Half a year after the Battle of Acra, Sir Roger Wessyng and the Leopards find themselves attempting to sabotage a bridge to assist the Imperial campaign on Haikk Two. The crusade drags on, and the personal force of Prince Edmund of Anglerre are thrown into another quick and explosive skirmish as they have many times before, much to its commanders chagrin. But the bad news will only begin when he returns to Starfort Langriano, with a lone bright spot at the end...
The village of Sanctidad was once a small, mostly ignored village on the long road between the cities of Milai and Ricsberg, its citizens content in their banal existence. Plant the crops in the spring, sweat out the summer, celebrate the harvest, wait for the winter to end, begin again. The younger and more rebellious would go to the cities, find careers there, but most eventually came back and settled down. Then one year, news came of leaders who tried to gain independence from the Imperium of Man, preparing for rebellion. The older and more devout called it heresy, the ones with families dreaded war, and the fighting aged men and women were split evenly on the issue. Not long after, the ships entered the sky, and within a few weeks, what started as mere discussion turned into conflict.
The civil war that followed had lasted a year now, Sanctidad thankfully staying out of the conflict. Yes, there would be troops that would arrive to drive or march through their streets, but neither side harmed nor attacked them. If anything, the armies had barely any interest in fighting each other, let alone terrorizing innocents caught in between them. The villagers had been told as much by patrols from both sides, and once, in a memorable incident, recon units from the opposing sides pulled in at the same time and instead of fighting each other, declared a truce and spent the day eating and drinking together. But those had been local troops, recruited to monitor their respective sides' frontiers. A dark cloud had seemed to fall over the locals as the realization of something big coming from Milai was soon to arrive. Had it not been for the bridge over the Emas river, a massive, half a mile long steel construction which connected the lands of what was now the loyalist and rebel factions. That it had not been destroyed or attacked was simply explained that the main fronts were taking both sides' time and attention away. But the day before, a farmer's son rushed into town, saying that a massive convoy of tanks had been moving from Milai to take or cross the bridge, causing most to flee.
Therefore, no one noticed the concealed figures on the forested hills on the Ricsberg side of the bridge.
It was nearly dawn as one of them moved out of the forest and cautiously headed towards a low trench. If one watched long enough, they would realize it was a human man wearing a bowl-shaped helmet and carrying a lasgun connected to a massive battery on his back. His uniform was form fitting but distinctive: perfectly cut sleeves and pants under a flak jacket, the coat colorfully divided into four squares of red and blue with three silver chevrons pointing down on both sides of his sleeves.
"Oi, you two still awake?"
Inside the trench, one younger man, his sleeves rolled up to reveal a slightly larger and more muscular right arm sat with his older comrade. Both quickly looked up at the panting arrival.
"Aye," the older one said.
"Throne's sake Davie, we've seen nothing all bloody night!"
"Well, that's a good thing Hawke. That means you had nothing to aim and miss at."
"Piss off."
"Bob?"
The old man shrugged.
"Good."
Serjeant David Camp was an old soldier, that was obvious. He had been fighting for twenty-five years in a variety of ways, trained as much with the sword as the lasgun. He had fought pirates, heretics, rebels, and even against the rightful king of Anglerre during the War of the Lions, but he never told anyone much about that. For fifteen of those years, he had been happy as a lance-corporal or corporal, but the realities of the new battles he fought meant someone had to be the NCO in charge of their little group. He was the obvious choice, maybe the only one.
"I'm gonna check on the others."
"Right."
Davie rushed over, cradling the Hellgun he had taken a few months before from a butchered rebel on Haikk One. He and the weapon had been inseparable since then, saving his life and the lives of the rest of the unit more than enough times for their commander to never argue about it. He slid to the side of another trench, this one with a boyish-looking blonde-haired Guardsman and a massive, power-armored woman with short, silver hair. The younger man was slumped over, breathing quietly.
"You two alright?"
"I let Parky sleep a bit," Sister Evita said with a bit of embarrassment.
"Well, all he has to do is keep your Bolter fed and move the tripod when we have to leave. Let the boy rest. When all hell breaks loose, he'll be ready."
"Yes."
Davie looked out at the bridge and the abandoned village, seeing the Bolters aim in his mind's eye. It was a perfect position for it, and with its capabilities, he was glad the Sororitas was along for the ride. It was very odd to have a single Sister of Battle along with a group of Imperials, let alone Guardsmen, but if you could say anything about his comrades, it was that they were certainly odd.
