Early 36th Millennium, Reign of Blood
Surface of unnamed and unexplored planet within the Abalatian Reach near the Chimaera's Breath

Las fire and exploding projectiles echoed in his ears, a muted sound which was not as vibrant as it had been moments before. The odor of ozone and damp earth drifted into his nose, but it too was muted. He struggled to move, yet felt powerless to do so.

A familiar voice rang out, clear where the sounds had been muted a moment before.

"What's the count on the Wyrdos?" screamed the voice. He recognized the voice but still could not place a name to it.

"We lost 'em all, Sarge," answered another clear voice, this one directly over his head.

The las fire and exploding projectiles ceased, allowing the voice to stand out in the relative quiet. He recognized other sounds and smells too. A slight moan. The sound of wind through the leaves. The cupric smell of blood.

He struggled to move again, and did. His arm twitched. There was a scraping sound next to his head.

"I'll be damned, Sarge!" screamed the voice right overtop his head. "The kid's still alive. Explosion blew ole Goldeneyes' helmet right off his frikkin' head."

The boy opened his eyes, bright gold irises.

He was lying on the ground and staring at the dark black boots of a soldier. He glanced up. A soldier holding half of a helmet in his hand, a helmet blown apart by an explosion. Memory and perception flooded his head as he stared at the helmet. He felt the clothing on his body and the flak coat over it. He held something in his hand. A Wyrdvane Staff, he realized. The green colour of the soldier's uniform stirred a memory. Guardsman Lerriksen with the 105th Infantry Regiment from Rus. He shifted his head. A number of bodies surrounded him. Or, to be more accurate, bodies and pieces of bodies. A torso without any legs had guts hanging from it. A body with no head. An arm. Part of a leg. Heads, some still with helmets and some without. The visible heads without helms were shaved clean. Blood. Lots of blood. A handful of staves, each capped in gold by the All-Seeing eye with the two-headed eagle above it, the Imperial Aquila, were scattered amongst the bodies. Wyrdvane Staves.

"Get up, boy!" snapped a female voice.

Commissar Valkina, the boy quickly realized, and climbed to his feet with the help of the staff in his hand. His head was shaved and his smooth face, coupled with his small frame, made him appear to only be ten years old at most.

"Doesn't appear to be a scratch on him," Lerriksen said. "You've got the Emperor's luck, boy," he added.

I have a name, the boy angrily thought, then quickly glanced around.

The half-dozen corpses of Wyrdvane Psykers that the boy was surrounded by were not the only ones. Most of the squad was on the ground too. In pieces. Lerriksen stood beside the boy and loomed over him thanks to his height. He was dressed in typical Rus Guardsman gear, a green flak coat and helmet with lasrifle over his shoulder and he still held in his hand the half of a helmet that belonged to the boy. About three metres away stood the source of the first voice he had heard in similar dress to Lerriksen but with Sergeant's stripes on his shoulder. Sergeant Milan, he noted. He noted Commissar Valkina too, in a blue greatcoat with golden epaulets on her shoulders and a blue helmet on her head. Her bolt pistol was in hand and pointed at the boy's face. Beyond the living and the dead were trees filled with vines and flowers and thick undergrowth.

I wanted to raise a shield, he thought in frustration as his eyes focused on the bolt pistol pointed at his face. But she wouldn't let me act alone.

"Damn it," snapped Sergeant Milan. "We've got orders to move the Wyrdos. You think he is strong enough himself to do whatever is needed?" the Sergeant asked, looking at Valkina.

I supplied most of the strength when we communed, the boy thought in his head. Would they kill me if I told them I was that strong? He kept his mouth shut.

"It doesn't matter," answered the Commissar. "Orders require us to move them. That's what we're doing."

"If they had all been killed, we could've just turned back around, couldn't we?" the Sergeant asked.

"Don't tempt me," Valkina snapped, bringing a chuckle from Lerriksen. A chuckle she quickly silenced with a sharp glance.

I'm standing right here, fumed the boy in his head but he held his tongue. Instead, he said, "We need to move."

"Shut up," boy snapped the Commissar as she placed her bolt pistol against his temple. "Not another word."

"He's right though," Lerriksen said. "We need to move." The Guardsman squatted down and pulled a helmet from one of the dead Wyrdvane Psykers, then stood up and plopped it on top of the boy's head. It was way too big and flopped about as the boy turned his head. "Don't trust in luck. Be prepared instead," he said. "Now, let's go, kid."