell of antiseptics battled with pungent infection. He guessed he was in some kind of communal ward because the voices moved to and fro regularly. He could hear them speak to many different guardsmen. He could also hear those less fortunate than him, although how fortunate he really was would have to wait until he could actually see himself in a looking glass.

He could now move his fingers and toes, which meant he still had limbs. Although his days were spent in darkness, he could see when he opened his eyes under the bandages. The light that filter through was painfully bright, so he preferred to keep them closed. So far so good, thought Trevin.

...

He hadn't figured out who the mysterious speaker that came to his bed side was. The voice was a man's and he never came when the physicians and auxilia's were around. He spoke with a strange accent and bad gothic. Whoever he was, he was always followed by the spiced smoke and Trevin had recovered enough of his wit to realize the man was blowing it into her face. Whatever kind of game the stranger was playing at, the peaceful dreams Trevin had when the smoke filled his lungs was enough for him not to question it further. Each time, Trevin would breathe deeply of its exotic scent and smile. Somehow, he knew the stranger smiled with him.

'Ung'Bak! You have been smoking your damnable narco sticks in my ward again haven't you?' The accusatory tone started Trevin awake.

'Nah nah mein! You told Bak no smoke, he no smoke!' came the stranger's voice, mischievous and apologetic. 'Besides, you took Bak's last stick yesterday.'

The irritated woman sat on Trevin's bedside and started to fiddle at his bandages. She was clearly more intent on speaking to this Bak fellow. 'And I took the ones before that, and those before that. It's your damn friends that bring them, I know it. If you don't stop I am going to ask Medicae Orthel to deny you their visits.'

'Nah mein, Medic man no do that, he like Bak and his friends.' Answered the stranger, joyful humor in his tone, unruffled by the auxilia's threats.

'We will see Bak, we will see!' The woman finally turned to him, her voice changing from irritated admonishment to soft professional interest as she took his hand. 'Sergeant Augustus Trevin, I'm auxilia Miella, if you can understand me please squeeze my hand.

'Its ok' said Trevin hoarsely, surprised at how raw he sounded. 'It doesn't hurt to talk so much now.

'That's great news sergeant, you were in a very serious crash. We had to keep you under to spare your body most of the shock. How are you feeling?'

'I'm not sure. Better? I guess. How long was I out?' Trevin tried to sit up but gritted his teeth as pain ripped through his chest. Stars exploded in his vision as he was careful pushed back down by the auxilia.

'You must not move sergeant. You've only begun to mend. The Emperor deemed you worthy to live. However miraculous that is, you must not make it any harder for us to keep you amongst the living.' Miella used a well practiced tone, one which carefully balanced faith, compassion, and a hint of guilt to get the usually stubborn guardsmen to do as she asked. It worked far more often than not. On some guardsmen however, it had no effect.

'He big boy lady, he can take pain, yes?' Trevin felt Bak lean over him for an instant before Miella shoved him back.

'Emperor help me Bak! If you don't give me room to work I'm going to use these scissors on you!'

'Scissors?' asked Trevin.

'Yes sergeant...'

'Augustus' interrupted Trevin.

Her careful fingers began to loosen his bandages slightly before she answered. 'I know your first name sergeant, however, the Munitorum is quite adamant that we simply refer to patients by their rank.

Trevin heard the scissors sheer through the bandages carefully, the cold steel against his itchy skin a welcome feeling.

'Close your eyes sergeant, they have not seen light in quite some time and it will be painful at first but they will adjust.' Miella assured the guardsman.

Trevin smirked. 'Does the Munitorum also insist on you being elusive about how you answer questions?'

'Pardon?' the auxilia had paused her work and Trevin heard Bak snicker.

'I already asked you twice how long I was out, you never answered.' Pressed Trevin with what he hoped was a playful tone, only hearing his croaking voice instead.

'Questions slow us down sergeant, the Munitorum does not tell us not to converse with the patients per say...' she finally pulled the last of the bandages off Trevin's face, keeping a hand cupped over his eyes carefully. 'Your chart says you were at the central dispensary for a month and then sent to the recovery wards for two more.'

Three months thought Trevin, 'any news from the front?' he asked in disbelief.

The auxilia sighed softly as she parted her fingers to let light caress the sergeant's sensitive eyes. She shook her head; 'I never hear anything but what the guardsmen scream in their sleep...' it was clear to Trevin that Miella did not want to speak of it.

