XIII. COMRADES

This hateful world was never truly quiet, she had learned, but still during the short Phaedran nights a strange hush descended upon the Verzante Konquistadores' pathetic excuse for a camp.

In the soft glow of local bioluminescence, Ernanda checked on her blueblood charge and herself took a nap nearby, but some time later she suddenly woke up. Something was wrong – and upon seeing exactly what, the young woman turned cold, despite the humid heat.

'Uh… Señor...' she breathed out.

Don Cristo Olim slowly opened his eyes, fever still splashing in them, but the antibiotic from the diminishing Munitorum reserves was obviously working. His short black hair and round, stubbly face glistened with sweat. At the voice of his ordenanza, the aristocrat stared at her uncomprehendingly, fearful.

'There's... on your sleeve, señor…'

The officer's gaze darted to his left arm, and his fright became horror. A large, ugly insect – a mire spider – crouched on the soiled fabric of his uniform, ready to inject poison under the skin.

Just another one of this mudball's lesser monstrosities…

Señor Olim tried to raise his other hand to sweep the vile creature off, but the disease had weakened him, and he failed in that feeble endeavour.

Ernanda signalled the nobleman not to move at all and, picking up his prone sword, wrapped her fingers around its hilt then gently brushed the spider onto the ground.

The skeletal thing twitched rapaciously.

Olim's blade flashed in the dim light, cutting the monster in half. A viscous, fetid ichor gushed out. The creature's long, bony claws twitched one last time and finally froze.

Surprised by her own dexterity, Ernanda stared at the remains of the insect for a couple more heartbeats.

Then Señor Olim groaned softly, and she hurried to him. One look at the man told her everything she needed to know.

Taking the battered flask from her belt, she held it to Cristo's lips. There was less than half the water left inside, and too warm already at that, but the poor vox-officer had finished his own ration long ago, suffering from thirst, and Ernanda Ramiro served him in this holy crusade, and obediently did her duty. Not for the sake of her master and liege lord – all these social differences meant here little in fact – but for the sake of a sick comrade, a fellow Guardsman worthy of help.

He shouldn't have come here at all, she thought for the umpteenth time. Cristobal wasn't made for this world, for Militarum service. He'd be much better to stay at home, enjoy the life... Because here, sooner or later... oh my God-Emperador, he'll wither, he'll break, and then he'll be gone.