As a massive sandstorm hits the roads leading to the port of Kaol-Daissar, one driver and one soldier, both in the forces of the rebellion, find themselves caught in a nightmarish surprise as they attempt to deliver the badly needed supplies. In the aftermath, a frightening revelation turns a worst case scenario into a full on disaster...

Ibrahim Kaleel hated his job. It made money, a lot of it, and it kept his wife and children in a comfortable dwelling in Kaol Daissar, but if his wife hadn't used their wealth to the limit, he wouldn't feel obligated to drive a truck through empty desert for hours on end, day in and day out. And now, driving through the hell of a sandstorm, he found himself deeply, deeply regretting not taking the day off.

"All this for hazard pay," he grumbled, his vision almost entirely blocked out by a reddish haze through his windshield.

Being sixth from the front of the convoy, his truck was carrying wheat, tons of it. All supplied by the now suffering people of Mekkar to feed the insatiable hunger of Hive Golgotha. It made Ibrahim more than a little bitter that barely any help had come to his suffering homeland from the very people he and his kin fed while they suffered from Red Ned, the bloody Prince who slaughtered and burned all in his path.

"_tinuing on p_ towards wayp_"

He slammed his fist on the radio as it crackled and failed to get a steady signal. They were near the port now, so it would only be a bit more suffering through this sandy nightmare before they finally arrived. He couldn't even complain to any of the other drivers because the radio was useless, so now all the anger and frustration inside him was bubbling up to a boil. He took deep breaths as they continued down the road, thinking of what this extra pay could get for his family. Maybe that pool they wanted, or something simple, like a wall-screen. He could see himself watching some of those old vids he had, seeing them in quality he could never-"

"FU_BREAK_BRE_STOP N_"

Red lights glowed in front of him, and he quickly slammed on the breaks, praying that whoever was behind him stopped before slamming into his rear. Thankfully, neither himself or his tailgater stopped too late, and from the looks of it, all ten or so feet in front of him at least. He stopped and took another breath still in shock from the suddenness of it all. A few minutes went by, no radio communications or anything broadcasted. He noticed a figure approaching his passenger side, wearing the flak armor of a Haikk Defence Force soldier. He heard a few knocks on the door before stretching to open it. A few seconds of vicious wind and sand flooded the cab before the door closed and the soldier sat in the passenger seat.

"How are you doing Van?" Ibrahim said with a slight chuckle.

"Fucking terrible Ib," Private Second Class Peter Van Graff said in exhaustion.

"That fucking storm is a beast. Even with all this protection and the headwrap, it feels like I'm standing in front of a fan while someone tears open a sandbag and throws it."

"It's not easy to drive through either."

"Yeah, LT put me with truck three and is up with the lead. Can't see shit."

"What the hell happened? Why are we stopped?"

"Roads fucked up. Real bad. Half the goddamn highway is blown to chunks, and the section we can go through is chewed up. It's blocked by a goddamn Tauros too."

"What the hell is a Tauros doing out here?"

"Dunno, but it matches the one that went missing a couple days ago."

"Shit, I don't like this."

Van Graff nodded, his face now showing his suspicions.

"Neither do I, but LT can't get anyone from command, hell, we can barely get the convoy."

"What about the other convoy on Route 2?"

"We can't get them. Assume they'll go by us. Hopefully we can stop them and get help, or wait an hour for the next convoy."

"Shit."

"Yeah. I got the task of standing in that fucking nightmare and tell everyone what's going on. Stay put and just wait for any word from me or the LT."

"Got it. Stay safe out there Van!"

"Thanks!"

The door opened, the wind and sand blew in, and all went silent with a metallic thud. Ibrahim sighed and slumped in his seat. It was going to be a long day.

