ONE 
If he wanted to live, Darian knew he should take the pistol. The dead man had no use for it, but the lowborn were not permitted to bear arms. They would likely hang him for taking it. Or whip him to death. He’d seen a man take five hundred lashes before finally expiring. Darian didn’t want to die like that. He didn’t want to die at all.
But death was coming all the same. And it wore a devil’s face.
Maybe he could hide it, wedge it beneath the belt. He might need it. In a last-ditch moment of desperation, a pistol would be useful. The east flank had collapsed. That was the word rushing down the line like a sea of hellfire. Panic rode its waves.
The earth shook again, spilling clods of dirt into the trench as the barrage pounded the Ankish line and the air grew thicker with aerosolised blood and soil. It was like pitching through fog, only adhesive, and it caked the body like a second skin. A heavy cannonade answered the barrage, drumming in staccato. Our guns, their bombers. An impasse about to be overcome. Our forces would prevail, they had said, those men in the finely tailored uniforms with metal clinging to their chests like it was any sort of guarantee.
The blood cults were coming, this much Darian knew. Just like he knew he should take that Throne-damned pistol and put it to use. The enemy had broken the flank and soon the line would be overrun. He might be very glad of a lasgun then.
Darian regarded the weapon clutched in a dead hand and the blank-eyed officer with half his face missing. The gun remained, but he could not. He hefted the belt of canteens across his shoulder and trudged on.
It had been a decent trek back to town and from there a return to the trench, its long and winding course like an arterial vein poised to be severed. Darian passed the burnt-out shells of tanks in the mustard camo of the Pardus Armoured, slumped like lonely metal bunkers, distant islands in the fog, eerily still and inert. A Ministorum priest murmured solemn words over a row of quiet men lying on their backs, seemingly unconcerned with what was coming. A band of Tunnel-Rats in dirty ochre fatigues and bucket-shaped helmets ran the other way. They were grinning. Darian looked back despairingly as he watched them disappear into the fog. He hastily made the sign of the aquila to the priest to show that he was pious and hurried on.
As he worked his way deeper into the trench network he passed other men: some in the rugged drab of the Diggers, others in plainer uniforms wearing the caducei of medics. A second platoon in ragged forest green came his way, stern-faced and swarthy. Darian didn’t recognise the regiment as they trailed past, headed towards the sounds of a distant skirmish. There were so many auxiliaries, reduced to bits and pieces in an ill-fitting puzzle. He saw spotters and riflemen, a few crew-served heavy stubbers and missile tubes, a voxman tinkering with a boxy comms unit but eliciting only static. As the bombardment persisted and the guns answered, most of the troopers with more mediocre weapons hunkered down. And waited.
Few paid Darian any heed. As a mil-serve, he was largely beneath their notice, a servant and a non-combatant. Most didn’t understand his purpose but no one reached for his canteens, they all knew not to do that. His cargo wasn’t for them; even the burly Diggers, fearsome and headstrong as they were, knew the pecking order. And the Bluebloods sat at the top. The ‘bastard’ Royal Volpone.
They didn’t stir as Darian entered the Volpone part of the trench, not the sentries who had been posted there should the enemy get this far into the trench, nor the ranks who kept their hooded eyes forwards, waiting for something to materialise out of the fog. Standing in line, their finely made laslocks gleaming, their grey uniforms pressed and nigh-pristine, their fine armour and iconography shining – what proud popinjays they were. But rigidly focused. No casual chatter here, or fatalistic camaraderie.
Darian kept his eyes down nonetheless.
The trench opened out, chambers breaking up the labyrinthine monotony, the edges reinforced with additional steel revetments and flakboard. It delineated the entire southern edge of Lodden, the fortified town they had occupied for the last six months. Several firing holes had been cored out, tripod-mounted heavy bolters sitting snugly within. All Praxis-pattern, well made. Three more gunnery nests were in process. Diggers hacked at them with shovels and picks, dark sweat patches under their armpits like old bloodstains. The Volpone watched but did not participate. Menial work was not for the Bluebloods, though a few of the sergeants congratulated the Diggers on the quality of their labour and had stronger drink brought down the line to them.
