The Assembly Fields were covered in men. The seven infantry regiments and the Fusiliers of the 2nd Division stood awaiting their turn to head into orbit, where the Cavalry were already offloading their tanks into the cavernous transport conveyors.
Forty thousand Garrowan Guardsmen stood in their companies, or sat on their Chimeras, the buildings of Garrowa City towering over them, in turn being dwarfed by the mountains of Gateway Pass and the surrounding ranges.
Men in dark grey fatigues with crimson Carapace Armour stood in ranks, talking to each other in hushed tones, sergeants allowing them this one small privilege. The Heavy Infantrymen all had a bright red stripe down the centre of the crimson helmets clipped to their packs; their berets were the same colour. The Riflemen and Light infantry had dark green instead. Alone among them, the 5th had a royal blue helmet band and beret, the envy of all around them.
The landing field in the heart of the city buzzed with conversation and the noise of vehicles. Comrades from different battalions rekindled friendships and rivalries alike. Heavy Infantry jeered the light Riflemen. Fusiliers sat atop their Chimera IFVs, throwing insults down at the Heavy foot sloggers. Officers walked the ranks, smiling with familiarity at men whom they recognised from past actions.
"It's a grand sight, so it is sir." Kallum said in a slightly louder voice than he had to.
"Shut up." Macara groaned back.
"It's fair weather. The men are in good temper and we're off to show the enemies of mankind not to mess with us."
"Shut up."
"Now, sir, that's not very nice. I was simply pointing out the weather…"
"Kallum, you know fine well I still have a hangover that would kill a grox. You know fine well that Lord Mc'Alastor managed to best me, the major and General Bukanan without even belching. And you know fine well you're speaking far louder than you have to! Another word from you and you will also know the feel of my boot against your rear passage!" the colonel took a breath whilst rubbing his temples. "And shut the hell up!" that last part was directed at the whole of 4 Company standing to his left. The men chuckled at the outburst.
"Well, sir, you did stay up until 06.45 yesterday morning drinking. I'm surprised you're still feeling it now," Kallum grinned.
"I don't know how you hold it in, corporal," Macara sighed over dramatically. "I was still drunk until about 1800 hours…you seemed sober the whole time. Isn't your head even the least bit heavy?"
"Not at all, sir. You see, those of us who still actually come from the hills are far more resilient than the city types," the adjutant grinned evilly. Kallum was immensely proud of the fact he was raised in the mountain villages and not one of the cities that had sprung up in the deep valleys of the planet.
"I was born in the hills," Macara said weakly.
"Well, there's always an exception to the rules, I suppose. You may be happier to know, I won one hundred and ninety-two credits from those Cadians." Kallum managed to say, just avoiding Macara's boot and the less-than-precisely aimed kick.
"What did I tell you about that?" Macara muttered, before walking to the front of the ranked up soldiers of his regiment. "You're supposed to let me hit you."
Kallum gave Sergeant Miskelly, the standard bearer, a wry look which was returned with a broad grin. Corporals Mk'Hellin and Dillin, more like brothers than friends, chuckled, keeping their faces hidden from Macara's view. Sergeant Major Mk'Askill simply stood waiting orders, as always.
Macara could hear them, but didn't reprimand them. Good spirits were always useful at the outset of any campaign. Using his well-practised vocalisation skills, he projected his voice.
"Men of the Fifth, I felt, as your commanding officer, that there is something I should tell you," he paused, not only to make sure all his men were paying attention, but because each word was like an Ork punching him in the head. "I feel, that when we reach Ramillies, as I will be taking over command of the brigade, that I am going to take it easy for a change!" again, he paused, this time as his men laughed. "You lot can do all that grisly fighting business. I am going to find myself a nice quiet room and read a book."
"You need a woman!" a voice shouted from the crowd.
"Doesn't your mother count, corporal Roscoe?" the colonel laughed along with 2 Company. Roscoe was the regimental joker, and the men liked to see him played at his own game.
"The Light brigade will mount up as soon as the Fusiliers leave. They are Riflemen, after all, so take up less space." More laughter and comments on the usefulness of the Light troops.
"I cannot possibly guess what you have to laugh about, because we will be sharing space with the 9th and the 11th. And you know what they say about the 11th…"
The men groaned. Macara nodded to them.
"Relax, but be ready to mount up when you're told. I'm going to speak to the rest of the brigade. I'll see you in orbit."
As he walked, Macara smiled. He was sure he would come to love brigade command.
