Hello again chaps, this is the fourth chapter (as I'm sure you've already determined). Unfortunately, this one is a bit slow not too much action: it's more setting the scene for the next chapter. Originally, I intended to have this chapter include setting of the scene, the battle and then the aftermath however once I started to near 6,000 words I realised that this probably wasn't going to happen.
This little quandary got me thinking and I've concluded that chapters should have a max word limit of 7,000 words (edit - 10,000 now lol) as anything more than that becomes a grind for the reader. As always positive and negative feedback is welcome, and I hope you enjoy the chapter.
Chapter 4 – Calm Before...
Locke could feel the perspiration on his forehead; a few errant droplets stinging his eyes under his visor. His chest was rising and falling almost as quickly as his steed's. The knuckles on his hands were white from his tight grip of the reins; the leather dug into his hands, causing small rivulets of blood to run down his wrists. It was a small comfort to the guardsman that hours of hard riding had by this point left his hands completely numb.
As the adrenaline ebbed away, Locke found himself wincing from the stinging pain in his side more and more. The scorched flesh had reacted poorly to the near constant friction from his fatigues as the fabric moved in time with the horse's movement. It had been trivial at first, but the irritation had steadily grown until he was nearly cursing every dozen yards or so, gritting his teeth due to the discomfort.
His mount was fairing even worse than he was. Fury's flanks were matted with sweat and blood, every few paces bringing the poor animal to whinny in agony. The stallion's speed had also dropped significantly, despite his master's insistence for urgency, the horse's gait had transformed into an uneasy trot.
Even greater cause for concern though, was that his mount seemed to be leaning heavily to his right side. Clearly, those parting enemy shots that had found their mark had done more damage than Locke had initially thought. Nevertheless, they carried on as best they could, the alien conifers passing them by. Ever since the scout had left the battlefield behind a deep-rooted unease still permeated his thoughts.
Hour after hour of travelling, the images of the battle kept coming unbidden to his mind's eye. He remained tense throughout their desperate escape back as those vivid reminders forced him to stay alert. He wasn't taking any more chances.
The information he carried was simply too important, if he were to meet his end before reaching his destination, then all those who had fallen in that ill-fated gorge would have died for nothing. The garrison had to be informed before it was too late.
Knowing this, the guardsman forced himself to keep on a constant lookout regardless of his flagging posture. It felt like they had been riding for an eternity, they couldn't be far from the monastery now. Locke reckoned that if they could hang on for another three quarters of an hour, they'd be home and dry.
Only a stone throws away. Gotta keep it together a little longer.
The lonely journey back was one of much sorrow. The mission had seemed so trivial, and yet it had turned into a living nightmare. Guardsman Haslinger had had misgivings about the mission from the very start, but that foresight had done little as he too had presumably perished along with the rest of the expeditionary force.
What would the currently unaware soldiers of the garrison think after witnessing their fellow guardsmen march away, to never be seen again except for a single scout? A myriad of questions like these buffeted Locke's mind, only serving to increase the scout's anxiety.
If I even get back. He reminded himself, they weren't out of harm's way yet.
As well as this trailing sense of fear, a strange sort of guilt clung to him like a bad smell. The dark misgivings had started to cloud his thoughts, chastising him for living when so many others had not.
He remembered how some of the older members of the regiment would speak about survivor's guilt; a horrible form of remorse that ate away at your soul and made you doubt your own courage. At the time of hearing it, Locke hadn't really understood what those veterans were on about…until now that is.
Fortunately, his mind was briefly spirited away from these dark misgivings as soon as he heard the endless rumble of rushing water resonating through the forest. The humble sound rising above the ambient music of nature; it acted like an audible salve on his psyche as it called him home.
Edmund's ford. At last.
Some of the tautness in his limbs eased as the ford came into view. Their journey's end was in sight. The thought of friendly faces and rest renewed his vigour and urge to press on through the last few miles. Just as fortune appeared to improve for the soldier, tragedy struck once more.
A few paces away eastern bank of the river, his horse's list to the right accentuated, the animal's feet dragging along the road's camber. The guardsman attempted in vain to rein in the stallion's drooping posture, but it had little effect; the horse barely acknowledged his commands.
Realizing what was about to happen, Locke attempted to halt his mount in the hope that the inevitable result could be avoided. It was too late; Fury went down in a flurry of hooves and the battered scout was thrown from the saddle. He only just managed to remove his foot from the stirrup before the horse's weight crushed it against the gravelly trackway. Two plumes of dust were kicked up as horse and rider kissed the ground.
Edge of the Abyss, that hurts!
Pain shot up from his chest, only now his left arm felt as if it'd been snapped like a twig. Panic gripped him. Locke hurriedly tested the limb for a few moments but exhaled a sigh of relief when he found it wasn't broken.
Alright, only sprained, could be worse.
A loud high-pitched neigh, sounding more like a feral shriek, pulled him back to the situation at hand.
