CHAPTER 4 ~ The Emissaries of Angels
Cisare, ktery m'y nalezy y z'ostatni dan le klan
(To the Emperor his due and all else for hearth and clan)
— Traditional Grollan Dacqoit saying
Berganau peered through sheets of torrential rain at the two figures approaching across the flat stretch of rooftop. Lit from behind by the Thunderhawk's landing lights, neither was much more than a silhouette, but he could see from their profiles alone that these were not the fabled astartes, but men.
The two made slow work of crossing the roof. Horizontal arctic winds buffeted the schola's makeshift landing platform. The rain hammering against the rockcrete sounded like autogun report.
When the Thunderhawk had landed, Berganau had steeled himself, determined not to be unmanned in the presence of the Emperor's angels of death. Still, his heart had thumped wildly as he made out the chapter markings on the vessel. Then the ramp had descended, and what had emerged from the Thunderhawk had not been the Master of Mankind's immortal warriors.
Berganau's exhausted mind cycled uselessly like an empty bolter. He simply could not fathom what purpose these two men had being there. If it was to aid them, this was a far cry from the help that the Grollans had requested and prayed for.
Both men wore dark fatigues which carried no obvious markings of rank or regiment. One, considerably the shorter of the two, walked slightly ahead of the other. He stooped somewhat and walked slowly, taking each step with care — understandable given the treacherous conditions underfoot — but to Berganau the man's gait looked like the hesitant tread of an invalid.
The other, taller and broad-shouldered, followed a few steps behind. He carried himself assuredly despite the slippery surface, his posture upright, body language radiating purpose. An NCO - a corporal or sergeant perhaps, Berganau mused. This second figure carried a lot of upper body bulk. Astra Militarum then. Grollans rarely grew to such proportions — not on the rations they received.
The welcome party of Berganau, Pavlík and Dorik's hastily assembled squad waited as the two men made painfully slow progress across the precarious platform. Behind them, the Thunderhawk began to rise again. It listed in the high winds, the roar of the engines barely audible over the cacophony of the storm and the crash of waves against the cliffs beneath them.
Berganau experienced a lurching nausea as the Thunderhawk departed, taking all his hopes with it. For a brief moment, he'd given himself over to hope, allowing himself to imagine that they were saved. He glanced sideways at Pavlík, but the commissar's expression betrayed no emotion. He thought of the troops. He had no doubt news of the 'space marine' vessel's arrival was on every soldier's lips by now.
Throne of Terra, how are they going to react to this?
Grollans were born pessimists who expected little from life. That innate stoicism had been the only reason many of the dacquoit had not rebelled or deserted already. But now, to have raised the astonishing, incredible prospect that a company of Astartes had come to their aid, only for that hope to be dashed, well; he gritted his teeth. This could be the final straw that broke the proverbial grox's back.
The visitors reached Berganau. The smaller man stepped forward and saluted. He was half a head shorter than the major and wore a shapeless cap with the peak pulled down low to keep the rain from his face.
For the vast majority of Grollans, the only work available was fishing the oceanic world's volatile seas. It was a hard existence; accidents and injuries which left men and women maimed for life were common. Constant exposure to the elements created bodies weathered and aged beyond their owners' years. Berganau was therefore used to faces bearing some deformity, yet when the first figure raised his head to speak, the major had to suppress a grimace.
The man's face bore two prominent welts which ran from beneath his cap to his chin. One crossed his left temple and cheek, while the other cut through his warped right eye socket and bisected his mouth. His lips were bloated where the scar met them. The left side of his mouth seemed to be frozen in an upward tilt. The overall effect, Berganau thought, was a macabre parody of a grin.
He became conscious of staring at the ruined mouth. He raised his attention to the pale blue eyes and returned the salute. "Major Berganau, Grolla Planetary Defence Force 15th Artillery."
The smaller man nodded. "Captain Julius Lakond." He gave a small cough. "Formerly of the Leigoran 32nd Rangers. This —," he gestured at his companion, "is Corporal Jens Sturm."
"Captain Lakond?" Commissar Pavlík spat out the rank as though it were something she'd just found on her boot.
Berganau held out a cautioning hand. Pavlík swivelled to turn her furious glare on him, then brought it back to bear on the diminutive Lakond. "Forgive me, Captain, but we expected to be greeting astartes from the —"
Lakond turned to Pavlík, looking her up and down as if he'd only just noticed her. "Ah — yes, apologies. Our mode of transport was bound to raise false expectations." He spoke so quietly that Berganau could barely hear him over the storm. "But then life is full of disappointments, isn't it, Commissar?" He winked at Berganau. "If you don't mind, Major? I'm soaked through and it's bloody freezing out here. I promise that I can be just as underwhelming indoors."
"We've been in full retreat for three months, from our initial position in the southern peninsula's capital, Terojz, here," Berganau said, "to our present position here."
Berganau, Lakond and Pavlík sat in the gloomy, high-ceilinged room that had once been the schola masters' dining hall. The wood-panelled walls were lined with portraits of past drill abbots who regarded the hall's newest occupants with austere, disapproving expressions.
Lakond studied where Berganau had indicated on the map spread out on the great dining table. He had both his hands wrapped around a hot mug of recaff. "You said you were an artillery regiment?"