Macara felt as if he would come to hate brigade command. Inspirational speeches were easy. Saluting at the right times was easy. Hell, even frontline action was easy! But this! After three weeks in transit, Macara felt like screaming at the bare walls of his quarters. There was so much paper work that needed doing! Troopers pay, mess arrangements, ammunition and fuel distribution, disciplinary notifications, accommodating complaints. It was all the logistics that followed a regiment, only five-fold. At least at divisional level there were colonels and majors to help with this. He had his 5th, the 8th Fusiliers, 9th and 11th heavy infantry and the 2nd Cavalry to worry about now. It was a lot of men and numbers.
Macara was meant to have a staff-major, but so far it was he and Kallum, with some help from the occasional commanding officer.
He could order some of the subalterns of the 5th to help him, but he didn't want anyone else involved. It wasn't that he didn't trust them, but he didn't want to inflict it on anyone else….
"Midshipman," he spoke through the comm in his desk to the seconded naval officer sitting in the office outside his quarters. "Could you have Commissar Klousour sent in, please? I need his assistance on some senior regimental work."
"Of course, sir,"
Macara grinned evilly, a plan forming. Klousour was his regiments' Commissar. Macara had never liked the work of commissars, all that fear and intimidation. And they were all too trigger happy, in his experience. The colonel did not mind men falling back from the enemy, as long as they used it as a chance to regroup and try again. Commissars never gave that second chance. Throne, but he hated the Commissariat.
He pushed his chair back, and pulled a bottle of ferrila from his desk. He uncorked it and poured two fingers into a small glass. Taking a large gulp, hw thought on the circumstances that had led to the posting of commissars to regiments of his division.
It had been on Cadia. No, it had been before that, actually. The Munitorum and the Ecclesiarchy never liked the idea of the Angels having its own force of guardsmen. Over the centuries they had taken actions to exert control on the Garrowan forces. Seventy years earlier, they had posted five senior Commissars to the Garrowan establishment, one for each divisional commander and one for the serving Lord General himself. Another 5 had been posted to the 1st Brigade, where some of the oldest, and most fiercely Angels loyal regiments were.
However, they had had no reason to request more discipline officers as the Garrowans prove well behaved and loyal. The Garrowans had resented it completely. They had gone for two thousand years without the Munitorum checking up on them like this, why did they suddenly need chaperoned?
The situation leading to a general deployment of commissars happened on Cadia. During a fight for the main cities, Macara's brigade and a few other battalions had been supporting an Angels strike force. They had been serving in an area where a Cadian general was commanding the regular guard forces. The general, a certain General Faulin, had pulled rank to try and order the Garrowan forces to support his own withdrawing troops during an Angels offensive.
The leader of the Angels taskforce, Captain Deklan of the Second Company, had refused as his men were fighting and dying to retake ground the Cadians were abandoning. When Faulin had suggested an Astartes could not take command of Imperial Guard forces, Deklan reminded him the Garrowan infantry was founded specifically to support the Angels. Faulin continued to try and argue the point, until High Command had sorted the problem out.
Faulin, however, a senior member of the illustrious Cadian High Command, felt his authority diminished, and when the 2nd Terurn Guard became encircled, he wasted valuable time before committing troops to aid them, stating "If they aren't Guardsmen, then let their beloved Astartes save them,"
The 2nd Terurn Guard took almost 75% casualties. Faulin, being such an influential officer, with friends in higher places, avoided all blame. He did use his position, however, to accuse the Garrowans of cowardice, insubordination and borderline heresy, seeing as they answered to the Angels. The Ecclesiarchy had already implemented steps on Garrowa itself, and now the Munitorum used it as a chance to posted commissars to nearly all Garrowan regiments. Despite fierce protests from Morté himself, the commissars came. Worse, there was no apology for the casualties taken by Garrowan forces defending Cadia. In the three months before the Garrowans headed home, the commissars had made their presences felt.
Only good men, like general Mareven, and Ursarkar Creed, made any sort of apology for the situation that came about.
The door comms beeped.
"Come," Macara said a little too eagerly. A medium height man walked in in the ubiquitous black trousers and boots, but in his undershirt and braces. It was obvious the Commissar was off duty. He had sandy hair and a long scar down his left cheek.
"I see you feel it appropriate to let the men see you in a state of undress when requested by your commanding officer?"
"Sorry sir. I felt it better that I arrive promptly." Klousour bit back coldly.
Macara chuckled darkly. "I am teasing, commissar. I called you here because of something you said to me a couple of months ago, when you were first posted here."
"And that was…?"
"That you wished integrate yourself with the regiment, to better help it operate." Macara said impishly, a smirk behind his eyes.