"Throne, no!" The guardsman hissed, stumbling back towards his fallen companion. They were still some distance from the monastery and the idea of making the rest of the journey on foot almost paralyzed the guardsman with dread. He had seen what had happened to those unable to escape the enemy's onslaught and it didn't bear thinking about.
The horse had collapsed onto the road, mewling pathetically as he tried to rise back onto his feet, but there would be no coming back from this. As soon as Locke caught a glimpse of the ragged and bloody hole rent into the stallion's side, the guardsman knew that his steed's life had come to an end.
The rivulets of blood gently flowing from the dying beast's thrashing form, accompanied by the slowly expanding crimson pool, only served to reinforce this grim reality. High on the adrenaline rush, his mount had expended the last of his energy getting them home, but the mortal wound inflicted from the xeno ambush had finally caught up with him.
By the time Locke reached the prone beast, Fury had given up on the futile attempt. He lay on his side, whites of his eyes revealed, helplessly panting as he craned his head towards the soldier almost begging the guardsman to make the agony stop.
There was nothing Locke could do, no amount of pleading or praying could mend the horse's perforated innards. When he came close, the stallion, ever faithful to his master, tried once more to rise but the warhorse's strength had long since failed.
Cognizant of the possibility of further eldar attack, the soldier knew he could not remain here for much longer which spurred him to end the poor stallion's suffering. He comforted the beast as best he could, stroking Fury's neck in an effort to soothe the stricken horse while muttering soft words into his ears.
Much to his relief, the animal seemed to calm. The scout gazed into his fearful eyes, seeing a small reflection of himself. How many times had he seen the same reflection in the eyes of other fallen friends?
Too many.
The guardsman shushed the dying beast. "Steady now, m'lad. Steady. There's a good boy." He whispered, knowing what he would have to do next.
Resigned to his duty, he got up and pulled the dormant lasrifle from its saddle holster. A quick check of the battery capacity prompted him to place the muzzle of the weapon against the stallion's temple. Not wanting to have to unload several shots into the poor beast, he ramped up the lasbolt energy output to maximum capacity and squeezed the trigger.
A single red flash and a shrill howl echoed through the surrounding woodland, causing several pine raptors to take to the air, their instincts guiding them away from the sudden unfamiliar noise. Locke remained still for a few seconds, staring at the disfigured wreck of his loyal mount until the strong stench of burnt hair and charred horse flesh made him gag which forced him to retreat.
Farewell old friend. Your duty is done. He thought as he turned away and headed towards the monastery.
Tightening his boots and gaiters on the shallow eastern riverbank, he pushed onto the arduous task of traversing the ford. An assortment of flotsam passed him by as it was carried along by the unceasing current of the channel. If the floating debris remained trapped in the river's unceasing clutches for long enough, it would eventually reach its termination point at the mouth of a small inland sea located to the south west.
The cold waters made Locke shiver as the depth came up to just above his knees. He felt the pressure of the current press in around his ankles, but his standard issue gaiters earned their keep. The swirling river was prevented from entering his boots and his feet remained dry throughout the crossing.
The same could not be said of his trousers, however, which became thoroughly soaked between his calves and upper knees. Locke was fairly confident that they would dry out along the way, but he was under no illusion about the chaffing that would ensue.
The minor annoyance would rub his legs raw. On the whole, progress was slow but apart from a few stumbles over some poorly placed rocks, he made it across without much trouble. From there on, the guardsman scaled the shallow western bank.
Slinging his lasrifle strap over his shoulder, Locke set off towards the monastery, sticking as close to the tree line as he dared. It took nearly forty minutes to reach the beaten zone outside the monastery which the scout attributed to each of his various injuries that had surely taken a toll on his marching speed.
High up above on the hill's summit, Locke spotted the bobbing heads of the sentries as they patrolled along the wall's battlements. Upon spotting the bedraggled guardsman hobbling along the road towards them, one by one they all paused their rounds as they tracked his sluggish ascent through the kill zone and up the winding trail.
After the gruelling hike upwards, he finally crested the rise. His legs heavy as lead while his muscles ached at the exertion of the climb. As he neared the gate, he slowed, then stopped. All around the parapet of the wall, multiple lasrifles had appeared. All aimed directly at him.
Survive against all odds just to get gunned down by my own side. Just another day in the Imperial Guard.
A voice challenged him from the top of the gatehouse. "Not another step, identify yourself!"
It had sounded like Guardsman Derril, one of Lueker's friends from before. The thought of the scout immediately pulled his mind back to the man's death that would forever be etched into his memory, like so many others.
"Go to hell!" Locke yelled. Ordinarily he might've been more cautious with a dozen weapons in his face, but right now he was past the point of caring. "Just open the fucking gate! I've got to speak to the Colonel!"
"Give us a name!"
"Guardsman Tomas Locke, 'A' Company, 4th Platoon!"
A brief moment of silence followed until a flurry of shouts between the sentries sprang from behind the wall. He felt a wave of relief when the timber gates swung open as one of the lookouts sauntered out with his weapon cradled in the crook of his arm.
