SEVENTEEN

In four days, Lodden had been remade. Deviers had decreed it so. A victory celebration was planned, a triumph in the name of Volpone glory.

As we must salve our wounds, so too must we vaunt our successes, gentlemen.

His words had lit a fire in some, the jingoists and the toadies – or perhaps simply those who wanted to believe and found the general’s rhetoric compelling. And he certainly was charismatic, Culcis could not deny that. Others were less enamoured by his decision to delay. ­Either belligerent and eager for more death – some men could no longer function without it, the sleepless hours between battle an endless, pale nadir of meaningless existence – or simply compliant, following orders with hollow duty.

The enemy dead were gathered and burned. A desultory pyre at the outskirts of town still trailed with smoke. Culcis had heard the numbers were lower than expected. The defences were repaired and reinforced, the major arteries into and out of the town cleared. Lodden was wholly and utterly occupied. Not only by those who had marched from Ankishburg, but by troopers from Laagar and Vasha too. Token forces remained in the evacuated northern towns, caretakers only.

Few had returned from the excursion to Kobor, though they never actually reached the settlement or had ever intended to. Those who did come back spoke of their experiences little, though Culcis had caught the odd scrap – horror stories of monsters in the dust and the terror of the Godsword’s touch upon the earth. These soldiers had returned burdened, a shadow behind the eyes or in a look that would never truly fade. Scars of the most indelible kind.

A census was taken for the honoured dead, a brief footnote to Deviers’ celebrations. He wanted to recognise their sacrifice, he had said, but the hearts and minds of the living must now turn to what lay ahead. He had made a speech of it on the first day. A damn good one. Men had cheered, but there was no escaping the fact that the war for Agria had become a grind.

The ritually tortured First Sons were taken down and burned to ash. None spoke of them, and those who had volunteered for the task of their removal had been thoroughly interrogated afterwards by both Rensaint and the regimental priest. The remains of the Scions would not be scattered. There would be no ceremony for these men. The ash stayed in a stasis casket, a blessed aquila nestled within. Questions remained, of course. They would be dealt with later by officers of high standing, Culcis had no doubt.

And then there was the other matter, but that was well and truly out of his hands.

Though it was not widely broadcast, Culcis had learned that the square where his platoon had fought against the wirewolves had been sealed off. Scions, the few that could be spared from Deviers’ personal detail, stood guard at the freshly raised barriers. It had been torched, the smoke visible for over a mile when the flamer teams had gone in, the air thick with the scent of purgation. Then came the priests, wielding their prayers and unguents like swords. Cleansing words, cleansing flame. And yet the walls and razor wire erected like a crown around the square remained. As for the K-weapons themselves, demo-teams had rigged them with explosives after the flamers had done their work. The magos took what was left, a cadre of servitors retrieving the scrap before it was committed to secure storage.

Four days and several visits to the medicae for his leg, and to the chapel for the injuries he couldn’t see, and Culcis still had the nightmares. It had been bad at first, Greiss finding the lieutenant on the first night, pent up, near screaming and lathered in sweat. He found he slept little now, preferring the night air and the dulcet susurrations of the camp. A false peace, he knew, but it was a salve all the same.

He thought of Darian on that rampart, the banner of Shield Company in his hand, the raw adulation of the troops. Nearly seven hundred men, all told, once both main companies had arrived. They cheered as their fellows cheered, a soldier always ready and willing to exult in victory even if they had little hand in the actual battle. An unworthy notion had stolen upon Culcis in that moment as he set eyes upon the mil-serve he had taken under his wing: he wished it could have been him.

‘Ah, so this is where you’re hiding.’

The deep voice made Culcis turn. Ghanu sidled alongside him, and offered up a smoke. Culcis hesitated, but only a little, before taking a tabac-stick with a nod of thanks. Ghanu took one for himself then lit them both, Culcis shielding his with a cupped hand to ward off the breeze.

The Ohrek stared into the distance, smoking in companionable silence for a while until he said, ‘Not so long ago, you and I might not have shared tabac like this, lieutenant.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, let us say that the Volpone seldom fraternise beyond their own kind.’

