FIFTY-TWO

Regara moved stiffly as he climbed the ridge, a thick wad of bandages wrapped around his torso. Between that and his tightly buttoned uniform, he felt like a madman in a straitjacket. Perhaps he was. Delirious, they had said, when Culcis and the others found him. Half dead but clinging on. Survived again, with another scar to add to the rest. It itched, his side, as he watched the gunships descend from his high vantage point.

They were leaving Karcas and Agria as soon as they reached Lanchetek, the island back in the hands of the natives, though three regiments of Vitrians had been sent in as caretakers and to aid in the transition back to Imperial rule. Of Scylla, much remained unknown. An unmarked ship had arrived alongside the Valkyries, black and sleek like an ebon knife. It was Ordo, that much Regara could discern. The men and women it carried debarked without challenge or comment, headed immediately for Rakespur and the ritual site. Eythor had apparently met them with a handful of First Sons as his retinue.

Regara smiled at the thought, the taciturn commissar pitted against the clandestine inquisitors. He wondered who broke first – or perhaps they simply stared at each other, mutually agreeing by their silence that they should proceed.

Of the missing lord commissar, no sign could be found. Several searches had been conducted over the last eighteen days, most of the troops taking advantage of the long layover before Fleet Euphrates had made high anchor above Gnostes. Rensaint was therefore either dead or he had been picked up by some other Militarum detachment on the island. The latter seemed unlikely. Staddish had not reported any contact with the lord commissar and with the wound Regara had given him it was unlikely Rensaint could have got very far. Still, his disappearance posed questions without any comfortable answers. Beyond his near-death ravings, Regara had said nothing of the lord commissar’s duplicity. It would only tarnish everyone his mendacity had come into contact with.

Grussman’s reputation, albeit posthumous, was in tatters. It would land poorly for his house and bloodline. A letter of validation sent to Lord Militant Eirik’s staff from Horator Deviers had ensured a smooth transition and exculpated Regara, his earlier missive to the former general proving useful after all. The duel was part of Volpone culture, one seldom enacted. He had killed an officer who had been derelict in his responsibilities. The rest, his stillborn coup, had been swept under the carpet.

As for Rensaint, his dealings would remain a secret and Regara would have to content himself with hoping that the man had met a just fate one way or another.

The Ohrek did find one body in the fog. A cavalryman, one of the old Pardus hussars by the name of Hauptmann. Strange injuries had been reported by the scouts, of the poor man’s eyes burned down in their sockets and a third wound to the forehead that bore an ocular shape, amongst a slew of general injuries associated with capture and abuse.

Regara had no doubt that this man had saved his life. Judging by the scorched disrepair of his uniform and the blackened state of his fingers and extremities, it was also believed that he started the blaze that had gutted Rakespur and turned it into a ruin. His story might never be known but Regara was determined to seek out any of the man’s dependents and ensure a generous stipend came their way in recognition of Hauptmann’s bravery and service.

The wind suddenly picked up, sending knives of ice across the ridge, and Regara shivered, drawing his cloak tighter despite his many layers. Alone but for the wind, he murmured a prayer to the Emperor to vouchsafe the sundered souls of his friends and comrades. Filip he saved for last. Regara’s mourning for him went deep, a canyon of grief he might never truly climb out of, but he had brought his killer to account and that was something. As an ending, it felt unresolved but it was as much closure as Regara had any right to expect.

He took a knee, placing the instrument case he had brought with him on the ground, mindful of the flecks of snow lightly settling on the outer leather. Nestled in the velvet interior, a gadulka. It felt like a foreign object at first, the touch of it a sad reminder. But as his fingers traced its slender neck and he began to draw the bow gently across the taut strings, he played a soft lament for the dead, and in it found a little peace.

The Pardus were shipping out.

Culcis watched from a raised supply platform at the edge of the landing field as the veritable morass of vehicles in mustard and grey-black camo milled around amidst snow flurries, trying to get into formation. Bellowing from a Conqueror’s turret and marshalling what was left of his tankers, Bragga quickly put matters in order. The larger transports currently alighting on the makeshift landing apron would ferry the tanks to Lanchetek, where the drop landers would bear them up to the waiting fleet. An urn with Colonel Ganza’s ashes would accompany them in a sealed stasis casket.