"And what of our friends in the forest?"
The Sister said it with a bit of disapproval, but that did not surprise him. Abhumans were never exactly beloved creatures, especially by those as pious and holier-than-thou as the Daughters of the Emperor, especially the kind that made up most of the Leopards.
"They see nothing," he said before looking at the bridge. "And he's almost finished."
She nodded in understanding before checking her weapon again. The serjeant stood up and rushed back to his position in the woods as the Sister looked back at Parky. He was facing her, wearing a peaceful expression as he rested. Her lip quivered a bit as she moved an armored finger to brush a few strands of hair away from his eyes, but just as she finished doing so, his eyes slowly opened.
"Are we done yet?" he groaned, rubbing his eyes as he stifled a yawn.
"N-no," Evita said with a bit of haste. "They're finishing up the bridge now."
"Good."
"Don't worry Parky. I bet Roger's doing everything he can right now. We'll be out of here in no time."
XXXXXX
"Oh dear Emperor, why did I do this?"
Near the top of one of the bridge trusses, Sir Roger Wessyng was clinging to a steel strut in a death grip, trying to not stare into the distant, rushing waters below.
"Are you alright Roger?"
The chipper voice came from behind him, a tall figure in green armor walking with little care despite the height they were at along the narrow steel.
"No Kallen, I'm not bloody all right. Remember when I told you to keep me from doing dumb things?"
"Yes?"
"You failed in that duty."
"I apologize."
Roger took a deep breath and crawled a bit across the beam, placing another explosive and stretching wires behind him.
"Forgiven. Here."
For any other human, to allow an Eldar that close to them, let alone trust with explosives, was an almost unbelievable act. But Roger was no longer bothered by the presence of the pointy eared and mysterious race, and if he was honest, he had come to enjoy their company. In the case of one of them... he might have enjoyed their company too much.
"Perin is almost finished with the other side."
"He works quite fast."
"Moire is quite happy with him. The new Avengers have impressed, I must say. And it is no longer an all-female affair. Not that I complained about that."
Roger shook his head as he primed the explosive.
"Kallen, you worry me sometimes."
"I know what I am Roger. Fear not for my soul."
"And that would be?"
The Striking Scorpion brushed the distinctive black dreadlocks to the back of his helmet, the mask removed to reveal his face and the smirk he wore.
"A lecherous warrior poet."
"You write poetry?"
"I attempt to."
"Can I read it?"
"You would not understand it."
"Of course. I think we got enough of these set up, we can get back to our lines."
Kallen crouched down behind him, watching with amusement as the knight crawled slowly away.
"With that new armor of yours, you would be unharmed by a fall of this height, correct?"
"Well, m-maybe down to the road. But that water? If I was a Space Marine."
"And thank Isha you are not one. You have too much of a personality. It would be a shame to lose it. Wait, you've met Space Marines?"
Roger looked up at the Scorpion, the de facto second in command of the Leopards. His raven hair and reddish-brown eyes gave him a quality that even his knightly comrade would admit as dashingly handsome, but those same eyes revealed an answer both desirable and regrettable from an Imperial standpoint.
"Well thank you Kallen," he said cautiously, getting to his feet and looking at another figure in Eldari armor.
"Perin? You finished that side?"
"Yes. We are ready to depart."
"Good. The quicker I get to solid ground the happier I'll-"
The three stopped as the sound of roaring engines came from the village.
"Roger, come in."
The voice of Alax, one of the Rangers, filled the Xenos earpiece he wore.
"We hear it, Alax. What is it?"
"Motorized scouts. Small wheeled vehicles. Two trucks, carrying infantry."
"Goddammit. They're about to get on the-"
"-bridge, yes. And Steryn is informing me that a convoy of heavy armored vehicles is right behind them."
Roger gritted his teeth and let out a slew of oaths.
"Fantastic, thank you Alax," he grumbled before turning to Kallen and Perin.
"You hear that?"
"How exactly are we going to get off this bridge without them noticing us?"
"Just move back to the other side. Be careful but quick."
The two Eldar began moving across the beams to the bank where the rest of their forces waited, barely having any issue as they moved to the end of the bridge. Roger was not as lucky, a mix of fear and pure human clumsiness keeping him from going quicker than a walk. Cursing himself for volunteering to plant the bombs, he started to wonder if he should have let Davie or one of the others take the responsibility to do the job.