‘Is that what we’re doing? Fraternising?’

Ghanu laughed, and it was a rich sound, a tuneful bass note that put Culcis in mind of warm molasses. ‘What would you call it?’

‘Camaraderie.’

‘A lofty word for shared tabac.’

Culcis shrugged. ‘Well… I am from Volpone.’

Both men laughed and the sound carried away into the night.

‘I hear the auxiliaries have another name for us,’ ventured Culcis.

Ghanu played coy. ‘Oh…?’

The ‘Bastard’ Volpone was a poorly kept secret in camp, one the Bluebloods tolerated for it reminded them of their superiority, not that they needed reminding. Ever since Lodden, Culcis found his view had changed.

He changed tack. ‘I’m sorry for your losses.’

Ghanu’s face darkened with remembrance. ‘Barely two platoons are left of my regiment. That and Captain Ombi’s retinue. We shall rebuild,’ he said, and like a shadow moving away from the sun his expression brightened.

‘I wish I had your hope, master sergeant.’

‘I have belief…’ He turned, held out his hand for Culcis to shake it. ‘And you may know me as Hunna.’

Culcis took his hand in a comradely grip. ‘Armand.’

‘See, Armand…’ said Hunna Ghanu, ‘hope. If you and I, men of opposing kind and station can become friends, then anything is possible.’ He smiled, showing perfect white teeth. ‘If you believe in it.’ He finished his tabac, crushing it between calloused fingers to put it out, and patted Culcis on the shoulder. ‘The nightmares will fade, lieutenant,’ he said, and took his leave.

Culcis lingered, thinking on the master sergeant’s words. He stretched, taking in the evening’s refrain, the distant chirrup of nocturnal rooks and the soft hubbub of soldiers in pursuit of entertainment or simply enjoying the company of others. Music played in the camp, and there was singing.

Unlike Ankishburg, Lodden had not come with a citizenry plying their wares and distractions for weary Guardsmen, but a baggage train of camp followers had reached the town in the wake of the army. Several old grain houses had become home to brewers and vintners who had brought kegs and barrels of alcoholic libations. It wasn’t the Ursa but it was better than nothing. Deviers encouraged them. It would serve his desires well and make more of a spectacle of his victory celebration. Between the other camp sounds, Culcis heard the celebration being prepared. Scaffolding for a stage, a large communal area cleared and hung with lamps. Much of the town had been cleansed, all visible taint of the Archenemy removed and overpainted with Imperial graffiti; one order accreting over the other, its truth pre-eminent, and so was history written.

He took to wandering, strolling the streets, but quickly tired of the solitude. A young woman was cleaning her uniform in a water trough. She wore fatigues, braces over her shoulders, shirtsleeves up to her elbows. She looked like she was Volpone, but Culcis had met very few females in the ranks. He assumed she was one of the reinforcements. A trooper, then. Suds gathered on the surface of the water, sloshing over the edges of the metal trough, a particularly large wave splashing her boots. She swore. Loudly.

‘I could have a mil-serve do that for you, trooper.’

The woman paused, about to turn but then deciding against it. Wiping an arm across her brow, she carried on scrubbing.

‘Labour is good for the soul, or so my old dead mother used to tell me.’

She was a fine-looking woman, thought Culcis. Strong, athletic. Long red hair fell around her shoulders, lustrous and alive. Her pale skin was like creamy opal.

‘Ah, but what of the heart…’

She paused again, a wry smile curling the side of her mouth. A small scar creased the skin there but didn’t detract from her looks. ‘What do you know of the heart…?’

‘Lieutenant,’ Culcis provided, pleased she was responding to his charms.

She turned and faced him, arms drenched in foamy soap-flake residue. Munitorum issue, judging by the bland aroma. Her scent was the greater though, jasmine and sandalwood. Her shirt was partly unbuttoned, the pale skin of her neck visible. Her eyes were rich and dark. Culcis felt a flush of attraction.