"Sorry about the welcoming party, we weren't expecting your lot back until tomorrow." The sentry explained. Derril's memory was reignited upon noticing Locke's scout patch underneath all the grime. "Hang on a minute, weren't you one of the scouts with Lueker. Where's your horse?"
"Dead."
"By the Golden Throne, what happened?"
"We got bushwhacked is what happened."
"Fucking hell, how bad?" Locke looked away; the grim truth too painful to say aloud. The scout's hesitance to answer spoke a thousand words. "Wait… you're not the only one, are you? There's more coming… right?"
"I don't think there is, Derril." Locke replied honestly, his voice tinged with sadness.
"What about Lueker?"
"Same as the rest, a xeno got him. Listen, I've got to tell the Colonel what happened ASAP."
"Emperor save us." The sentry blasphemed whilst making the sign of the aquila to ward off evil; the shock of his friend's death only just beginning to register. "Alright, go on then." The lookout said as he ushered Locke through the compound's entrance. Derril's seemingly cheerful nature was replaced with stony silence. As the two of them passed beneath the gate, Locke tried to ease the man's loss.
"For what it's worth, he was a good bloke." Locke consoled the guardsman who returned his sentiment with an appreciative nod. The sentry returned to his duty as the scout rushed off towards the building's entrance.
Locke skirted around the parade ground as 'A' Company's 3rd Platoon was conducting their afternoon drill exercise. He noted that Sergeant Alcred was reprimanding one of the guardsmen who had fallen out of step.
"Miss Jonesy get in time! No, you're other left."
It was all so normal, like every other day since they had been here, and it was all about to come crashing down. Apart from a few of those on patrol duty at the gatehouse, Locke was the only man in the monastery that knew of the events that had recently transpired.
News never took long to spread; Captain Travers had once said that the Imperial Guard was home to some of the biggest gossips to ever cross the stars. If that reputation held true, it would only be a matter of time until the whole garrison knew the abhorrent truth. For now, though at least, everything was as it should be. Everyone was going about their duty, still cocooned in their ignorant assumption of safe isolation.
Upon entering the hallway, he made an immediate right turn down a wide passage that transitioned into an upward staircase, leading to the forum and subsequently the colonel's office.
Two soldiers flanked the doorway to their commander's quarters. Both of them became tense at Locke's unkempt appearance but after a brief conversation - where he explained the urgency of the situation - they allowed him to pass. He knocked loudly on the wall next to the doorway and waited for the response.
"Come in," said a gruff voice with a slight hint of irritation. Locke opened the curtain, making sure to close it behind him, and snapped a salute to his superior. The colonel, who was hunched over - reading a data slate on his desk, didn't even bother to return Locke's salute. Locke removed his rebreather, revealing his face.
"Sir, something terrible has happened."
"Terrible enough that Major Skult found it necessary to send a scout rider back rather than a vox communiqué?"
"If that had been possible, I'm sure he would have, sir."
"Very well, Mister Locke, you have my attention." The colonel began. "What news do you bring?"
"It's not good, sir." Locke took a deep breath and tried to compose his thoughts. "1st and 2nd Platoon from 'B' Company were ambushed while en route to the outpost. They took heavy casualties. I don't know if anyone made it apart from me."
Demetris looked up instantly, his face deadly serious; his worst possible fear confirmed.
"Tell me everything, leave nothing out!" He demanded, gesturing for Locke to take a seat on the chair on the opposite side of the desk.
"Yes sir." The scout then recounted the events leading up to, during and after the disaster while the Colonel listened intently, drinking up every detail, only stopping the guardsman to ask questions for clarification.
As soon as Locke declared the attackers to be eldar, Demetris's eyes widened slightly while a brief look of concern warped his features before being replaced by his usual stoic expression. The mention of the xeno race immediately prompted the commanding officer to call out to the soldiers guarding his quarters.
He ordered them to gather every officer for an assembly in the briefing room on the third level of the facility. Enlisted man and regimental commander listened to the retreating sound of hurried feet on ancient flag stones. Once they had gone, Demetris, shifted his attention back to Locke.
"Well done Guardsman, apologies for my poor attitude. Thanks to your warning, we may have a fighting chance."
"Just doing my duty sir."
The colonel grunted in agreement, "I'd get yourself along to the medical wing as well, that's a nasty wound you're sporting there."
"It's better than it looks sir."
"Yes, yes," the colonel said, with a shooing wave of his hand; he had heard the bravado of young men all too often. "Now off with you, I have a battle to plan."
With that, Locke stood up, saluted, but just before he could leave, Demetris spoke up again.
"Oh, and Guardsman Locke." The scout halted with the curtain partly drawn.
"Sir?"
"Sort out your uniform, you look an absolute state."
"Yes sir." He nodded, finally leaving Demetris alone in his office. Locke moved to the medical bay.
Demetris gathered together the various data slates and errant sheets of paper; safely stowing away the more sensitive documents into the locked draw of his desk. He stood up, brushing his uniform into place and made his way to the office's exit. Before he drew aside the curtain and stepped into the public domain, he took a second to gather himself.