A phonograph was playing, the sound tinny and the needle scratching. The rousing strains of ‘Volpone, On To Glory’ led Darian to the officers’ bunker where some of his lords had amassed.
An ornate electro-sconce hung over the room, swaying as motes of dirt spiralled from the ceiling like dying moths. The light flickered, illuminating a map table, three chairs and several charts affixed to the wall. A sweaty-faced adjutant was pulling files from a cabinet and stuffing them hastily into a large pack. Another mil-serve stood nearby, ready to receive it. Lenna. She gave Darian a quick smile and he felt warmer despite the chill air, returning the smile when he thought the officers weren’t looking.
The officers stood together. There were three of them surrounding a vox, listening intently to a scratchy broadcast. A cadre of silent adjutants attended them. All had grim faces.
‘It’s done then,’ uttered one as the broadcast concluded, leaning across the map table to switch off the vox. ‘We’re giving up the town. We’ve lost the guns.’
Fair-haired like many amongst the Volpone, with a sharp nose and clear grey eyes, he was the youngest of the three and the least scarred. A lieutenant called Armand Culcis. He had a strong bloodline, and a good family history. Fourth generation Blueblood. His family were amongst the middling nobles of the Volpone aristocracy, hence his officer’s rank.
Darian knew the history of all of the officers in the 50th. Not an insignificant number, but it was wise for a vassal to know his kings and which of them he should be wary of.
‘Shitting hells,’ Shiller growled, and started pacing. ‘I need a damn drink…’
A slab of a man, Isaac Shiller had the hooded eyes common to the Volpone aristocracy, with shoulders like the bulwarks of a fortress and a red beard that framed a portcullis of a mouth. Shiller was sixth generation, a captain, and from a long line of high-ranking military men. He had lofty aspirations, but bad habits.
As he paced, Shiller looked up and caught sight of Darian. His expression changed from disconsolation to annoyance.
‘Ah, you’re here at last. Just in time for our disgrace.’ Shiller glared, taking in Darian’s dishevelled appearance. ‘And look at the state of you. A bloody shambles. I should have you reprimanded.’
Darian murmured apologies into his dirt-caked boots as he gave a canteen to the red-haired officer. Shiller took a swig, swallowed and then scowled.
‘What’s this piss?’ he snapped, and tossed the canteen back at Darian, who caught it. This only irritated Shiller all the more. ‘Give me spice wine, you useless deg.’
In the background, Lenna looked afraid. She had been on the receiving end of Shiller’s temper before. Darian raised his hand surreptitiously to signal it was all right.
A bomb hit close, shivering the walls, and sent a decanter crashing. Glass shattered. Shiller swore. He was still righting himself when Darian offered the wine.
‘Fegging deg…’ Shiller spat, his gaze like a lance thrust.
Culcis interjected. ‘Is that strictly necessary, captain?’
Turning his ire on the lieutenant, Shiller looked about ready to unleash another barrage when the third officer, Major Regara, took an interest. He had been reviewing the map table intently, lost in thought, stoically bracing himself against its sides when the room shook.
‘Decorum, Captain Shiller,’ he warned, and glanced at the canteen. ‘And also a modicum of restraint. If that explosion and the snap-fire I can hear not so far away is any indication, our withdrawal is imminent. I need you sober. I’ll have good order when we leave.’
Shiller cooled immediately, his respect for the major ingrained. Some of the colour returned to Lenna’s cheeks.
‘Of course, sir.’
Where Shiller was thick, Regara was trim and sharp as a knife-edge, with greying hair that made him look distinguished rather than old. He also wore fine armour and carried an artisan sabre. His left leg was a chrome-plated bionic. Darian didn’t know how Regara had lost it, possibly the same war that gave him the scar across his face. Vasquez Regara was thirteenth generation and could trace his lineage back to the Macharian Crusade. Upper-tier nobility.
‘And give that man a drink, will you,’ he snapped, turning his attention back to the map table. ‘He looks like he’s run ten miles.’
Darian blinked.
‘Well, go on then,’ urged Shiller when Darian didn’t immediately partake. ‘Take a pull. Of the water, mind you. Can’t have the degs rolling around drunk now, can we.’
The word ‘deg’ meant ‘degraded’ and was a slur some of the officer class used to describe the mil-serves. It was frowned upon, but had yet to be stamped out. Darian declined with good grace, though he was parched as a dry desert wadi.