‘An officer… I should salute.’ She began to straighten up, but Culcis waved away the formality.

‘We’re off duty now, that isn’t necessary.’

She settled back into a casual stance. ‘Were you taking a stroll, lieutenant?’

Culcis smiled. He had worn his uniform jacket but it was undone and hung loosely on his muscular frame. He had no wife or significant other, soldiering had taken the place of all that, but he enjoyed female company. It had been a while, a Munitorum logistician back at Lanchetek… He couldn’t quite remember her name.

‘It’s a fine evening for it. Perhaps if you’re done with your labours, you would like to accompany me?’

‘Oh, I couldn’t do that, lieutenant.’

‘And why’s that?’

‘Well… I don’t even know your name.’

‘It’s Culcis,’ he said, ‘but please call me Armand. And you?’

‘Ione.’

‘A beautiful name…’

‘Aramis,’ she added, and Culcis felt something shift in the timbre of her voice. She turned around again, fishing in the trough for her jacket, which she now pulled forth and started to wring out. He saw the patches before she uttered the words, and swallowed deeply.

‘Captain Ione Aramis,’ she said, fixing Culcis with a smile as cold as Valhallan snow. ‘A stroll, is it?’ she asked, still wringing the jacket, the curling of her fists against the material as tight as a sailor’s rigging.

‘No… ah, of course not.’

She frowned. ‘Why ever not?’

‘I mean, my apologies, sir– I mean, ma’am. Of course, ma’am.’ He sketched a fairly poor salute.

‘Ma’am is what I call my mother, lieutenant.’

‘Of course, captain. I meant no–’

‘You’re blathering, lieutenant. That’s a poor quality in a man and an even worse one in an officer.’

Culcis kept his gaze straight ahead. ‘I shall address it, captain.’

‘Why are you out here at night? Carousing, is it?’ she said, appraising him with her eyes.

‘No, captain. I couldn’t sleep.’

‘And you thought a tumble with one of the ranks would tire you out, did you?’

‘No, captain. When I close my eyes… I… see them.’

‘See what?’

‘The things that slaughtered my men… the wolves.’

The captain’s demeanour relaxed. ‘You fought the K-weapons.’

‘I did.’

‘Throne, I thought that was just a rumour. How many?’

‘Four…’

Aramis swore under her breath.

‘But one was stillborn before it could do anything but die,’ Culcis added.

‘My company was on the Kobor road,’ said Aramis. ‘I see it still, the moment when the Godsword touched us. Men turned to glass in a breath, thunder like the end times. Smoke so thick it killed the sun. And the burning. Endless burning. Flesh cooking on the breeze. Screaming.’

Culcis had paled at the account, at the captain’s sudden intensity. His voice became a rasp. ‘God-Emperor… I cannot imagine.’

‘Then consider yourself blessed.’ She finished with the jacket, folding it before tucking it under her arm. ‘If I can’t sleep, I wash my uniform. It is… very clean. Something about the water and the mundanity of the task.’ She sniffed, scowled. ‘You reek of foreign tabac, lieutenant.’

‘I have been smoking, captain,’ he admitted.

‘Did it help?’

‘Help?’

‘With when you close your eyes.’

‘Yes, I believe it did.’

‘A hundred different ways.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘To cope. To serve.’

‘Is that what it is?’

Aramis narrowed her eyes, as if taking his measure. ‘Have a good night, lieutenant,’ she said, and left him to the night sounds. ‘Tomorrow, we celebrate our victory.’

The medicae tents were quiet, the late hour and the morphia contributing to their stillness.

Fenk felt little for the stricken troopers as he walked through the aisles between their beds, though ‘bed’ was a generous term for what the wounded slept on. Many didn’t sleep, their eyes open and staring at some past horror that refused to relinquish them to Morpheus. He heard whimpering, and sibilant voices arguing with themselves, but couldn’t discern the source. Orderlies ran the station, an old marketplace given over to a house of the dying. Thinned blood painted stone cobbles underfoot. It all washed over Fenk, slipping frictionlessly off.