XXXXXX

Miles above, in the lower atmosphere of Haikk Four, Pic Perfect was once again on its regular observation route, taking more captures of the convoy's heading to the port. Or at least, it would have taken picts, had it not been for the massive sandstorm that was whipping over the north of the continent. Maximilian, the surveyor on board the Vigilant, rubbed his eyes as Lieutenant Rawls tried to fight the nightmare of turbulence and other conditions the storm brought with it.

"I don't get it," Chuck grumbled as he sat in the nose turret, watching the dark splotch that moved over Mekkar. "They know we can't get any good picts with this storm in the way, and they still send us out?"

Eleni looked over her navigation equipment before pressing the side of her oxygen mask.

"Because we were told to do so. Now stop complaining and enjoy the free plane ride."

"Whatever."

Rawls broke in, cursing as he did so as the controls fought him.

"They're hoping we can find something here they can't. Just watch your guns and pray nobody comes after us."

'Aye sir."

"Max, I take it you can't see shit?"

"No sir," Max replied. "How could you tell?"

"'Cause I can't either."

Max shook his head in frustration. Why the hell were they here if they couldn't see anything? What was the point of sending them out here for no good reason? He rolled his neck around, cracking a tight muscle, grunting in surprise as he did so. He looked over to some of the other surveillance equipment when he noticed a blinking red light.

"Hey LT!"

"Call me Rawls. What's up?"

"Rawls," Max said in annoyance. "I got a possible lead on comms equipment. Maybe we could listen in on whatever they're saying over Vox."

"Hey, if you can get it, take it."

"Got it. Deploying antenna."

Flipping a few switches and pressing a button, the Vigilant switched from observation to signals collection.

A few minutes later, Max realized that Eleni was watching him to see if he heard anything.

"Static mostly. I am getting bits and pieces of some convoy stuck in the middle of the storm."

"Really?" Rawls asked, before cutting his comms and yelling another curse as the stick nearly slipped from his hands.

"I guess they were trying to get another shipment through. I wonder where those guys are."

"Probably where the sand is," Andre said, only recently waking up from a good nap.

"Your brilliance always astounds us, Andre," Eleni laughed.

"I do my best."

The Vigilant jerked and shook violently, bouncing the crew up in their jump seats before pulling them down roughly.

"Throne!" Eleni shouted before groaning in pain.

"Sorry everyone, we hit a pressure spot. This storms a goddamn mess to go through. Another few hours then we're back to base."

"Took us long enough," Chuck seethed.

"Still choppy. But they seem to be trying to contact the other convoy on that second road, get them to stop."

"Probably don't want to risk losing two convoys at once. But who the hell would come all the way out here and sit through a fucking sandstorm to attack them?" Rawls asked.

Max shook his head and sighed.

"God-Emperor knows Rawls," Max said as he tried scanning through frequencies.

He stopped and placed his hands on his helmet's ear pads, frozen as he listened in. Eleni noticed and pressed the mic again.

"What's wrong Max?"

"I got something, but it's garbled to hell… I dunno what it is."

"Is it our guys?"

"No, I don't know what the hell it is. It-"

He listened for a few more moments.

"Rawls?"

"Yeah?"

"Whatever I'm hearing… I don't think it's human."

XXXXXX

Ibrahim became more and more anxious as the minutes passed, kept in the dark figuratively and literally, as the sandstorm somehow got worse. He sat back and tapped the wheel, wishing he brought a book or something. Boredom was starting to roll in, making his anxiety worse. He tried the radio again, but got garbled nonsense. The radios on the trucks barely worked on a good day, and on a terrible day like this, were less than worthless. Even the soldiers with their high powered Vox sets were having issues, and were desperately trying to stop or get help from their brother convoy.

"What a disaster," Ibrahim said in annoyance.

Then he heard new chatter from the radio. The other convoy was nearby and passing them. Slamming his head back onto the headrest, he realized that they would probably be penalized for the delay. There goes that bonus and hazard pay. Hell, they may be lucky if they get paid period. Then something strange went through him. It felt as if something bad was about to happen, that he was being watched. He grabbed the stub pistol that the Port officials issued to all drivers and looked out his side windows. What was he getting nervous about?