‘Suit yourself,’ said Shiller with an irked glare and drained the wine, supping it like milk from his mother’s teat.
Culcis stepped into Regara’s eyeline. ‘Sir… what is our course of action here?’
Regara took a calming breath. A vein pulsed in his neck. ‘We have no choice. This position has become untenable.’
‘We’ll reoccupy the town,’ said Shiller, the Blueblood in him reluctant to accept defeat.
‘They’re in the bloody town, captain. All over it. We have to withdraw from Lodden entirely and retreat, as per Voke’s order, to marker nine.’
‘That’s Ankishburg, sir,’ Culcis interjected.
‘I know where it bloody well is, lieutenant. Marker nine,’ he repeated. ‘Platoons to fall back along the town outskirts. Keep them in staggered formation and do it by degrees.’ He muttered an expletive. ‘Stretched across the length of the damn map… And have the Agrians mine the trenches. I want the damned Archonate writhing in blood and earth when they retake it.’
‘And the guns, sir?’
‘Can they be spiked? Do we have time for that?’
‘The magos reports that we can wreck the turning mechanism and limit their function, but that’s all.’
Regara swore under his breath again, then said, ‘Have the Martian do it. We don’t really have authority to destroy them anyway, or the time to seek approval. I want us long gone before the Pact get them facing in our direction. Shiller, you’ve got Lance and Shield Company, the second and third auxiliaries and the Pavis. Have the tanks maintain a barrage for the rank and file to retreat under. Put some heavy metal on the east flank. It might slow the collapse and give us more time. And get the bloody platoons back together, for Throne’s sake.’
Shiller gave an ugly smile. ‘I’ll have them pounded to the hells and back.’
‘See that you do, captain.’
Regara stood up straight from the map table. They were spread out, too far. Voke had tried to match the Archonate line, to engage on every front. It had left them vulnerable and the town at risk.
‘The entire Ankish line.’ Regara shook his head. ‘It won’t stand,’ he said bitterly. ‘It won’t bloody stand.’
Then he walked over to Darian, took a canteen of spice wine and drained it.
The leg ached. Despite the fact it hadn’t been there for years, it ached. Old memories returned, of Nacedon and everything Regara had lost there. Some pains didn’t go away. Not really.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ asked Culcis.
The major waved off his lieutenant’s concern, though he knew he must look grim. His eyes drifted to the sky and the silhouette of the Arvus lighter slowly disappearing as it spirited away General Voke and his command staff. Regara had declined a seat, preferring to see out the retreat on foot with his regiment. Besides, Major Pallard was dead, and an officer of rank was needed to coordinate the withdrawal of the other Volpone companies and the auxiliaries. It had seemed a noble gesture at the time. Now, with his leg hurting like a bastard, he couldn’t see past the folly of it.
They were half a mile from the extraction zone, Lodden well behind them, and trudging through sodden earth and persistent rain. It was sparse terrain, a few farms and outhouses the only structures. Chimera transports trundled past, fighting through the mud and flanked by teams of Agrian 22nd sappers, in case they needed rescuing. Regara watched the armoured carriers with undisguised longing. He had also refused the offer of a ground transport when Culcis had managed to scrounge it up, leaving it solely for the ferrying of the dead and injured. Even then, the armoured carriers weren’t enough and trains of stretcher-bearers trailed through the ever-worsening conditions.
The entire regiment was strung out, weary and defeated. They kept good order, even the auxiliaries, though most had been reduced to scraps.
‘Damned leg,’ he admitted, scowling at the state of his boots as he lumped through the mire. ‘Martian forged, chrome plated, but doesn’t like the damp. Or maybe I don’t.’
Regara cast a glance to the eastern flank. Now they were out of the trench and well on their way, he could fully appreciate the guns. The weapon they had been forced to abandon.
‘Throne above, Culcis,’ he rasped, ‘what have we allowed to happen?’
Godsword, the men called it, because it was said that the effect where its power fell was like the sword of the Emperor Himself. It was well named. Its four long macrocannon barrels stabbed into the sky like huge funnels tilted on their axis, their ends blackened by explosive expulsion. Lesser but still-devastating weapon batteries surrounded it, a defensive measure, but Regara couldn’t see these.