The blurred edge of his vision resolved painfully, his blinking eyes trying to bare the all encompassing wall of brilliant white that flooded over them. Slowly, between barely opened eye lids, Trevin saw the sadness painting Miella's face, and behind her, Bak's wide grin.

...

Thunder Ridge, it had a nice ring to it. Within a few days of destroying the Orks encamped on it, the ridge became the first forward command post in the battle for Kursk. Since the first day the imperial forces had landed on this ruddy dust ball, this had been the first advance, the first success in one whole year of bleeding and dying in the emperor's name.

It had a nice ring, but it didn't look like much. Colonel Petra and his battalion of Ranok siege engineers had built, dug, and supervised the other elements of the assault force in how to make earthworks. From the top of the ridge down its sloping rear (which now pointed towards the Ork lines), lines of trenches, saps, communication by ways, parallels, and pill boxes reinforced with dirt glacis made up the defenses leading up to the barracks.

With flak boards and steel plates the men of the imperial guard had at once built their homes and their fox holes. They would fight and die in these trenches. Only the Ranok 568th found comfort in that. Reinforced dug outs could survive anything short of a direct hit down their ventilation shafts. Seeing how Orks were bad at calculating angles, it was unlikely the subterranean chambers along the trenches would collapse. Of course you had to know the ins and outs of engineering to have that insight and so no matter how much the Ranok diggers explained, the other regiments dreaded being buried alive.

Behind the trenches was the ridge proper. The base sat solidly anchored on the rock plateau that had calcified over the ages. The layers of the canyon which had reached these heights allowed for the barracks, motor pool, and artillery positions to command incredible arcs of fire. Along the height and breath of the slope leading down from the ridge, impassable fields of overlapping fire created a kill box the likes no sane man would ever dare. Unfortunately for the soldiers of the Emperor, the Orks were too dumb to be afraid.

By the end of the first month after capturing the ridge, the Orks had assaulted the trenches no less than twenty-eight times. None of the Orks, their ramshackle war wagons, or even their pitiful excuse for walkers, named killer-khans by the horde screaming their names, had survived the defenses. Had circumstances been different, it would have been a great victory for the guard.

Despite the presence of persephonian mechanized infantry, Ranok trench specialists, a company worth of sentinels and hellhounds from the Pangean detachment, a platoon of Galvan scouts, and an entire battery of basilisk artillery, the Orks were bleeding them dry. There simply was not enough ammunition.

Las packs drained faster than they were recharged. Heavy stubbers ate solid projectiles at a ravenous rate and their barrels warped from the constant firing. Auto cannons had long gone silent and their silence left certain trenches dangerously unsupported. Las cannons had fared better, being only used on heavily armored targets like the wagons and killer-khans, still, not many cells remained. Rocket launchers laid gathering dust in the armories because no shells remained. Even the mighty basilisk, whose use this base had been established for, had run dry.

All that remained was men, faith, and courage. When the latter had dwindled to nothing, the Commissars had found an alternative. The endless motivational reservoir that is fear.

Their senior, Commissar Carver, had addressed the men in the trenches one morning after a Ranok hiver was found dead at his own hands. 'Suicide is not an option gentlemen', the dark specter had said solemnly, as priests had lain the body of the trooper for all to see.

'You are charged by the God-Emperor himself with the destruction of his enemies, which are mankind's enemies. You have been armed and cloaked in his protection for this sacred duty.' Carver had looked at them from behind his featureless visor, every guardsmen feeling his stare though they could not see his eyes.

'You will fight until you are killed. Fight until your blood has soaked the ground a deeper red than Kursk's own. Fight until you have made your death worth the effort and investment that the Imperium has devoted to your sacred duty.' With his last words he drew his bolt pistol and held it at the ready while the priests chanted litanies of accusation and horrid torments for the souls of cowards.

'Trooper Vershok of the Ranok 568th, also known as the ground pounders, you have been found guilty of failing your duty in the service of the Emperor. For this, the penalty is death by execution!'

Carver leveled his pistol and shot the corpse in the head. The harsh bark was followed a moment after by the mass reactive shell blowing the skull apart in a shower of gore. The assembled guardsmen reeled from the sight. It seemed that even death was not enough to still the commissariat's hand. Even as men of the 568th grumbled at the excessive shaming of their fellow's body, three other commissars escorted haggard looking soldiers to their knees in front of the crowd.

Their eyes were hollow and their faces wore despair openly. Carver took a single confident step to the first of the guardsmen and shot him in the face. 'These guardsmen are part of trooper Vershok's unit.'

He walked up to the next, who simply looked up at the emotionless face of his executioner, and shot him. 'The crime of their comrade is a burden the entire unit must carry.'