The old man knew what was coming, but he had to set a confident example for his men lest they lose heart and disgrace themselves in the heat of battle. After counting to fifteen in his head, he pushed the curtain aside and strode confidently across the forum towards the spiralling staircase that led upwards to the briefing room.
Along the way, men and women of the garrison addressed and saluted to him which was appreciatively dismissed with a grunt or a wave of his hand. After a brief trip through the strange hallways and up the flight of stairs, the colonel entered the briefing room.
His security attaché had already assumed positions on either side of the doorway, ensuring that no unauthorized personnel could enter or overhear the proceedings. Upon entering the chamber, he was pleased to see that all of the garrison's officers were already gathered around the headquarters, silent, waiting patiently for their commander. At his entrance they all stood to attention.
"At ease." Demetris said, as he moved to the head of the table where he proceeded to unroll and spread out several maps onto the table's surface. The largest of the plots displayed a rough depiction of the monastery and the surrounding area. The others showed various interior floor plans for the different levels of the facility. Each of the charts was pinned at all four corners with a various assortment of objects.
Finally found a good use for those requisition forms.
His newly seated subordinates remained quiet as the colonel set up his props; they were waiting until the colonel began the briefing.
"Right then, ladies and gents, I'm sure you're all wondering why I've called you here?" Demetris asked which prompted his hastily summoned entourage to all mutter in agreement.
"Well then, here it is. 'B' Company's 1st and 2nd Platoon have been destroyed along with the small garrison at Outpost Landfall. Major Skult is presumed to be among the casualties." A pregnant pause followed with a few quiet gasps from the assembled officers.
"Destroyed? How? By whom?" Major Halbritter queried, voicing the concerns of the rest of the assembly.
"They were ambushed by a sizeable force of eldar, around a few companies' worth… at least. Luckily, guardsman Locke, who was acting as one of the scouts for the expedition was able to escape. It's thanks to him that we have this information." Demetris said.
"Those poor souls." Halbritter replied, followed by many of the other commanding officers who echoed the same sentiment. The major was like the colonel himself, a part of the regiment's old guard. He was seen by the enlisted man as the jolly father figure of the regiment for his kind nature.
Demetris knew him as a good organizer and a caring sort who would outright refuse to spend his soldier's lives needlessly. The only real fault, the colonel could pin on the man's command style was that his compassion for the common soldier often made him overly cautious.
"To think we were told this would be a boring assignment." Lieutenant Maxim added with his casual confidence that had made him so popular amongst his company. The colonel wondered if anything ever rattled the lieutenant.
"Well, whatever the case, it certainly isn't boring anymore." Demetris stated as he made eye contact with each individual officer. "Given what has happened, I'd say an attack on the monastery is imminent which means as soon as this briefing is done, round up your NCO's and get the lads to action stations! Strict rationing on all food is to be put in place. I want every jerry can, every container of any sort to be topped up, filled with water from the well, and stored in the upper levels. Captain Waylon, you will be in charge of overseeing this."
"As you wish sir."
"As of now, Siege Protocol is in full affect!"
"How long do you think we'll have to prepare?" Lieutenant Koenen asked.
"Provided they're not hanging around and given their speed, I reckon they'll be knocking on our front door within a few hours." Captain Waylon replied as his hand massaged his chin. Another moment of silence followed as each man and woman realized the gravity of the captain's words.
"Do we know our enemy's motive? What do they want?" Lieutenant Sair inquired.
"They're alien scum, they don't need a reason to kill. Besides there's nothing here on this Throne-forsaken rock." Lieutenant Goldwin chimed in dismissively.
"Except for the artefact… the thing that Adept Doric is studying. That must be it surely?" Lieutenant Yarton responded.
"Don't be daft-"Goldwin started before being cut off by their commanding officer.
"I do believe Mister Yarton is correct, unless of course there is something else on this moon that we aren't privy to."
Captain Marcus of 'B' Company, who had served almost as long as the other senior officers, gave his honest thoughts on the matter.
"If I may speak my mind." Marcus asked, briefly flicking his eyes towards Commissar Virilus, who had remained silent throughout the proceedings. The Ruslivite glared back, sensing an opinion he would not take kindly to. His bionic left eye whirred as it focused in on the officer, daring him to say anything incriminating.
"The floor is yours, Captain." Demetris said, gesturing with his hands for the man to continue.
"Sir." He said, leaning his elbow on the table while massaging his thumb with an index finger. "If the information you've provided is accurate, then I take it we are outnumbered, outgunned… and outmatched." The officer emphasized the last four words. "In addition to this, our supply lines have been cut and our communication network with the outer Imperium has been severed as well. We've been in some dicey spots over the years, but never this bad. Given the circumstances, I'd say our position here is untenable."
"Tread carefully, Captain." Virilus warned, his voice tempered with icy steel. The commissar first contribution to the discussion brought a whole new layer of tension to the room.