It had anchored the line, conjoined with the fortified town, a marvel of Martian engineering that was supposed to have been the key to unlocking the way south into Archenemy territory. The Pact had let them raise it, even fire it, and then they had taken it. Six months and Godsword was theirs.
‘Reinforcements are incoming, sir. The guns will be retaken.’
Regara didn’t comment. Through a magnocular, he watched as red-plated ants scurried across the macrocannon battery, the Pact feasting over their hard-won prize. He didn’t know how long it would take their engineers to fix the rotatory mechanism that enabled the immense machine to turn; he only hoped it would be long enough for the Volpone and their auxiliaries to get out of range.
He lowered the magnocular and the weapon grew far away again, a towering spear thrust into the smoke-choked air above Lodden.
Distant booms revealed that the main enemy forces had met the trench line and the mines left by the Diggers. A score of lesser detonations undercut it as the Pardus kept up their barrage but the tanks were pulling out now to join the rest of the retreat, wary of the massed infantry headed their way.
Setting off again, Regara noticed the mil-serve from earlier floundering with his heavy belt of canteens.
‘Culcis,’ he said to his lieutenant, indicating the other man. The mil-serve was young, maybe twenty-five Terran standard, though war made men look older than they really were. Dark stubble covered his head like a skullcap from where his hair had been shaved. Despite his lowborn provenance, he had a strong profile and fierce blue eyes.
‘Sir?’
‘Tell him to leave it. No one falls behind, not even the servants. I’ll have every man and woman accounted for, by Throne.’
Culcis nodded, then turned and raised his voice. ‘Cut the strap, deg,’ he yelled. ‘And move your arse. Quickly now!’
The mil-serve nodded, unbuckling the canteen belt and letting it fall. At once, his pace increased.
‘And, lieutenant…’ Regara added, a hard glance at the mil-serve slogging across the earth.
‘Sir?’
‘Don’t call them that. He is either mil-serve or you learn his name. Bad enough that Shiller is an ignorant swine with no breeding without having to put up with it from you too, lieutenant.’
‘Sir,’ answered Culcis, suitably contrite.
The mil-serve suddenly stopped and turned. Something had made him look up, and then he started waving frantically at Regara, shouting, ‘My lord, my lord!’
The major followed his gaze to a growing speck on the horizon. A low buzzing materialised on the breeze, audible above the general retreat with the conclusion of the tank barrage. Several of those tanks, those with enough elevation on their primary armaments, angled their long cannons skywards.
The speck became several, and then the forbidding shape of a fuselage and wings, pregnant with a bulky payload underneath. The Pact had few bombers, and hoarded them jealously, but without Godsword to worry about the Archenemy could afford to be bolder.
Over five hundred men tramped this stretch of earth alone, with hundreds more strung out along the line. A few had stopped to prime rocket tubes and launchers, hastily effecting firing positions.
‘Get those men down!’ Regara roared as the buzzing grew into a nerve-shredding whine.
He threw himself to the ground as the first of the bombs hit, mud and bodies thrown upwards in a spray. A spatter against his cheek felt too hot to be rain. A stone struck his helmet, the metal ringing in his ears. Something warm and syrupy oozed from his ear as vertigo overwhelmed him, and Regara lost all sense of direction.
The bombs kept coming, and he found himself crawling, bellowing for his men to follow but he didn’t know which way he was headed. Pushing with his elbows, half sinking in the mud, Regara knew with cold finality that he was lost. He needed to stop and get his bearings but the barrage shook the earth, rattling his senses.
Then a strong hand wrapped around Regara’s wrist and at first he thought it was Culcis, but then the face of the mil-serve appeared.
He shouted, ‘This way, my lord…’ And then he pulled.
Regara let him, a blind man led away from peril, churned earth raining down. The mil-serve had found an old foxhole and they scrambled inside. A half wall surrounded it, the foxhole a basement room of a ruined outhouse partially filled with rubble. The frantic grip on Regara’s jacket was Culcis, the lieutenant hauling Regara to him.
Gratitude would need to wait. Teeth gritted, they hunkered down as fury reigned above and the world turned white with fire and thunder.