"Not befitting a knight," he whispered to himself.
It had been nearly six months since he had been knighted after the Battle of Acra, a vicious and long melee fight that had seen horrific casualties, thankfully more on the enemy's side. But the ferocity and cruelty inflicted by both sides would haunt any man who was there, himself no exception. The fights he had been thrown into ever since had leaned more on sneaking and firearms, the laspistol in a hip holster sometimes seeing more use than his preferred weapon on the other side. He gently touched the handle at the end of his blade, a sharp but deceptively light sword that was crafted by an ancestor of his Xenos allies for human hands. He adored the blade, preferring to use it in combat compared to his previous weapon, a sword gifted and crafted specifically for him. His thoughts were halted as he heard, or more accurately felt, something moving below him. He looked down and cursed as two scout vehicles, armed with stub guns in rear turrets, rushed towards his warriors.
XXXXXX
"Bloody hell," Davie growled as he watched the dim headlights move towards him.
He wanted to contact Roger and ask what to do, but the communications devices the abhumans had were in short supply. He moved over to Bob and Hawkes trench, seeing they were as concerned as he was.
"Shoot?" the older man asked.
"No Bob. Rog is still up there."
"Kallen and the other one got over."
"Well, those two are lanky and quicker than any of us. Longshanks, ain't they marvelous?"
Hawke nodded before leveling his Kantrael pattern lasgun as Bob did the same. He wanted to use his bow, but one could never have everything they wanted.
Davie bounded to the Heavy Bolter crew as Parky awoke from his rest.
"Loaded and ready sarge."
"Good. We're… oh hell."
The two cars stopped on either side of the bridge as more lights followed. The size and noise instantly told him they were trucks, and as he peered through his binoculars it was hard to not notice they were filled with helmet-wearing men and women.
"Throne."
"If we open fire-"
"No Sister. We have to hold fire."
He turned back to the woods as placed the Hellgun down and made an "X" with his arms. He hoped the abhumans understood the signal.
"Hold fire… but if they see you and open fire, fuck 'em."
"Aye sarge."
"Language, serjeant."
He cradled his hellgun and stayed low while trying to move back towards the other two. Where the hell was Roger?
XXXXXX
The knight in question was nearly at the end but froze as the trucks, their cargo looking in all directions and nearly spotting him, passed below. Satisfied that he was still undetected, his heart sank as the lead vehicles stopped and entered a defensive stance, the trucks pulling alongside them and beginning to disgorge their armed cargo. Either they were securing the bridge for the rest of their forces, or they suspected the exact thing he had done: planted bombs on the bridge. He stayed still, his path back to his lines completely cut off.
"Roger, I can take a shot-"
"No Galin, not yet. And try to keep everyone else on the bank there from firing."
"Understood."
The newest Ranger in the unit, Roger had found Galin as mysterious as any of his species. But there was something off about him, and despite his best efforts to figure out how to explain or figure it out, he had failed miserably to do so. He was reliable and accurate, so there was nothing to truly complain about. Staying on the bridge was out of the question thanks to the bombs, but the rebels had cut off his exit, and jumping into the water was a death sentence with extra steps. As if that was not enough, another two vehicles pulled across the bridge, scout vehicles the same as the first two.
"Stay alert, and don't let the Terrans get the drop on you."
The voices were in Gothic with thick accents, but still understandable to his ears. Right below him, ten or so feet away, was a crewman in a stub gun armed turret. A lho stick was dangling out of his left hand, the man inside wearing a simplistic olive drab jumpsuit with a standard crash helmet issued to Imperial Guard tank crews. He did the math in his head and determined that thanks to his powered armor, he could survive a fall of that height with little injury. The only issue was figuring out what time to strike.
"Why this bridge? Why not go to the northern front?"
"Because, dumbass, they aren't expecting us."
"Then why didn't they blow the bridge?"
"Because they're somehow dumber than you."
The driver and gunner seemed more interested in their armchair generalship than keeping watch, and Roger slowly pulled the Eldari sword from its scabbard, whisper quiet and unnoticed by his soon to be victims.
"Oh, my God-Emperor damned back," the gunner hissed.
To the knight's horror, he leaned back to stretch.
And looked right at the armored knight above him.
"Now or never," he grunted, slamming the visor down on his helmet and dropping down onto the turret.