Carver looked up at the crowd as he walked to the last man, who whimpered in terror as death stalked towards him. 'Every man that does not die at the hand of the enemy will perish at the hand of the emperor's judgment. Should he believe himself out of the god-emperor's reach, he will find himself joined by three of his brothers. To them, he will have to explain how his cowardly shame was worth their lives.'

With those simple words of rebuke, he executed the last kneeling guardsman without ever lowering his eyes.

Needless to say that word of the incident had spread through the soldiers' ranks like wildfire. As heartless as the decree had been, not a single suicide had been reported in the following months. Incidents of guardsmen running out of their trenches into the teeth of the assaulting hordes did increase, however. After a few more examples by the commissariat, those broken souls made sure to leave their equipment in the trenches before charging barehanded, least their fellows be sent to recuperate the Emperor's property.

On the eve of the second month, when men were down to their last clips and set their bayonets on their rifle's end, the Emperor had finally answered the doomed guardsmen's prayers. The Ork horde, seemingly inexhaustible, was running rampant up the slope butchering its defenders when the night sky filled with grav chute.

Before the crates of ammunition even hit the ground, powerful beams of las bolts pierced the night with unerring accuracy. The bottom of the slope lit up in billowing clouds of hellfire and engulfed the body of the advancing horde. Seconds later, storm troopers hit the ground and rolled up into firing crouches to continue laying their powerful hell gun fire into the confused Orks.

Despite the harrowing fire that skewered the foremost greenskins, the storm troopers were too few to truly rout the foe, but vital minutes had been bought by the surprise attack. Guardsmen all over the slope desperately ran from their trenches to open ammunition crates and distribute the much needed contents.

The Macharian "Death Wings" were now fighting a retreat up the slope with disciplined volleys, covering their numbers with expertly laid fire. They moved like shadows in the darkness, the red lit lenses of their night gear the only way to tell where they were. Still, they fought with such fury and precision that the defenders' spirits rose at this miraculous rescue.

Doom had been postponed. Although the toll had been great and much of the ammunition had fallen and scattered too far to be recovered, there had been enough to buy them more time. Time for which to square the debt they owed the Emperor, or enough time for General Von Richter to evacuate his precious war machines. Lost within the carnage of the war, a soldier dreamt of a fateful night, so long ago.

...

The shot was lost within the fury of the storm, but his hand still shook from the discharge. Lord Steld lay crumpled on the rich scintilian red rug. Bellechance's breath was coming in ragged bursts as he struggled to cope with the blasphemous truth of his act. The master of the estate was choking on his own blood, which poured from the bullet wound that had torn out most of his neck.

The lord's boudoir revealed itself somberly amidst the flashes of lightning. Its every sumptuous contours somehow made morbid by the act of betrayal they had just witness. The steward's legs could no longer bear the burden of their owner and Bellechance leaned against the writing desk, the very same that still separated the dead master from himself.

Windows rattled from the buffeting winds, seeming to voice the outrage of the house itself. Then, silence, a strange absence that tortured the breathless servant. A silence only weakly intruded upon by a timid whimpering.

'Whose there?' Asked Bellechance to the darkened room, the steward turned upon himself, leveling the compact pistol at shadows. 'Show yourself!'

Thunder crashed a second after the brilliant light of the electric storm gave him a glimpse of the spreading pool of blood draining from the master's body. He circled the corpse half expecting the lord to rise and punish him for his insolent act, but lord Steld remained still and continued to grow pale with a stricken air of condescending surprise.

Another flash, more whimpering, Bellechance felt the beating of his heart, his sweating brow, and the rising sense of damnation build within him. He wondered if madness was gripping him. He had after all, killed his better, his master, and for what?

That's when he saw her. The child was holding on to the edge of the floor to ceiling bookcase. She whimpered, frozen in fear, eyes filled with her innocent tears. She had seen him, seen it all. Loathing for what he had done welled up inside him, dashing him upon the reefs of his conscience. He had acted with such vehemence, blinded by the need for temerity, that he forsook the lord's virtues. He had been a father, and despite his misgivings, a caring one. A father he had now robbed the child of.

Her eyes were filled with confusion and fear, staring at the pistol the steward still clutched impotently against the horror of his crime. Seeing this, Bellechance put the weapon on the desk and kneeled down on the thick carpet, offering his hands to the child. He realized mutely, as tears began to fall from his eyes, that he wanted to beg her for forgiveness. For something she could never understand nor ever forget.