Ignoring the implied threat, Marcus continued. "Frankly, the xenos wouldn't even need to fire a shot. If they've got time to waste, they can just pen us in like rats and watch us starve. By sitting in this place, good defensive position though it may be, we hand the initiative to the eldar."
"What are you proposing?" The commissar asked, his clipped prim accent in stark contrast to the jovial Narvosi dialect.
Captain Marcus refused to back down. "I'm proposing that it may be in the best interest for not only ourselves, but also for the good of the men and women under our command, that we abandon the monastery."
"Dereliction of duty? That is your suggestion?" Virilus replied, aghast at the man's audacity. Marcus stayed quiet, refusing to take the Ruslivite's bait. He silently hoped that his words would persuade the other officers around them.
This hope was dashed as Virilus cleared his throat and seized the open floor. The intense commissar looked around the room, focusing on each member of the garrison's officer corps in turn.
"May I remind those of you gathered around this table, that you were given a responsibility by Segmentum Command Ultima, and by extension the Holy God-Emperor of Mankind himself. Your mission is to guard this place against any threat until members of the Logis Strategos have completed their study of its contents. As our only remaining Adept has yet to conclude his archaeological examination, and we have yet to be relieved by other imperial forces, our duty on this moon remains unfinished."
This drew out a few reluctant nods from the entourage. To hammer the point home, Virilus ended his monologue with a direct threat.
"Listen well, Captain Marcus because I won't repeat myself. Your proposal dies on the floor of this briefing room. If I hear any further suggestion of sedition, it will be dealt with by my hand… regardless of rank. Understood?"
Marcus held the brutal man's gaze before he relented, nodding sadly in acceptance.
Stepping back into arena, Demetris sought to bring his officer's attention back to the issue at hand. "Thank you, Commissar, for your words of… encouragement." He said, choosing his words wisely in an attempt to defuse the tense atmosphere.
Colonel Demetris had learned a long time ago that any commander worth their salt should always present a unified front to the enemy. Any crack or schism in the command structure could be calamitous.
Even at such an early stage, the foundations of two opposed factions were forming all the while the aliens gathered at the gates. This could not be allowed to proceed, but it would require some subtle diplomacy.
Turning to the slightly deflated captain, "Marcus, you are correct in your analysis." This earned the colonel a dirty look from Virilus.
A compliment. Never a bad start.
"A prolonged siege would be catastrophic for our position." The captain sat up with renewed vindication now that his superior had confirmed his appraisal at the current state of affairs. Emboldened by his stance, he shot the commissar a cheeky wink which almost had the commissar reach for his bolt pistol.
Now to let him down gently and get back into Virilus's good books.
"However, I don't believe the enemy have the luxury of time. They intentionally destroyed our outpost to bait a response and like a fool, I obliged them."
"No sense in beating yourself up Dem, you couldn't have known what was going to happen." Major Halbritter said.
I deserve it, their deaths are on my hands. He thought.
"Thank you, Hal, I appreciate it but back to the point. Why would they bother destroying a portion of our force unless their aim was to reduce the number of troops we can field against them? They're planning a direct assault, I'm almost certain of it."
"Fair enough sir, I can see your logic."
Almost got him back on side.
"That still leaves the question: what are we going to do?" Captain Marcus asked, curious at the Colonel's unspoken plan.
The clincher.
"The only thing we can do. Fight and hold this accursed place. Till the last man if needs be. Our best hope for salvation is from our regular supply shipment which is due in three days. When our supply runners land at the outpost and see what has happened, they'll know something is awry and will be forced to act according to imperial procedure. The HDMS Saturnis will be obligated to deploy their contingent of armsmen planetside to relieve us."
"Hold out for three days? Maybe more if they're delayed." Lieutenant Chafer added.
A potential co-conspirator.
"Agreed, given the odds stacked against us, I'd say it's a big stretch." Marcus stated, an undercurrent of uncertainty tinging his voice.
Time to nip this thing in the bud.
"It's our only option. I understand your compassion for the rank and file, but the only thing running for the hills will achieve, will be all of us ending up on the wrong side of a military tribunal. Personally, I don't like the idea of collectively ending mine and every one of our soldier's careers in front of a firing squad."
With the stark choices given to the pair of unsure officers finally conceded. "Alright, we're with you. We fight them here." Marcus stated. The other platoon leaders who had remained silent during the heated exchange, drummed the table in solidarity with the captain's words.
Virilus visibly perked up both at Marcus's change of opinion and the colonel's decision. "We are the Imperial Guard, we do not retreat!" he intoned, his zeal earning him nods of approval from many of the other officers.
"Very good, now gather round." The colonel said, glad to see the small rift healed as he beckoned for his officers to get a good look at the map of the area.
"First things first, Captain Marcus, with Major Skult absent, the remnants of 'B' Company now fall under your command, don't let me down."
A promotion for good measure to seal the deal.
"I won't, sir!" He said, determination etched into his face.