The blade pierced into the fleshy part above the gunner's clavicle, the pull of near-Terra gravity and the wicked sharpness making it easy work. The rebels eyes widened in shock before they went lifeless, unable to scream or warn the driver, instantly trying to figure out what rocked his vehicle from behind.
"Holy shit!" he yelled before Roger put a laspistol bolt between his eyes.
As the other scout vehicles crew tried to figure out what was going on, he took advantage of his armor's super-human abilities to toss the gunner out, taking command of the stub gun. Simple, crude, but terrible in the damage it wreaked on anything not as protected as he was, he pressed his fingers down on the V-shaped trigger. The roar of the weapon was as shocking as the carnage it left, the other vehicle's crew was turned to chunks of wet meat in only a few moments. As the infantry ahead started firing at him, a few red streaks, one an almost solid line of light, tore into them. The thunderous bark of a heavy bolter followed, and a grin stretched across his covered face. The Leopards, even without the Eldar, were one of the best units in the Haikk Crusade, and these damned rebels would find that out the hardest way possible.
"Kallen, the rest of you, keep them busy, I'm making a run for it!"
He leapt out of the turret and started rushing to the end of the bridge. Davie had control of the detonator that connected all the explosives on the bridge, and it would only be on Roger's order to blow the damn thing. He holstered his pistol, rushing forward with only his sword. He saw a few confused and desperate survivors of the first volleys trying to take cover and rushed to take them down. But before he could close in, a hot wind blew at his back, and only one thought flashed in his mind:
The tanks had arrived.
The rebels had a massive stockpile of Leman Russ's, and the entire reason the Leopards had been sent to this armpit of a planet was to prevent the rebels from using them against the legitimate Imperial government. A convoy had been detected, and blowing up the bridge would stop them long enough for the Guard to rush suitable forces to lessen the advantage. But the front tank in the line must have seen him because the vehicle he had previously occupied was a flaming wreck. Worse still, the others were fanning out and opening fire on the bank, trying to aim at his warrior's position. He wished them luck, knowing from experience how pitifully inaccurate they could be even with decent crews, but the great mounds of earth the rounds threw into the air were nothing to laugh at. As he pressed forwards, four surviving infantrymen noticed him rushing their way, letting off lasbolts towards him. The armor protected him from the projectiles, but in the last few months he learned that not being hit at all was the best way to wear it.
"Shoot him! Shoot him dammit!" one of them roared as he closed in.
Roger already had excellent reflexes and was highly skilled in the art of the blade, but the powered armor turned a good swordsman into an absolute menace. Unfortunately for the rebels, they would learn this first hand. His first victim had one shot graze a shoulder pauldron before the unfortunate rebels head was lopped off, throwing the rest into a panic as they took their chances for cover through a hail of bolter and lasgun fire to rush for the banks of the river, the only thing approaching cover around them.
"Cakewalk," he whispered, finding little to worry about before he could back to his lines, tell Davie to blow the bridge, and all would be-
He felt a burning heat on his back, then lost all co-ordination when the ground went above his head. He hit the bridge floor with a thunderous clang as metal collided with his armor. Everything was pain, and the flesh and blood underneath the metal was searing.
"Bloody hell," Roger groaned, trying to figure out what had hit him.
Turning towards the other end of the bridge, the knight realized that the first few Lemans in the convoy had gotten onto the bridge. The leader's Battle Cannon was smoking, leaving little doubt as to who or what had nearly killed him. He got on all fours and started to desperately stand up, but looked up into the barrel of a shotgun, its owners hands trembling as it pointed straight at the Anglois' head. He thought to say something, to try and talk the young man down from opening fire, but they both knew that was out of the question. Moments felt like minutes as Roger prepared for the end, even with this armor, a point-blank shotgun blast would do little to protect him. Then, just as sudden as the appearance of his would-be killer was, a bell-like clang filled his earpieces as the shotgunners helmet flew towards the other side of the bridge, its owner crumpling like a bag of potatoes. He stood up and began rushing back to the lines, knowing exactly who saved him from the damage and who would take the time to watch him closely. He stumbled towards the asphalt that connected the road and bridge, lifting his visor.
"BLOW THE BRIDGE!" he roared.
"DAVIE! BLOW THE FUCKING BRIDGE!"
XXXXXX
A few red streaks tore mere inches above Davie and Hawkes' helmets, the punches of dirt from stubgun rounds nearly finding their mark.
"Rog?" Bob asked, loading another laspack in his rifle.