"I did, sir." Klousour replied suspiciously. He had only said that to placate the tough Garrowan officer upon his posting.
Macara stood and offered the glass of ferrila to Klousour, who sat where the colonel indicated.
"Well, Commissar, as you wish to become a better part of our regiment, I'm sure you won't mind helping me with some paperwork, political officer Klousour" Macara smiled, edging towards the door.
Klousour looked at the paper work and realised just what it was. "Sir, I don't believe this is one of my duti…" he stopped short. The door was open and he could hear Macara laughing as he ran down the service way.
There was nothing on the planet for miles and miles. Just dust, and wind, and a dead black sky.
Macara looked around in horror. Dust and wind, dust and wind.
Macara ran for what seemed an eon, trying to find something, some landmark. There was none. Macara tried to shout, but no sound emanated from his throat.
He walked on and on, leaving tracks in the dust that faded away in instants.
As he walked, he saw a green glow on the horizon, and he trudged onward towards it.
He ate up the miles, and he felt like he had walked for an eternity, and yet for no time at all. He tried to call out again, but nothing issued forth.
He came upon the green glow and stopped, terror gripping tight.
There was a large black pyramid, surmounted by a glowing green crystal. Green veins of energy flowed down the sides of this monument. Walking into its gaping entrance, he could just see emaciated figures, shackled to one another, wandering in. Nothing came from the edifice.
The ground at his feet moved slightly, and a metallic, skeletal arm shot from the dust and grabbed his leg…
…Jerking him awake. The eddies and translucent eddies of the warp swirled around the ship. Macara sat in the ornate viewing lounge. All ships had one, but weren't often used on military ships. There was also the fear that looking at the warp itself could drive men mad…
The room was wide and circular, with a glass dome. Fifteen seats sat in the chamber, in rows of five. No seat touched another, and at the moment, no other was filled. Macara was on his own.
He looked around in a bit of a daze, the…the dream playing on his mind. What was it? He wondered. A nightmare, to be sure.
Macara started at the ripples of the warp, and put the vision down to the effects of the view on his tired mind.
The colonel usually loved to sit in these chambers, but Fate always seemed to conspire against him. Officers come looking for him, jobs that needed doing, fights to be broken up. Once there was even an attack by Ork pirates…
Today was no different. Lieutenant-Colonel Mk'Greyger of the 4th Rifles walked over from the hatch entrance.
"What are you doing on this ship? I thought the Rifles were on the other troop conveyor?"
"There's an officers meeting for the division. Mk'Fedan called it. Didn't you hear?" Mk'Greyger replied with a bemused smile.
"Umm….no. I've been buried in paperwork, and then I came here and…eh…I fell asleep."
"Tough work?" the Rifleman asked.
Macara sighed "No, but lots of it."
"Mind if I join you, sir?" the other man pointed at a seat.
"Certainly colonel. If you can find a free seat," Macara joked, looking at the fourteen empty ones beside him.
"I didn't know you liked it up here, sir." Mk'Greyger changed the subject.
"Likewise. But we haven't spoken much when we served together. Usually in the heat of battle, polite conversation goes out the window."
"That's true enough, sir" Mk'Greyger laughed. The man was lean, and had an irrepressible manner. He obviously made friends easily, and Macara knew the 4th was fiercely loyal to their colonel.
"We're off duty. No 'sirs'. Besides, we're spitting distance apart in rank, and we're both officers. That okay Merrit?"
"Okay then, Daine. So, what draws you to the warp? The lure of the Archenemy? The whisperings of the ruinous powers? Or just the pretty colours?"
The two men laughed.
"You better keep that to yourself, Merrit. Klousour is on a rampage again, and would no doubt shoot you for it. I tried to get him to finish the brigade's paperwork, but I don't know where he is now."
"We got ourselves a pretty little political officer," Mk'Greyger said darkly. "A woman who seems not only to hate men in general, but Garrowans in particular."
"You have a commissar now?" Macara asked, surprised.
"Two. You didn't know?"
"No. I thought the Rifles were pretty much perfectly disciplined?"
"Didn't stop them assigning to us anyway." Mk'Greyger's voice was vehement. "The 8th Fusiliers got one as well."
"Yes, I heard about him. It's disgraceful, if you ask me. Loyal men of the Imperium! And they gave me three of the bloody men." Macara snarled.
"Three? Where are the other two? I only saw one at the muster."
"One has stayed in Gateway Pass with our latest draft, bringing them up to battle standards. The other has come down with a rather convenient case of food poisoning…" Macara's smile was cruel.