"Good stuff. Now, I expect the enemy to advance from the east and stop short of the beaten zone. Hal, I want 'A' Company to occupy the wall fortifications. Constanzi, your platoon will take the southern section, likewise Max get your mob on the eastern side. Lieutenant Dumag, you'll have the important task of holding the gate house and the northern wall." All of the named officers nodded in agreement.
"Koenen and Chafer, set up fall back positions, around here." He ordered, circling the parchment with his index finger. "Slit trenches, sandbag embankments, whatever is at hand. Once that's done, keep your platoons in reserve in the courtyard but set up your mortar teams so that they can cover each section of the wall with artillery support. Lieutenant Sair and Yarton along with Lieutenant Goldwin will occupy defensive positions along the central hub and these stairwells, here, here and here." The colonel marked out the key areas on the map with his calloused finger.
"Do we have any explosives at our disposal?" Sair asked.
"Last time I checked the inventory; we've got some tube charges and a few snare mines." Captain Waylon replied.
"If we're pushed back into the monastery's interior, have the tube charges primed and ready on these corridors and staircases. This'll create a handful of chokepoints which will funnel the bastards right into our gun sights… or at least that's the theory."
"Force them to fight us head on. Hmm, I like your thinking sir." Goldwin admitted.
"If they dance to your tune sir, they'll certainly pay a heavy toll for that artefact." Lieutenant Koenen stated.
"We'll make sure of it." Lieutenant Yarton added.
"What of the snare mines sir? They're not really meant for demolition work." Lieutenant Constanzi said.
"Thank you for reminding me lass. Goldwin have your lot place the mines outside the gatehouse but remember to leave a mapped path through it just in case we need to leave for whatever reason.
"Aye sir, consider it done."
"Those xenos are gonna have a hell of a time getting us off this hill. I almost pity them." Dumag said absently.
"What makes you say that Dume?" Lieutenant Maxim looked up from the table to stare at the adjacent officer.
"Seeing as they've got to fight uphill. They can't cross the cliffs and scree patches, so they'll be limited to the pathway. They'll be shot at from base to summit and as soon as they've reached the hill's crown, they've got a twelve-foot-high wall to contend with." He said, tracing his finger along the winding road up to the facility's entrance. "Not a fun prospect for any commander." Dumag shrugged.
Before the colonel could respond, Captain Waylon jumped in to undermine his optimism. "Do not underestimate the eldar my friend, what we would consider a significant obstacle is probably little more than a speed bump to them." He explained to which the lieutenant shook his head in disbelief.
"Trust me, they're nimbler and more sure-footed than a ratling. I served with Colonel Demetris a decade ago when they attacked a mining facility on Brillon II. We thought our lofty position safe, that the cliffs were impassable, but the xenos begged to differ." The other officer frowned at this description.
"I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it. They advanced up a seventy-five-degree incline as if it were nothing. Not at the walk either, at the run, laying down fire as they came on." Dumag made to argue but when he saw the seriousness in Waylon's eyes, he acquiesced to the older man's experience.
Demetris pushed the thoughts of that desperate fight into the back of his mind, offering Captain Waylon a nod of recognition. "I'm afraid he's right, Lieutenant. The eldar will see those rocky faces as little more than a minor inconvenience." The officer inclined his head in acknowledgement, humbled by his own lack of experience with fighting the eldar.
Another half hour passed on the minutia and details of plans when Colonel Demetris began concluding his briefing with a warning. "Before you all disappear, I need to inform you that our foe has another card up their sleeve. From Locke's story, I'm fairly convinced that the eldar employed some form of warp trickery."
"Witches!" the Commissar sneered in disgust.
"Aye Virilus. Everyone is to be on high alert. This witch is a priority target. Any man or woman who brings it down will get a gold crown."
"By the Emperor, it shall be done sir."
"Right then! Anything I've missed?" There was a collective shake of heads. "Then you know what you have to do! Jump to it!" At that, the officers funneled out of the small room one by one, leaving Demetris alone once more.
Emperor preserve us all.
Locke felt several kilos lighter as he walked up a flight of steps towards the third level of the facility, the weight of responsibility lifted from his shoulders. The colonel now knew of what happened and would be implementing measures to prepare for the upcoming battle. Even with his task completed, a feeling of emptiness festered in the guardsman's chest.
Flashes of the misty forest sprang forth unbidden from the wells of his memory. These images were soon joined by others: the xeno hunter in the canopy, the desperate escape through the wild glades, explosions and gunfire and the shrieks of dying men. That noise, that awful ear-splitting noise. The carcass of his dead horse. Again, and again, his mind would replay those images in chronological order.
All those lives lost in that doomed struggle, soldiers he'd known and others who he only knew in passing. They were all gone, their presence and input in the inner workings of the regiment to be lost forever more.
The guardsman had seen battle before of course, several times in fact, but in his time with the 195th, the reality was that regimental losses were always a bitter pill to swallow. The pain only grew in intensity when it was someone close. Some might posit that after a few scraps with the enemy, the impact of a dead friend or comrade may lose its potency after repeated incidences, but Locke never found this to be the case.