"We were," said Berganau grimly. "We lost a lot of our materiel on the march south, and personnel — including all but one of our enginseers. In the end, we dumped all the bigger ordnance. We took only what we could pull - or carry, if needs be. A and D Troop are here in the schola. I've scattered the remainder of B and C Troop batteries across the surrounding countryside to keep their guns from discovery."
"Abandoning the big mobile artillery — was that your decision when you took overall command?" Lakond asked.
"Yes, it was. After Colonel Kasparek was killed, I was the next most senior officer," Berganau said, surprised. "How did you know?"
The upturned corner of Lakond's ugly mouth twitched slightly. "It's a change of tack. A radical move, in fact, for an artillery regiment — to abandon its heavy cannon. It's the decision of a new commander, someone making a break with a previously failing strategy."
Berganau nodded. "We couldn't hold the city. We'd been giving a good account of ourselves up till about three weeks ago. You see, the real battle is happening in the northern peninsula. That's where the off-world marauders landed. That's where the Astra Militarum regiments who came to defend us are. The enemy here in the South was mostly groups of local heretics who'd been stirred up by provocateurs. Little more than mobs, really." He looked down. "Then those monsters came."
Lakond said nothing, but continued to regard Berganau while clutching the mug to his chest. The major found he didn't mind the scrutiny. Lakond's gaze was searching, but Berganau felt oddly sure that it contained no judgement.
He reached for a bottle and poured himself a shot of amasec, then offered it to Lakond who shook his head. He downed it in one gulp. It was fine, fiery stuff — the last of the Drill Abbot's personal store which had been left there when the schola was abandoned.
Berganau stared at the bottom of his empty glass. "They were few in number, but that didn't matter. They began to strike at us unexpectedly. We never knew they were there till it was too late. They were so fast, so powerful." His shoulders sagged. "They'd just... appear. It didn't matter what positions we held, if we set a guard. They'd just somehow emerge in the middle of our encampments, slaughter as many people as possible, then disappear as quickly as they came. We lost contact with High Command in the North. Our vox transmissions were blocked — all we could hear on every frequency was screaming. So we started to fall back." He grabbed the bottle and poured himself a second drink. "They didn't even seem to care about taking ground, or pressing their advantage." His mouth twisted in a bitter snarl. "They just kept coming back, night after night. Killing us, toying with us. They don't behave like soldiers, they won't pay us the respect of treating us like an enemy. They are more like cruel children pulling the legs from an insect just to watch it hobble —"
"No."Lakond didn't raise his voice. He was looking at the map again. "No. They are cruel, but they are not irrational. They do nothing without purpose and they are always supremely pragmatic in pursuit of their objectives."
"But what motive is there to find in their behaviour," Berganau said bitterly, "except madness and contempt?"
Lakond got up. "You've been herded, Major Berganau." He pointed at the map. "They've nudged and pushed you and committed just enough carnage each time to make you react, to retreat, until bit by bit, you surrendered the city and its outlying territories and ended up here, exactly where they wanted you: trapped with the sea at your back."
He looked at Berganau, but in the gloom of the hall, the Major could no longer see the other man's eyes.
"It's been done expertly," Lakond said softly. "They've harried and terrorised you without respite. They made a point of committing the worst atrocities possible and making sure you witnessed it. It kept your minds dull, reeling with the horrors you'd seen. Yet, this was nothing but a smokescreen to keep you distracted so you didn't see the truth — that all the time you were being driven like cattle."
Berganau slammed his glass down on the table rather harder than he'd intended. He felt his face burning. "That makes no sense. They've proved their superiority a thousand times over. Why haven't they simply wiped us out? Why chase us hundreds of kilometres instead?"
"Because, Major, they wouldn't risk facing you in open battle." Lakond's expression was impassive. "It's not their way. This group is likely quite small — I'm guessing no more than a dozen — but they excel at lightning strikes and psychological warfare. They are simply doing what any good strategist does, trying to dictate a situation which favours their strengths while negating all of yours."
Berganau stared at him.
"None of which explains what an Astra Militarum captain is doing here." These were the first words Pavlík had spoken since they'd entered the hall. She regarded Lakond icily. "Our final astropathic message was sent to the orbital relay station with instructions to send it on to Command and the nearest Adeptus Astartes chapter." She waved a hand. "A little wishful thinking perhaps, but now it seems someone received it. What I cannot understand is how you came to respond to us — and who sent you." The emphasis in her final words was heavy with implied mistrust.
How unsubtle. How typical, Berganau's seditious inner voice whispered. To assume that anything or anyone unknown to us is something to be feared.
Lakond smiled at the commissar. "It's true, Ma'am, that I was a captain in the Leigoran 32nd, but not anymore — there is no longer any such world. As far as you are concerned, I am a representative of the Chapter Master. He sends his apologies, but there are a great many calls for his warriors' aid in the current crisis. The coming of the great rift has spawned wars on hundreds of worlds in this sub-sector alone. So, he has done what he can. He has sent you Sturm and myself."
"And what can you do, Captain, that we have not tried for ourselves?"
"Nothing. I'm not here to do your fighting for you, Commissar. Think of me as," Lakond's crooked mouth twitched slightly,"...a consultant specialist."
Pavlík raised an eyebrow. "And what is your specialism, Captain?"
Lakond leant forward. He met her glare with unblinking, glacial blue eyes. "Killing traitor astartes, of course."