Frazyar laughed. "You didn't, did you?"
"No, I most certainly did not. Corporal Roscoe, however, has been thoroughly disciplined for his actions." Macara smiled more genuinely this time.
"I'll bet he was…" Mk'Greyger started, when his comms went off.
"Sorry to bother you, sir. Commissar Gourte is looking for colonel Macara, but the colonel left his vox in his quarters." The Rifle officer's adjutant asked.
The two men burst into fits of immature giggles. The only reason the senior commissar would be looking for Macara would be because Klousour was doing his paperwork. Composing himself, Mk'Greyger asked.
"Where is the Commissar now?"
"In the colonel's office, with Klousour."
"Well, I saw him in the viewing lounge as I went past," Mk'Greyger said, barely keeping his face straight. He shut down the comm.
"Why did you do that?" Macara asked, a little crestfallen.
"Well, Daine, it'll take them a good fifteen minutes to get here. By which time, I suspect, you will have moved on. I only saw you here briefly. Bugger off." The rifleman grinned slyly.
"You Rifles really are tricky bastards, aren't you? Cheers mate. I must go now, but I bid you good luck." Macara gave a mock salute before adopting a suitably heroic pose, before dashing off like a Scholam student in trouble.
Mk'Greyger sat waiting for the commissars, laughing out loud at the very idea of the aging Gourte chasing Macara around the ship.
"News is, gentlemen, that Ramillies has now fallen." Mk'Fedan started the meeting with some less than optimistic news. Almost at once six hundred regimental officers started to talk, some uttering disbelief, others anger. Mk'Fedan looked at his staff officers beside him, before bellowing out.
"Silence! You're acting like a bunch of Slambadden conscripts!" That was enough to silence the room. "Now, the operation has become a liberation. As we all know, Ramillies is vitally important to the sector; its war produce helps defend this area of space from many threats, and it overlooks one of the sling-shot warp gates in the Segmentum. Emperor knows there are few enough of those we can actually use." The general let his words sink in. "So we need this world back! We need its lasguns, its Russes and its location."
There was a general murmur of ascent. Mk'Fedan raised an eyebrow, ensuring the murmur stayed just that until he was finished talking.
"Sir, from what you are saying, you want us to fight and die to keep the factorums going?" a voice said despite the warning glance from the general.
"Captain, shut your damned mouth," Macara hissed. Captain Dyort, of his own 3rd Company, was a whiner. He complained about anything he could; Macara had no idea how he had risen to lieutenant, never mind Company captain. He complained about assignments, quarters, food, everything. And worse. Macara had never wanted to get rid of any officers, trying to give them all a chance to show their quality. But Dyort had caused the deaths of ninety men on Cadia. It was only Taulich's insistence that Dyort may one day prove useful that had stopped Macara booting him out himself. Dyort was trying to redeem himself, at least. Macara was watching him for one sign that his repentance was a shame, and he was gone.
"Because, Captain, we are servants of the Emperor, and we do what we are ordered to do. We could waste our entire force here as long as it kept the fabricator plants out of the enemy's hands." Mk'Fedan said with vigour. There was another murmur of agreement.
"Colonel Brennel," Mk'Fedan gestured to one of his tactical officers, who stood with a data slate. The assembled officers took out their own, read to take notes. A holographic map of the city appeared before them. It had started as a ubiquitous hive tower, but a city had grown out from it, the Hive towers becoming the central government area, the habs spreading for miles around, and across the wide Tenba river. There was no curtain wall or defensive positions here, as the factories were constantly being made larger, or new ones being built. It had often been rumoured that Ramillies would become a Mechanicum world, for it was close to that stage in its development.
"We will be going into action almost straight upon arrival, in the capital Tenba City. Our forces on the ground are under near constant attack, and are having to hold certain areas of the city near the main Hive spires. There are maybe one hundred thousand men of the Ramillien PDF left alive. They are being supported by eighteen regiments of Dramarian Grenadiers," quills scratched on data slates as officers took notes. Macara smiled slightly – the Dramarians had served with Garrowan forces in the S'karr campaign against the Tau. They were tough, professional soldier with good staying power. Brennel continued.
"They hold the hive spires and the main factotums. They have lost the main bridges across the river, and the main space port, so we can't land the majority of our ground forces in one fell swoop. Also, there is a massed force of enemy cultists attacking the PDF barracks and lower Hive towers, near the main spine. That means there will be a drop assault, spearhead by Elysian troops, followed by a more massed troop drop from other regiments. There are six regiments of Elysians who will be making this drop, but they are dropping two right on the barracks, as the PDF can't last much longer. So they have asked for some support from our forces to capture the necessary objective, needed to land our main forces."