He didn't know many soldiers who would agree with that sentiment either. For any in his line of employment, death is a faithful bedfellow; a constant companion that follows along wherever a guardsman may go. In time all those who fight underneath the Imperium's banner come to understand this, but familiarity does little to rob death of its sting when it eventually strikes.
He shook his head as if it would clear the errant and unhelpful deliberations that were distracting him. The guardsman wanted it to stop. No, he needed it to stop. Some sort of a release from the endless repetition of his thoughts. Almost in answer to his unspoken request, an old phrase, conjured from the fringe of his memory that his mother would often say about an obsessive mind:
Over and under,
and over again,
till the mind wither,
like a winter's flame.
It was catchy, irritatingly so, but the annoying poem did help take his mind off his most recent experience of army life.
Upon reaching the stop of the zig-zagging staircase, he made his way along a corridor passing various supply rooms until he made it to the designated triage centre. Further along, the hallway ended at the briefing room.
Next to the open doorway, hung a basic wooden sign with the words: 'The Butchers' scrawled onto it. At some point since his last visit, someone had made an addition to the room's inscription in the form of a small sticky note. Peering closer Locke, read it.
'1/5, no choice cuts.' He snorted at the dark humour and wandered into the field hospital. It was a large square room, comfortably able to accommodate fifty casualties or twice that if things weren't going well. Row after row of crude medical beds lay empty, patiently waiting for the tidal wave of wounded that would soon appear.
Half a dozen orderlies were moving through the room, going about their duties: piling up supplies, cleaning beds, etc. Two beds down from the medical bay's entrance was unlike the rest in that it held an occupant. Guardsman Balwold sat on the side of the bed, hunched over as the chief medic, Sergeant Parre bandaged his head.
"Sergeant Parre?" Locke called as he made his towards the garrison's chief medical officer.
The medic sighed heavily at the sound of Locke's voice, but didn't look up as he continued to wind the dressing around Bal's cranium.
"Guardsman Locke, what a pleasant surprise. To what do I owe the honour?" The guardsman rolled his eyes at the sarcasm dripping from the medic's tone.
"Bit banged up here."
"Aye, I'll get to ya in a second, take a seat on one of the beds. Just finishin' up here." His words were slightly muffled; his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth as he tightened up the head bandage.
Locke sat down on the bed adjacent to them, although the description of 'bed' could be considered a rather generous term. The triage centre's furniture amounted to little more than rows of metal or timber frames each with a piece of canvas pulled taut by steel wires. He looked down at the rickety bed as it creaked underneath his weight.
That sound really puts a man at ease.
Straightening himself up, to lighten his weight upon the metal frame, he peered over the medic's shoulder, inspecting the man's handiwork. "How'd you bump your noggin, Bal?" Locke asked the seated guardsman.
The man shyly smiled, "well…I…uh… was digging out the latrine pit and my shovel snapped."
"Shit."
"Yeah…literally." The guardsman said, incredulous which made Locke burst into laughter. "I went over backwards and smacked my head off the wall." He shrugged.
"Wouldn't have been half as bad if you'd been wearing your helmet, ya dopey prick, eh." The medic scolded him.
"Ah come on Sarge, its hot work digging." He moaned, trying to excuse himself of any wrongdoing.
Sergeant Parre was having none of it. "Course it is. Just keep your brain bucket on when your on the job, it's tradition after all."
"Yes Sergeant." Balwold sighed.
"Good lad." The medic grinned. "Take a few minutes till your headache fades but try not to headbutt anything in future." He said, giving the young soldier a playful slap on the shoulder as he moved onto his next patient.
"Right Mister Locke, let's get a look at you." Parre said as he stood up and turned around to give Locke a quick once over. "Throne, what the hell happened? You been playing in the briar again?"
"You're never going to let that go, are you?"
"Nope! Hmmm, let me grab some disinfectant for those cuts and a salve for that burn and I'll be right with you." The medic said as he rushed over to the adjoining storeroom leaving the two injured guardsmen alone.
After a few minutes, Bal stared at Locke across the gulf between their two beds with an inquisitive look. "Playing in the briar? What's that about?" The guardsman inquired.
"Don't ask." Locke stuttered as he rubbed the back of his neck, not wishing to discuss the subject further. Rushing back, Parre overheard part of their conversation and swiftly forced his way into it.
"Ah, it's a ripping yarn." The sergeant told Balwold, revealing a gap-toothed grin through his beard. "Get your kit off, Locke." Parre ordered as he opened up the standardized medical boxes.
Locke obeyed the medic's command and stripped down to his underwear, neatly piling his fatigues, helmet, webbing, and flak jacket at the foot of the bed while he leant his lasrifle against the bedframe. Gazing down at his semi-naked figure, he inspected the results of his most recent baptism of fire.
Several large bruises had started to form in yellow and purple blotches around his body. His torso and legs were a grisly ruin of enflamed and partially bleeding lacerations which stood in contrast to his pale complexion.