"Nerves," he mumbled.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a green flash charge towards his truck. He turned to face it before his driver side door tore open, the storm blowing into his eyes. He let a few shots out towards the green figure, but it was too late. The chainblade cleanly cut his head off, which rolled into the passenger seat.

Four trucks behind, PSC Van Graff had just patrolled the length of the convoy when he saw the head of the last truck driver explode across his windshield. His initial shock quickly wore off as he saw figures charge to the rest of the trucks, tearing open the cab doors, and presumably the drivers as well. He rushed behind one of the trailers, scrambling through the pain of the sand raking his skin to unsling his lasgun and load a battery pack. He was fighting the urge to panic, but thankfully for him, this wasn't his first battle. Fighting gangers in the lower parts of his home Golgotha had been a constant, vicious cycle he had learned much from. But whatever he was fighting now was beyond a group of drugged up gang bangers and mutants. Whoever attacked was organized, and damn good. But the Imperial boot-lickers were supposed to be half a continent away, and they were a bunch of feudal peasants and knights, not the kind to attack deep in the desert.

"Help! Emperor above, help!"

Van Graff turned his head to the noise, and realized the Lieutenant had survived. Hoping the storm would shield him from the fire and notice of the attackers, he slid next to the officer.

"Sir, what the hell is happening?"

"I don't know!" he said, panic obvious in his voice, even though he had to shout it over the storm.

"What do we do?"

"Get out of here!"

"Sir?"

"Get to the other route, get over there as fast as you can! You have to warn them!"

"Sir, that is miles away."

"I know, but we're done for. I'm done for."

He showed him a darkening patch of red on his leg, possibly having cut an artery, even with the first aid he had done on himself a likely mortal wound. He grimaced in pain as he grabbed Van Graff's shoulder.

"We're down, but maybe you can save the others. Go! I'll cover you! Go that way, go until you see asphalt!"

Van Graff took a deep breath and nodded.

"I'll do it sir."

"Good luck. God-Emperors speed with you."

The LT raised his lasgun and fired off a few bolts, hopefully pinning down their attackers. Van Graff rushed in the direction he was pointed to, struggling up the dune as he heard the lasgun still firing away. A few more steps and he was over, heading through a blinding storm in a possibly wrong direction, to make his commander's sacrifice not in vain.

XXXXXX

Van Graff continued on, blinded even with his goggles, his uniform prickling from the pain of the sandstorm. He couldn't figure out how much time had passed. All he knew was he had to reach the other convoy. He trudged on, praying that he would find it, realizing he had only half filled his canteen. He grimly realized if he didn't find his comrades, he may well die out here in the desert. It was supposed to be a simple convoy, himself and the LT the only military escort. He wished that they had a Chimera and a full squad, or the weather was better that they could notify command, or could call in a Valkyrie. He stopped as his mind reached an upsetting conclusion.

"Cocksuckers!" he screamed, kicking sand as he did so.

They had planned it this way! They waited for them to be blind and deaf, to be helpless and alone. It had to be Imperials. Even the desert raiders that struck sometimes would never be this co-ordinated. Unless they now had a leader that was above the average inbred blood-thirsty chieftain that ruled the nomads of the Tal-Gedi, which was just as bad. Continuing forward, his mind hit a nadir. Would he ever find the convoy? What if he got lost? Why didn't he bring a fucking compass? He was angry at everything, himself for basic mistakes, his commanders for sending him out into this nightmare, and the desert for its unforgiving ways.

Then he heard it.