"What?" Davie barked.
"Thought I 'eard Rog."
"I think he's right Davie, that might've been Rog!"
The serjeant stuck his head over the trench, the constant fire keeping his head low.
"-RIDGE!"
"That is Rog! What ridge is he talking about?"
"-OW-E-IDGE!"
"What is he- oh for fuck's sake-"
Davie stood up and went full bore with his hellgun, a stream of deadly, high powered laser fire tearing into the infantry keeping him and the others suppressed. The barrel went bright hot as he kept it up, only stopping when the battery pack started to overheat.
"DAVIE FOR THRONES SAKE, BLOW IT!" a familiar voice nearly wailed from the bridge.
"Oh shite, that is Rog! Take cover lads!"
He dropped into the trench, grabbed the boxy detonator with its simple t-shaped plunger, let out a prayer, and pushed it in.
One dull thud, then another, then a pair, then a quad, then a group. He gritted his teeth as the piercing shriek of metal crashing and colliding filled the air followed by the sound of something massive falling into the water. Then, taking a few breaths, it was only silence. He lifted his head up and looked with grim satisfaction as what was once a massive testament to the industrial power of mankind was a broken, jagged, or sunken mess of metal.
"Told ya we know how to make explosives you dreadlocked twat!"
"Your opinion on explosives is always respected David," Kallen responded from nearby.
Hawke and Bob now lifted their heads, and he saw that from their trench, Parky and Evita looked upon the work of the Leopards.
"Where is Roger?" a female voice cried out.
"Dunno Moire. You two see him?"
"No sarge!"
Davie started to get a bit nervous now. He was certain that Roger had plenty of time to escape but given the explosives and their less than standardized amount of material within, it could have been exactly as he now feared.
"Bloody hell, he can't have died that easy," Hawke said with disappointment.
"Not his style Hawke," Davie agreed.
A few more nerve-wracking moments followed, broken suddenly by the roar of cannon fire on the other side of the river, a few shots landing short into the water or sending grass and dirt flying a comfortable distance away from their positions.
"...come on," Bob said simply.
"He's got to be here somewhere. Maybe the Longshanks know about-"
Then, startling the three, a loud thud came from the edge of their trench.
"Bollocks, I am so goddamn tired of being blown up," Sir Roger Wessyng groaned.
He was lying down on the ground, his helmet visor raised to reveal a pained expression on his face.
"Told ya," Davie said with a grin. "How's it going Rog?"
"Bloody terrible. I'm talking with Edmund when we get back. I'm tired of this nonsense. And if we had more-"
"You've complained about having the few abhumans we do for months now, give it a break."
Roger looked at Hawke with a twinge of anger.
"Sir."
As he lifted himself off the ground, more explosions came around them.
"Right. We're moving back into the forest and the hell away from here. Any arguments?"
No one in the trench said a word.
"Let's go. I'll tell Parky and Evita."
As the three older men of the unit began to pack their gear and move back, Roger slid next to the Heavy Bolter.
"Hello hello."
"Hi Roger! Er- sir."
"Sir Roger."
"Right. We're done here. Pack it up and let's head back. How'd you do?"
"I counted about seven on my end," Evita said dutifully. "You broke them fairly easily."
"They were trapped from both ends-" he paused as a Leman shell came close. "That and they weren't our standard enemy. Conscripts. Fairly young."
"It's always a shame," the Sororitas replied. "We'll get moving."
"Please do, I think those tankers will get a good aim on us in about ten minutes. No rush."
He winked at the pair before moving into the trees.
"Kallen? Moire?"
Two tall, intimidating figures, one in green armor, the other in blue. The latter spoke first.
"You always do bring excitement, do you not Roger?"
"Thank you, Moire. We're done here. Is the gate ready?"
"Yes," the Scorpion responded. "All of our warriors are ready to depart."
"Aye. All four of them," Roger said bitterly under his breath. "And our Rangers?"
"They have already moved ahead."
"Typical of them. All right, once the others get in the trees, we'll move out. Good work, both of you. Moire, Perin did an excellent job. I think you should try to keep him."
"I apologize the warriors of late have been of such poor quality."
"Quality is not the issue, working with humans and stomaching it is. At least I have you two."
"Appreciated Roger."
The sound of rucksacks and metal with the chime-like sound of a belt of Bolter rounds came from behind.