Much to his shock though, some of the more wicked thorns had become trapped in his flesh; sharp brown barbs protruding from his skin. He wasted no time in pulling them out. The most horrific and painful of the souvenirs that he'd picked up from his fresh ordeal was the four-inch-long groove of grisly cauterized flesh on his right side, just above his hip.
The slightest motion caused the enflamed burn to weep amber pus that smelled foul. Still, he was ever thankful to the Almighty Emperor, if he had been hit just an inch more to the left, he doubted he would even be sitting there at all.
"Well, Mister Bal, our young guardsman here had a wee bit of a crush on a lassie from 'B' Company's 3rd Platoon, ya see." Parre said as he wet a piece of cotton wool with some disinfectant. Locke was about to make a rude retort about how the medic should mind his own business, but his protest only came out as a grunt of pain as the sodden cotton wad contacted one of his cuts.
"Don't be such a wee baby." He teased as he dabbed the wipe onto another laceration which brought out another curse from the scout. "It was the red head, wasn't it?" Sergeant Parre asked, enjoying Locke's discomfort.
"Just get me sorted, so I can get out of here." Locke hissed, realizing that there would be no way of avoiding the retelling of the story.
"I'll take that as a yes. Anyway, where was I? Ah yes! Being a hopeless romantic, he thought the best way into her pearly-pink panties was through some sort of gesture, so what does he come up with? He decides he'll cook her a meal! Very romantic eh?"
"You? Cook?" Bal raised a disbelieving eyebrow to Locke who looked away in embarrassment.
"But this is the best bit." The medic continued. "He decided he'd use pine raptor eggs to make her an omelette. Can you believe it?" The medic turned back to Locke as he moved onto cleaning a cut along his leg. "Did the idea come to you after seeing Daud's new pet?"
Locke remained silent not willing to contribute to this humiliation.
"Anyway," Parre continued, turning back to the injured guardsman, "during his down time and after a bit o'searching, he found a nest sat atop the highest branch on one of the palantal conifers. Our brave guardsman being who he is, he ain't afraid o' no heights. So, he climbs up to the very top of the tree: he's within arm's reach of the nest. Yah know what happened next?"
Balwold shook his head, but judging by the smile spreading across his face, he probably had a good inkling of the events that followed.
"Just as he's about to grab an egg, one o'the wee beasts jumps up out of nowhere." The sergeant emphasized the event with a feigned look of shock. "Scares the shit out of our dear lover-boy here. Bites his hand something awful! Then the daft sod lets go of the bloody tree all together which sends our starry-eyed guardsman tumbling to the forest floor. When his mates brought him back to me, I had to set two broken bones and pull a seven-inch splinter from his arse!" The sergeant guffawed at the memory, quickly joined by the other soldier, while Locke stewed with irritation.
"The lass wasn't impressed either when he turned up empty handed; he didn't get any that night, I'll tell ya that!" He chuckled, pulling out a wayward eyelash. "Got to give him credit for trying though."
"Are ya done?" The scout asked with little humour.
"No appreciation for good story telling any more, ya see." The medic said as one by one he cleaned Locke's wounds. The three-way conversation soon switched to other matters, much to Locke's relief. The errant chatter helped to relax him, it made everything seem normal again after what he'd been through.
This reprieve from the looming threat was short lived as inevitably the topic of conversation soon came back to how he had ended up in such a state. The scout, hesitant to talk about the recent events for the third time today, gave a summarized account of what had happened.
The xeno ambush and the death of their comrades, killed the cheerful atmosphere almost immediately and an uneasy silence followed. Balwold sat staring at an empty space - probably thinking of the battle soon to come - while Parre tackled the last of Locke's injuries, carefully applying the healing salve to his laser burn.
"We'll have ya fixed up in no time. Should be healed in about a week or two." He said, a tinge of sadness in his voice which was so uncharacteristic of the man.
"Cheers, Sarge. Could you do anything for my wrist as well? I think I sprained it."
"A few cuts, a burn and a sprained wrist? Is that all? What's happened to the ill-fated guardsman that I used to know?" The medic teased, his good humour slowly starting to return. Locke merely rolled his eyes at the sergeant's banter. "Give us your hand then, let's have a look."
Locke gladly allowed his left wrist to be inspected. "Aye, so you have. Bit of rest and it'll be right as rain." As he spoke, he pulled a small piece of linen out of one of the pouches along his webbing; he proceeded to tightly wrap it around Locke's wrist.
The guardsman sighed with relief as the cloth was tied into place; the dull pain that pervaded much of his forearm lessened. "Good work t'day lad, you've had a tough time of it." Parre complimented him, in a rare moment of earnestness. "If that's everything, I'll leave you to it."
Without another word, the medic got up and returned the medical supplies to the storeroom. Taking that as his que to leave, Locke got dressed and discharged himself from the medical wing and set off to rejoin his section.
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Oracle14 – Patience my friend, I shall do just that. I hope this chapter was enough to satiate your appetite.