Somehow, over the howling winds of the sandstorm, he heard a humming, an unfamiliar din that made him instantly drop to the ground and stay dead still. He saw a dark silhouette glide over the sand past him, only twenty or thirty feet away. It was unlike anything he had ever seen, a vehicle that had no tracks or wheels, moving quietly over the sand, leaving no trace what so ever. It stopped for a second, and his heart froze as the turret on top of it swung his way. It held for a moment before swinging forward and continuing on its course. He stayed on the ground for a few more minutes in pure terror. He finally got up and slowly moved on, hoping and praying the mysterious vehicle would stay away. He picked up pace as he continued with no interference, and started stumbling, going almost too fast for his legs to continue. Then, without warning, he stuck a leg into empty space, and tumbled down. He rolled down a dune, finally coming to a painful stop.

His body wracked with searing agony, lifting himself up and stumbling forward again, slowly and with caution. To his surprise, he felt solid ground. To his relief, it was asphalt. He had found the road. Looking at the ground, he followed the lines on the road, walking parallel to them towards what he thought was away from Kaol-Daissar. As he looked down the road, he saw a dark shape. The shape of a truck. Joy filled his chest and he raised his arms, flapping them like a bird to get its attention. He did it once, then again. Once more he tried before his joy shriveled and died. He moved closer to the truck, and cried out in agony as he saw the body of its driver sprawled out from an open cab door. He passed the body, moving to the trailer, realizing both had been burned or blown up. He moved down to the next truck, also destroyed. Tears were running down his cheeks now, realizing his mission had probably been in vain since he left. He continued walking, in a numb trance, passing the fourth truck before his legs gave way, collapsing and just staying down. His eyes closed, and everything went black.

He wasn't sure how long it had been since he fell when he heard a voice. It was muffled by the storm, but he definitely heard it. He opened his eyes, and through the clouded, dust caked goggles saw a pair of boots. But they weren't any Guard issue boots, it was something strange, foreign, almost like it was made of bone.

"Serjeant!"

He saw a figure, which he knew was human, even through his grief and exhaustion.

"Alive?"

"Somehow."

It was muffled again, but the two figures were conversing. Then he heard one word, the only one that he could remember afterwards.

"Anxo."

Then he felt something grab his shoulder, lifting him and dragging him away. He passed out again.

When he came back to his senses, he was surprised how quiet it was. He felt no stinging on his skin either, so he was inside something. Even in the pitch-black darkness, he could sense others with him, and it wasn't just because his goggles were gone.

"Water," he rasped.

He expected a strike or to be killed, but at this point, he didn't give a damn. So when a canteen appeared in front of him and slowly lifted itself to lower a cool stream into his mouth, he nearly choked on it, spluttering in surprise. He realized his hands and legs were tried, but he was sitting up.

"Thank you," he said, coughing the statement out.

"If you knew your rescuers, you would not say that."

Van Graff froze in terror at the inhuman, haunting voice that responded. He looked up slowly to see a terrifyingly tall figure, armor green as grass, eyes red as blood.

"W-who are you?" he stuttered in fright.

"Death."

"Throne help me," Van Graff spluttered quietly.

"Today we have killed many of your people and comrades. By all rights, you should be among them. But you have been spared for one reason."

The figure lowered itself to his eye level, staring almost into his soul. The mask he wore was nothing human, and dread filled him as he realized this was no Imperial. It was a Xeno. His fear was palpable now, realizing that the attack was organized by the oldest enemies of mankind, what that strange vehicle who nearly spotted him was from, and how an attack so sudden and successful went through.

"W-why?"

The Xeno laughed in a terrible, unnatural way, suddenly stopping to breathe noisily through his mask.

"Because we want you and your friends to know that no convoy is safe. The desert is ours. Let your leaders know that their supplies will never come through without us… interfering. Do you understand?"

Van Graff nodded slowly, trembling as he did so.

"We will find you if you do not. Be assured of that."

Standing up suddenly, the Xeno grabbed a dark face covering, putting it over Van Graffs head, blinding him. He made a startled squeak, about to ask what would happen to him.

"Do not worry Mon-Keigh, the next convoy will be here soon."