'Little miss... I'm so sorry. Why are you up? Why did you have to come here tonight?' No, no he would not blame her for this. This had been his choice. He had taken upon himself to judge his betters and take action that was neither permitted nor permissible. He edged forward on his knees, fighting the tremor in his voice to reassure the poor child.

'Is it the storm little one? Has it awaken you?' perhaps if Bellechance could keep her mind on the mundane she would speak rather than drown in terror. She nodded timidly. Good, thought the servant, she had not been struck witless by the sight of her father's slaying.

'It is a terrible night, is it not little miss? Yes, terrible a night. Go to your mother's bed side, you know the way correct?' another timid nod, her knuckles white as she gripped the bookcase's edge. 'Tell the mistress an incident requires her immediate attention in his lordship's boudoir. Tell her to come with the House guards. Tell her... tell her I am very sorry.'

Bellechance tried to give his most amiable smile and waved her off, slowly getting to his feet. The child darted away at the sight of him rising and her naked steps could be heard slapping against the marble floor of the corridor.

With a shuddering breath, the young steward of the house set upon the task of soaking up the blood from the lush carpet before it stained too deeply. He composed himself, or tried too, but found it difficult to clear his eyes as he hefted lord Steld upon his desk and laid him in a more dignified manner. With prayers on his lips, he beseeched the Emperor to take a noble son of Persephony to his side and hid the death wound along with the lord's final visage under his handkerchief. Perhaps if the God-Emperor saw fit, his own crime would be lessened for their noble intent.

The lord Steld had been a man of strong emotions and stubborn disposition. After having sampled a sector's worth of vice, he had quickly become jaded to the stimulation they offered. The lord had been known for his keen blade and his barbed tongue. After a life time of duels, lord Steld had taken an unhealthy liking to the shedding of blood. Something young Bellechance, newly instated as house steward, had discovered along the first few months of his employment.

After having lost a handful of promising servants because of some errors on their part, Bellechance found it hard to find qualified help and retain their services. Clearly, disciplining the help was his duty, but it was one the lord and his housecarl had reserved for themselves. It had taken him some time but the steward now knew why. The servants he had thought released from service had never returned home. In fact, house ledgers showed a somewhat large compensatory dispensation to their families.

His interest enflamed, Bellechance had inquired to the senior members of the staff but to no avail. They were incredibly tight lipped about it and because he required to prove himself home a worthy steward, he had let it go in favor of more pressing matters. It was only after quite some time, too much for his conscience to leave the matter alone, that the young steward had stumbled upon the truth in the deep cellars.

The memory left him cold as he wrapped the master's cloak around his stiffening body, making sure the fabric of his lordship's trappings were as pristine as he could make them. Frustratingly, the droplets of blood marring the fine fabric gnawed at his frayed senses. Those that had begun to unravel the night he had been making inventory of the house's fine brandy caskets. It was under the light of the oil lamp that he had discovered the well worn oak door. He had never seen it before and it had not been shown to him when he took the responsibility of stewardship.

The muffled sounds that had managed to escape that den of horror had made his blood ice up. He hid in the shadows and snuffed his lamp. The maddening cries had eked through the ancient wood door for hours before going silent. Then his lordship and his housecarl had exited the den with the merriment of sated devils. Bellechance still wished he had not dared to look, but he had, and he knew he would never forget what he had seen. As if the doorway was a portal unto a world beyond the most hellish of places, the private den of his lordship had gripped his heart and stilled his soul.

Beyond the threshold of the cracked oak frame was a small room. Its walls were of half rotten timber and its floor nothing more than moist earth. A support stanchion stood mightily at the center of the room, in which was stuck a bewildering array of bladed tools and knives. All were coated in the rusted red of dried blood, of which the room reeked. Sunken on her knees, arms bent and broken, a young servant girl was leashed to the stanchion.

Bellechance did not know who she was. He could not, for her face and scalp were but a mesh of gaping wounds sliced into her flesh. Designs had been carefully carved into her skin and what was left of her tattered remains were unrecognizable. No other wounds marred her body, no blossom of blood that told the tale of deeper, deadlier wounds. Yet the girl was clearly dead, her glassy eyes open and filled with unimaginable pain. Her heart had failed her.

As the young steward heard the heavy footfall of the house guards coming down the hall, he kissed his golden Aquila pendant and took solace in the knowledge he had fulfilled the oath he had sworn that night. He mouthed the last of the canticle of servitude.

'Though I am surrounded by craven evil, I will bright His light into the darkness, for the Emperor ask only what he is due, the life that he has given me.'