Suffering was a part of life, as was death.

The grey host was quiet tonight but it lingered in a corner of his mind, crunched up and sullen. Not even all of this mortality stirred it. Something had changed. Fenk couldn’t quite put his finger on it but ever since he had fought the Heretic Astartes, things had been different. Not fear, not in the way that most men experience it, but more a profound sense of insignificance, a cold ennui.

I am a minnow in an ocean of leviathans…

After half an hour of searching, he found her bed.

Gannika had not woken since Vah’nek had struck her. She looked peaceful, as if she were in state. A metal frame encased her arm, holding it together. Surgical notations marked the skin, in preparation for amputation.

Another man stood over her, not a medic or an orderly, or even one of the dull-eyed servitors administering phials of morphia. It was a Volpone officer. Head bowed, hands making the sign of the aquila. Praying. The soft sounds between the murmured words suggested he’d been weeping too.

‘Good evening, Captain Brandreth.’

Fenk’s greeting clearly startled him, as Brandreth hurriedly wiped at his eyes and turned smartly to present an ashen but otherwise professional mien.

‘What are you doing here, lieutenant, at such a late hour?’ he asked, slipping his chrono from his breast pocket and checking the face as if it mattered at all.

‘I imagine the same as you, sir.’ He looked from the officer to the unconscious commissar. ‘We fought side by side during the retaking.’

‘I see,’ Brandreth replied, also turning to regard her. ‘A hard fight.’

‘It was,’ said Fenk, ‘and made harder by the fact we were alone for the majority of it.’ He turned his gaze on Brandreth. ‘You were late, sir.’

Brandreth frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘And your uniform looked very smart and tidy upon your arrival.’

Anger creased the captain’s face. ‘What are you implying, lieutenant?’

‘That you arrived for war dressed as if for the parade ground,’ Fenk said, the coldness of his reply unsettling Brandreth. He was afraid, the captain, and had been afraid for a long time. He had lost something, Fenk could see its absence, and it had left him half a man.

Brandreth discerned what was happening, and tried to rally. ‘Are you calling me a coward, Fenk?’ He half-heartedly reached for the sabre strapped to his hip.

Fenk’s eyes followed the gesture of his sword hand. ‘Oh, I don’t think you want that, sir.’

Brandreth hesitated but eventually closed his hand and let it fall impotently by his side.

‘I lost almost every soldier during that battle, sir,’ Fenk went on.

‘None could have stood against a Heretic Astartes,’ Brandreth replied, trying not to sound shaken.

‘So you did see it then? As it slaughtered my men?’

‘I heard… a… report.’ He scowled, anger edged with fear. ‘Now look here, Fenk. I won’t have this, I–’

‘This, sir?’

‘This… whatever this is. It’s insubordination and it won’t go unanswered.’

‘Then answer it.’

Brandreth looked flustered, uncomfortable. Weak, like he had seen the reflection of all of his private inadequacies, and Fenk was the one holding the mirror.

‘I won’t dignify this by listening to it. I’ll have you on charges, Fenk. I’ll make sure you–’

‘Charges, sir? For observing the state of your attire as you entered the battle? I see. Infantryman regulations are stricter than I assumed.’

‘I’m warning you…’ Brandreth retorted, face reddening, hands trembling. ‘I won’t have it. And you’ll bloody well address me as captain.’

‘As you wish, captain.’

Bile pushed its way to the surface, oft the recourse of the fearful and the outmanoeuvred. It manifested as spittle-flung insults. ‘You’re a degenerate, Fenk. An unwanted offcut. An inbred bastard. You should have never been given rank.’

Fenk did not react. He let Brandreth run out of steam first, and watched stoically as he turned on his heel and tried to storm away. But Fenk saw it for what it was, a retreat. He watched the captain depart, all the way out of the tent until he could no longer see him.

Then he turned his attention back on Gannika, leaning down to tenderly stroke her cheek.

‘Sleep well,’ he whispered, before leaving too.