He looked back past the human members of the Leopards and looked at the mangled remains of the bridge. At least he could feel the satisfaction of a job well done.
XXXXXX
Sir Roger Wessyng stood in front of the desk, holding his helmet in one arm as he tried to hide his adjustments to his surcoat. The armor-covering clothing that bore his heraldry was almost unnoticeable for a symbol of his newly earned status: light blue with a white chevron cutting through the middle, a yellow martlet and red sword in both corners. But it was the unfamiliar symbol at the bottom of the set that drew interest, what looked like an "S" connected to a triangle. All attempts at explanation only seemed to give the knight more questions than answers.
"Bloody good work there Roger," the man behind the desk said approvingly. "Damn good. Governor Tibbles won't have to worry about another front opening on the planet, and by the time they can fix that bridge, the Lord-General Militant will have moved enough troops and material that they'd rather drive straight into the river."
"Governor Tibelius," another man nearby said with annoyance, looking out a massive window into space.
"Yes, because he surely is anything but some knuckle dragging bureaucrat and deserves my time and attention."
Edmund Planjou, Prince of Anglerre and son of that planet's King, Edward XVII, was an intimidating figure even when seated. Tall, stocky, and having an aura of being utterly relentless and irreverent, he was a terror to his fellow nobles and high ranking commanders, but always proud of the men he once commanded. Nearly half a standard Terran year ago, he had been in command of an entire Imperial Guard corps, mostly made up of men from his planet. But success either opened new doors or instilled jealousy depending on who you asked, and now he sat in the Starfort Langriano officially as head for the Haikk Crusades intelligence office, but was just stuck at a desk to not up show his superiors any more than he had. At the very least, as he and Roger could agree, his office was quite nice.
"Ed-"
"It's the truth."
"That doesn't mean you should say it out loud," Lord Robert D'Uxford chided.
The mysterious spymaster of Prince Edmund was quite familiar to Roger, a rarity for most who dealt with him. After all, he became the commander of Roger after the Prince had saved him from execution and found a new use for the once hapless serjeant. No man appreciated Roger as much as the Lord D'Uxford, and more importantly, refused to show it.
"Well, either way, good to see you survived, Roger. But I think you have something on your mind. I can tell."
"Your Highness… I need more men."
"Out of the question," D'Uxford cut in. "No more Guardsmen, and if you are thinking about asking for more of our Xenos allies, forget it. Farseer Alwyn was quite adamant about it."
"Only because her council forced her into that position, My Lord. But fifteen warriors in all, only nine of them Eldar... with our mission set we're sure to meet disaster!"
"That was the deal, Roger. I understand your frustration, and I do sympathize, but you've done more with nine or ten Eldar than you ever did with thirty."
The knight bit his tongue before he could make an unfortunate outburst. It was true of course; as part of the agreement to keep the Leopards supplied with Eldari reinforcements, he had to cut his unit by more than half. They still obeyed him, and they were as efficient as ever, but he felt cut to the bone.
"Yes… Your Highness. And there is another matter."
The two looked at him with curiosity.
"Oh?" the Prince asked.
"Our missions… I think we're being misused. We have a force unlike any in the rest of the Guard in this crusade, maybe the whole universe. And we're using Xenos to watch as we blow up bridges."
D'Uxford sniffed and turned back to the window as the Prince thought his answer over. Then the former suddenly spoke up.
"I wouldn't wish for that Roger. You may find yourself thrown into something much more dangerous and horrible."
"Good answer Duck. And you won't have a new mission for a little bit I'm afraid."
"Why not?"
"You didn't hear?"
Roger stared back in confusion, much to the Prince's enjoyment.
"We're getting a new Inquisitor to oversee and monitor the crusade. We need you not running around and reveal a whole unit of Xenos on board a Starfort. Bad taste I would think."
The knight blinked and swallowed slightly.
"What happened to Inquisitor Von Kam?"
The Prince giggled a bit before answering.
"Exploded, I'm afraid. Happened a few weeks ago, right after you left."
"Exploded?"
D'Uxford sighed and rubbed his eyes.
"Psyker of his had an… episode. Not exactly sure what happened, and I doubt the Inquisition will be willing to tell us."
"So, the Psyker killed the Inquisitor?"
"Yes, by fucking exploding with the Inquisitor in the blast radius. It's not that complicated Roger."
"I wasn't aware they could explode."