"Which are?" Colonel Danler, of the Lynstas light, raised a hand.
"The space port, and these three bridges here," Brennel pointed at the map. "And the Cathedral district here. The cathedral is right beside a major warehouse, full to the rafters with ammunition and supplies. We need that material. Garrowan units are tasked with the nearest bridge, here, and the central span. Ramilliens will take the warehouse district," Brennel gestured at the southernmost span. "Elysian units will take the other crossing with two battalions, and their final two will take the space port. When the landing fields are taken, we can begin to land the Fusiliers and Cavalry, and of course the Heavies."
There was a slight uproar as the officers of those regiments being left out realised they were to stay in orbit during the assault.
"Quieten down!" General Bukanan roared. "Let the colonel finish!"
Miket Bukanan was tall and wild haired, with a huge beard. His arms were knots of muscle, and he looked like every mythical Garrowan warrior ever described. He didn't speak much, but when he didn't, men listened.
"There has been debate over who shall make the drop. The Light Brigade, under General Bukanan, will make this drop. They will take the lower bridge and the Cathedral. They will have to hold out for up to two days without support, but general Mk'Fedan is confident they can."
"Sir, the Rifles are good troops, but can they take and hold that bridge over a couple of days? You need more heavily armed troops there!" Colonel Frayver, of the 9th Heavies, spoke up.
"He's right, sir. That central bridge is lookin very lonely. I suggest a Heavy battalion moves there. The 5th, namely," Macara suggested. More clamour met this.
"We don't have space for a heavy unit with all the light battalions," Bukanan muttered.
"I know sir. So drop one of the lights from the assault and send us in," Macara replied.
Mk'Fedan stood and spoke again. "Daine has a good point. I suggest the 9th takes the central span, as they will be furthest from support, but they can handle themselves," Frayzar looked triumphant. Macara was a little disappoint, but at least his brigade would be involved in the fighting. "Good to see that's sorted. And no, Mike, no arguments from you please." Mk'Fedan finished. Bukanan just scowled below his beard.
"What other forces are in support?" a lieutenant asked.
Brennel nodded. "Good question. Well, there are several Cadians regiments here, sent to rearm after the battle for the Gate. They will be arriving in a couple of weeks, just in time for the fighting, it seems. Twenty two regiments in all, including our friends in the 23rd," there was some cheers; the 23rd had fought at Kasr Tyrok with the Garrowans and formed solid friendships. "and the 227th." That was met with silence. The 227th was Faulin's own unit, who had cost the Terurn guard so dearly.
"Damn their eyes," Major Cairns muttered. Many men nearby echoed the sentiment.
"Seven regiments of Thoran Bravers will be arriving to engage the enemy with us." There was no cheer, only some mutterings. The Thorans had only served with the Garrowans in one campaign, but most of these officers knew nothing about them. "And finally, two regiments of Verdani Rangers are waiting in orbit."
"Don't those jungle boys ride Lizards? What are they doing here?" a Fusilier major asked.
"They go where the Munitorum sends them no matter how little sense it makes. And only some of them ride lizards. They use Chimeras too," Mk'Fedan said with a mock sigh.
"What are the enemy forces like?" Macara asked the really important question. Mk'Fedan answered this one personally.
"Tac Logic suggests between five hundred thousand, to one million cultists. Poorly trained, poorly equipped, but numerous none the less. Also, most of their forces are in the Western side of the city, barring those assaulting the PDF barracks. But I wouldn't trust Intelligence, as it was given to us by the Ramilliens. We don't know how accurate it is."
Mk'Fedans expression darkened. "There have also been reports of small units of well trained, possibly traitor, soldiers leading the cultists efforts."
"Reports? That means there are either no traitor guard, or a division of them," Bukanan spat his derision.
"I know, Miket, I know. But we will do what we Garrowans do best, and fight with everything we have got. One last thing gentlemen. Our esteemed commander on this little jaunt. It's General Faulin."
An angry hiss ran through the assembled Garrowans, and no amount of hard stares from the commissars gathered at the back of the room could suppress it.
"Bastard."
"Damn his eyes."
"Right, gentlemen, to your regiments. We drop 0800 tomorrow," that surprised many of them; the warp transit was a week early.
As officers rose and started to leave, Cairns leaned towards Macara. "That bastard, eh? This is going to be one major feck-up, and we both know it."
"Oh throne," Macara sighed. "So much for an easy op."