A rush of sand and wind filled wherever he was, and the slam of doors dropped him into dark silence.

XXXXXX

The former PDF Chimera tore through the sands, the twelve soldiers within sitting in anxious silence. Their sergeant tried to alleviate their fears and keep them focused.

"I get it boys, you're all a bit nervous, but we need to do this. Two convoys go missing, and the ones right behind them see wreckage and bodies everywhere. We have three objectives: secure the area, find any survivors, and recover whatever supplies we can. Keep your heads on a swivel, and watch your six. We got the Chimera watching over us, so we got a good amount of fire power. And for Thrones sake, keep your gear on. That storm is nasty as all hell, and use the Vox beads in your helmet, we got no visibility here."

The vehicle slowed and halted, the gunner swinging his turret around before motioning all clear to the sergeant.

"Everyone geared up? Let's go!"

Banging his fist on the wall separating the driver and the passengers, the rear door slammed open, the storm whipping inside. With more than a few stumbles and faceplants, the squad disembarked. The storm was as terrible as he feared, but he had a mission, and he was expected to accomplish it.

"Right, two fireteams, one goes north, one goes south. I'll go north, Corporal, you have command of the south. Go!"

The two teams broke off and moved. The damage was worse than he feared. Wreckage was strewn all across the highway, the bodies of its defenders and truck drivers strewn all across, terrible wounds on some from a blade of some sort, others torn to shreds by some form of firearm. Whatever hit them, did it quickly and like the fist of the Emperor. Reaching the front of the convoy, it was quickly apparent that no one survived, and the trucks must have been destroyed after the attack, scorched and burnt out with nothing recoverable. Mysteriously, they weren't stopped and the road wasn't destroyed. A massive hole in the windshield and the body of the driver still in the cab of the lead vehicle helped him form an idea what happened: leader was killed, his truck stopped, and the others had barely no time to react. When they stopped, the rest of the attack must have commenced.

"Sarge?" one of the privates said over the crackling Voxnet.

"Private?"

"This is looking bad."

"Beyond bad private, this is a disaster."

"Command isn't going to like this."

"No they won't, and I bet the convoy right behind this is just as unhappy."

First Red Ned tears the continents farms and food apart, and now this. The situation on Mekkar was getting worse, and it was already bad enough. He and his comrades had been pulled from Golgotha to ensure the food made it to the Hive, Planetary Command not wanting to leave the vital convoys under the protection of the feudal, primitive locals. And even with the best a Planetary Defense Force could offer, it still wasn't making a difference.

"Team, we're heading back to the Chimera. There's nothing we can do here."

The five troops sullenly followed behind him, passing the skeletal remains of what was a vital lifeline to their homes and families. Noticing the other team moving their way, the sergeant was waved over by the corporal in charge of the southern team.

"Sarge! We got one trailer in decent condition!"

"Really?"

"We're going to open it, but I want everyone ready if something is in there."

"Good thinking corporal. Teams, form up, follow me!"

True to his word, the corporal brought him to a near untouched trailer, its rear door still closed.

"Reeks of a trap," one of the soldiers said.

"Agreed. Open the door, be careful."

Slowly opening the door, the fact they hadn't been blown away as it rose up and clanged to a stop was proof that there was a reason it had been left here. Turning a flashlight on and looking into the dark interior, the sergeant heard the trooper gasp and saw his flashlight nearly fall out of his hand.

"What?"

"Sarge, there's a live one in here, one of ours!"

Looking inside, he confirmed the trooper's report, and rushed to the tied up soldier, cursing as he realized he may have stumbled into a booby trap. He took the bag off the captives head, which revealed an exhausted and battered Golgothan, who blinked from the sudden light.

"You alright soldier?"

The captive nodded and grimaced in pain as tried to stand up.

"Relax. What's your name? What are you doing here?"

"PSC Van Graff, 156th. Part of the detail protecting the convoy on Route One."

"That's the other side of the desert."