"It happens occasionally. Nearly happened to me once, first command. Astropath, poor thing foamed at the mouth and then popped like a balloon! It was quite something, took months to clean General Xyeo's command rug."
Roger shook his head.
"Very well Your Highness. We'll stay quiet until it's safe. Who is the new Inquisitor?"
"We don't know," D'Uxford said. "And probably won't until they're damn near on board. They tend to do that."
There was a twinge of hatred in his voice, something Roger had noticed increasingly during the time spent around the spymaster.
"Anyway, if there's nothing else, you're dismissed Sir Roger. Good work."
"Thank you, Your Highness. My Lord."
Roger bowed and moved to the door, never turning his back on a man who could be King of Anglerre one day. Exiting the room, as the doors closed, he turned and started heading back to his quarters. Moving through the chaos of thousands of servitors, sailors, abhumans, Guardsmen and more, he was thankfully at his private quarters fairly quick. He pulled the surcoat off and pried the powered armor away from his flesh. He rubbed the bruises and marks of pain he earned the day before, putting the set of armor on a stand. He thought about informing the Eldar in the lower decks of the fort and the humans nearby of the news, but he just wanted to rest. Need a bloody servant, he ruefully thought before realizing what he wanted. He truly was turning into the noble he was supposed to be. He put some wood in the room's fireplace, watching with satisfaction as the flames licked at the new fuel. In only a few minutes, a roaring fire shined light across the room, darkening as he turned the lights off. There was a couch in front of the addition, smiling as he took a sip of water from a nearby jug before stretching across it. But he had barely begun to enjoy it when he felt a slight breeze from a nearby bookshelf. In the corner of his eye, he saw a tall, red-haired figure approaching.
"I wondered when you'd be here."
"I apologize for not visiting yesterday. There were issues with mother."
"Is your mother as much of a pain in my arse as she is for you?"
"More so, actually."
Anya Syneoch, Ranger of Craftworld Ducaish, daughter of one of the Farseers that led it, had been a mystery to Roger. Eldar were infamous for their arrogance and abhorrence of humanity, yet… she cared for him. Loved him, even. They had been practically inseparable since a chance meeting where he offered her a sip of his canteen, a simple act of kindness that had nearly killed him, but also connected the two. He had told her he loved her before the battle that saw him knighted, and she replied in kind, but there was still some unease in him. To feel so was heresy, and to be discovered… unpleasantness would follow. But ever since they had arrived on the Starfort, she had snuck through a secret entrance that connected him to the Eldar camp deep in the guts of the Langriano every night and stayed with him. If that was not a sign of her devotion to him…
"Roger, you seem upset about something."
"I'm in charge of a unit that no one gives a chance on, that has so much potential, and they use us for barely anything. And what do I even command? A unit of fifteen troops-"
'Fourteen."
"Right."
Cruniach, the wizened and most experienced of the Rangers that Roger had access to, had been pulled away for a service to his Craftworld months ago and had not returned. The two were worried but accepting of his possible fate. It caught up with old Eldari warriors quickly.
"Anyway… what am I? What are the Leopards? I feel… stuck."
Anya sat next to him on the couch, stretching her long, pale legs. Her body was completely unblemished but for a smattering of freckles on her face, neck and shoulders, Roger was quite certain of that from past experiences. He looked at her, into her blue eyes as he tried to fight his heart from fluttering. Eldar were beguiling to most humans already, but she had intrigued him in a way most women never had. Maybe it was her hair. He always had a thing for redheads.
"Fate is planning for us. Something important. We needed the rest from our last battle, and we will most likely be thrown into a new, greater one."
He looked at the fire and thought how similar her statement and D'Uxfords were. But something else was bothering him, something he had told no one else.
The dreams.
It had become more real, changing into more and more terrifying warnings he could never understand. They had started after Acra, and they had gotten only increasingly haunting. He was losing sleep, and there was a part of him that feared he was losing his mind. He reached over and grabbed her hand before resting his head on her arm in a desperate bid to have something to grab and hold onto.
"Maybe. But I think I'm tired of doing nothing."
"You will appreciate our lull when we get exactly what you desire."
"True."
They sat there and watched the fire burn, when she suddenly moved her head down and kissed him on the head before running her fingers through his hair.
"Well, at least we have this," he yawned, feeling at ease after running on nerves and adrenaline for the last week.
"Correct," Anya said.
The last thing he remembered that night was watching the fire turn to bright embers, and the surprising warmth of an Eldar's body.