"Yeah. Survived the ambush and came over here to warn these guys. Didn't work."

Cutting the binds free, Van Graff grabbed the sergeant's hand and lifted himself up.

"I need to talk to somebody high up. They let me live to warn us to never come back here."

"Who's they?"

Van Graff swallowed and gritted his teeth.

"Xenos, sergeant. There's goddamn Xenos in the desert and they're going to do this to more convoys."

The sergeant looked at him in horror before noticing the rush of wind lowered, and sudden silence fell.

XXXXXX

"Max, storms letting up over the roads, you got an opportunity to get some picts in."

"Understood si-Rawls."

Looking down on the desert, his pilot's assessment had been correct. Where once a massive wall of sand stood, now it was back to its normal stillness. He could see the faint outlines of the roads before focusing the lenses and zooming in. He was hoping for a moment like this, given that all communications, garbled and barely listenable as they were, had gone silent. The cameras finally focused on the roads, two strips of black jutting from the sands. Looking down the scope, Max gasped.

"Holy shit."

"What's wrong Max?" Eleni asked.

"Someone hit a convoy. No scratch that, two convoys. They're completely wrecked and they're swarming troops in to secure the area."

He was mashing his thumb on the camera trigger, taking as many picts as he could. It was a disaster zone below, burning hulks that were once trucks perfectly lining the roads as Chimeras and troops swarmed around.

"Ballsy," Andre said, "Attacking in the middle of a sandstorm."

"The sand gets into everything as is, I can't imagine being a storm of the stuff," Rawls said, who relaxed as the controls became more manageable.

Max lifted his face from the visor, rubbing his eyes as the picts were completed and nodded with satisfaction as a blinking light confirmed the camera had stored the images successfully. He switched to listen in on the Vox, wondering if the lull in the storm allowed for communications. The moment he listened in, he was bombarded with audial pandemonium. Demands for assistance, panicked reports of what happened to the convoy, and then a quick mention that caught the surveyors attention.

"Rawls, I guess I was right. They're screaming about Xenos raiders."

"Damn! So what you heard really wasn't anything human."

"But how the hell did I catch it?"

"Luck?" Eleni added.

"Maybe. But I think I got all I could. I don't think we're going to get anything more, and that storms about to roll back in."

"Understood. We're heading home!"

"Fucking finally," Andre said, having woken up from his nap in the rear turret.

XXXXXX

An hour after landing, Max sat in a darkroom, watching the long roll of picts finish developing. One of the Navy officers deployed to the airbase gazed over a few, whistling as he did so.

"Xenos?"

"Yes sir. Heard their comms when we were over, and our friends down there-"

He pointed to a few human figures standing around a burnt-out truck.

"Must have found a survivor, because they were chirping on their net about them."

The officer shook his head as he looked at another pict.

"Made a right mess of them. Still, better us than them, eh?"

Max nodded before he frowned in curiosity.

"I heard that Edmund has some Xenos working alongside him."

The officer became visibly uncomfortable before answering.

"It's true. I have been to a war council with the commodore, and there was one of the… Eldar? The ones with pointy ears. Arrogant as they come."

"Think they might have had something to do with this?"

The officer shrugged.

"Possibly. All I know is that I don't want to be on the receiving end of whatever they can dish out." "Agreed."

"Well keep working on those picts. If you need anything, just let me know. I'm probably going to take some of these and add them to the report we're going to send to the Prince. Did you finish that assessment?"

"Yes sir, my preliminary is on your desk."

"Thank you airman."

"Sir."

Max looked down at the picts again, trying to figure out what happened. His report had only been guesses and hypotheses. Where did the Xenos come from? Why did they attack the convoy? Where did they go? Even the little he knew about Eldar, mostly from propaganda and second-hand stories, made him wonder what their motives or plans were. He then remembered a quote told to him when he first joined the Aeronautica: "Do your job, let others do the thinking." He shrugged, made sure the picts were developed, and put them in storage to hand off to some high ranker to make probably worse judgments than he could, get promoted, and find other things to do the bare minimum of.

"When did I get so cynical?" he muttered to himself before walking into the blinding light outside.

XXXXXX

"Son of a bitch!"

Robert D'Uxford briefly lifted his eyes from the report to see Prince Edmund holding a copy of the same file, pacing around the throne room, his smile growing with every paragraph.

"You see that Duck? I would have been happy enough if he stopped one convoy, but the bastard shut the bloody supply route down!"

"This only happened today Ed. I doubt that they will shut everything down. However, I do have my people listening in around their headquarters to see the results of this little raid."

"Marvelous. I knew it, I can't tell you why, but I could tell that man was worth saving."

"Alwyn also helped."

Edmund stopped for a moment, looking up from the report before taking a swig of wine from his bejewelled goblet.

"You know, Farseers have abilities that even our best Psykers can barely attain. I wonder if she saw into his future and knew he was worth keeping."

D'Uxford now looked up from his file and sighed.

"I think it had less to do with fate as much as it was her daughter intervening."

The Prince laughed.

"I wonder if her mother was like that when she was young. I sometimes wonder if not all Eldar hate or look down on us. I wonder if some of them even learn to like us in more… personal ways."

"I doubt His Grace would like to hear you say such things."

"He can pray for my soul later. What I will tell him tonight is to pray that Roger Wessyng keeps on tearing the rebels of Haikk a new asshole."

D'Uxford raised his own goblet in mock salute.

"May Serjeant Wessyng continue his progress against the rebels. And may our alliance with the Eldar of Ducaish stay as strong as ever."

"Hear hear!"

The goblets crashed into each other as Edmund slammed his into D'Uxfords with far too much force allowing wine to spill on the table, and much to D'Uxfords anguish, his report.

"Careful!"

Edmund laughed.

"Oh, what did it spill on? You don't need to read it, just look at those pictures! Those cunts in Golgotha are going to starve now, and we'll be happy to supply them as soon as they get their prick of a "chairman" out of whatever bunker he's hiding in and string his miserable ass from a lightpole!"

"Two convoys will hardly be much of a difference."

"They're scared now. Fear is a bigger weapon than any artillery or lasers we have."

D'Uxford suddenly remembered something he had discussed earlier with the victorious serjeant.

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you about changing strategies for Wessyng and the Leopards."

"That name is still funny to me, but what is it?"

"The serjeant told me that his forces could possibly hit one of those warehouses where they store the food. It would be difficult, and damned dangerous, but realistically, we lose one man and maybe a few Eldar die. No skin off our backs. Our Chevauchee strategy seems to be working."

Edmund suddenly turned grim.

"Callous Duck. But I see your point. Why hit convoys when we can starve them at the source? Well, more than the source, because the farms are the source, and we're burning the bastards. And if you think about it the real source is the people running the farms and… what the fuck am I talking about?"

D'Uxford rubbed his eyes and sighed again.

"Attacking the warehouses."

"Right! If they can do it, I'd say let them."

"Should I tell the serjeant to return as soon as possible?"

Edmund stopped pacing again and tapped his fingers on his sword. D'Uxford had wondered why the Prince always carried it, even in private, but never bothered to ask.

"No. See if he can pull another raid off, tell him he can take as long as he needs to to do it again. But within reason. I don't want to wait a month for him to hit again."

"I'll inform him as soon as possible."

"Very good. But once again, a toast to Roger Wessyng! Hero of Third Corps!"

"A title? Someones getting a bit lavish."

"Fuck you, it's my army, my Corps, my campaign. I do what I want."

D'Uxford raised his goblet yet again.

"To Roger Wessyng, and the power of noble blood."

"Huzzah!"

The goblets clanged again, and as D'Uxford took another drink, his eye twitched as he noticed a red splatter across one of the pages.