Not all the dead were treated with such reverence. For the many, they would journey in a ship’s hold, trapped in cold storage until they could be interred in the earth of a sepulchre world or else be incinerated and their cremains cast to the void or the air, whichever was their custom. The Agrians kept their own, of course, buried them in native soil. Not all rejoiced at the victory – those who had shared Uzra’s belief of an uncaring Imperium, swift to move on once the day was won and heedless of the damage in its wake. These detractors were few, the alliance between Volpone and Agrian, evinced towards the end of the war, going some way to soothe relations.

As he brushed clumps of snow from his cloak, Culcis supposed it was the Vitrians’ problem to wrangle now. They would not be entirely without aid, however, for Captain Ombi had opted to stay behind. So few remained of the Ohrek that the Rangers would be better deployed as Militarum liaisons and experts in the terrain for the incoming Dragoons than being absorbed into a scratch regiment with its specialisms de-emphasised.

As for the Talpa, they would continue on to the fleet, those that were left. Clutches of grubby ochre moved through the masses below here and there, scavenging, hustling and otherwise making a nuisance of themselves.

Culcis smiled. For all their roughness he confessed a grudging respect for the fearless Tunnel-Rats, noisome as they were. Before the war, he had thought little of the auxiliaries. He recognised the role they had to play but he had never really seen them, and he had certainly never considered any of them friends. Velas Hauptmann of Pardua and Hunna Ghanu of Ohrek had been his friends. He thought of that and what it meant as he watched the war depart, not with fanfare but a slow disassembling of the camp.

You look sad, Volpone… Are you sad for me?

He thought of that sickle smile of hers too.

‘Ah, I see you’re here to torment me still,’ said Culcis still brushing, his eyes on the landing field as a Valkyrie touched down amidst squalls of churning snow.

If not me, then who else?

Culcis paused to look down at his hands, still scuffed and scarred from where he had dug through the earth and brick.

‘Indeed…’ he uttered sadly.

A skirling breeze whipped over the platform, worming through the crates and boxes, stealing away the echoes of her voice and letting in another.

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

Culcis paused in his labours, smiling. He carried on brushing the cloak, the garment stretched over a storage crate.

‘Labour is good for the soul, or so someone once told me.’

‘Ah,’ said Aramis, ‘but what of the heart…’

He turned to her, gladdened but weary. ‘Major…’

‘You can still call me Ione…’ She gave him a wry look. ‘At least for a little while longer.’ She glanced around at the desolate and near-empty storage depot. ‘What are you doing here all on your lonesome? I thought you liked company, lieutenant.’

Culcis glanced around, as if only just aware of the fact he was alone. ‘Armand…’ he said with a slight cocking of the head, ‘if we’re being informal, that is. Ione.’

She smiled warmly. ‘You look sad.’

‘Perhaps I am. Would that be so strange?’

‘No, I think I like that look on you.’

Culcis frowned but was playful. ‘You like me to be sad?’

‘Not that as such,’ she replied, walking up alongside him as they both turned to regard the slow departure of the army, ‘but I like the vulnerability and the truth that comes with it, I suppose. I find it appealing.’

‘I wish I knew where this was leading,’ he confessed.

‘Isn’t that what keeps it interesting? Not knowing.’

‘It certainly makes it hazardous.’

She laughed, deep and heartily.

‘I’ll see you on the muster yard,’ Aramis said, descending the steps from the platform and heading towards camp. ‘Lieutenant.’

‘Yes, sir.’

He watched her go, marching towards the troops, an order more than likely already on her lips. She had the commanding gait and temperament of an officer, but was certainly not averse to keeping secrets.

They all had to, those that Regara had taken into his confidence. Some had more than others, mused Culcis as his gaze found Bertram Fenk amongst the throng. He followed him for a while with his eyes, but soon lost him amongst the crowds.

Fenk found a deserted billet in which to finish packing. He had his kitbag slung over his shoulder and had arranged to meet one of his sergeants at the north end of the landing apron, together with the rest of the platoon.

For now though, this was just for him.

Taking a moment to listen, making sure he would not be interrupted, Fenk set down the bag and took from it a box made of Volpone red-oak. He caressed its edges tenderly, working his fingers to the clasp that he unlocked via a hidden switch. Then slowly, reverently, Fenk raised the lid.

Oxblood baize lined an interior segregated into several smaller compartments. A second and third layer, similarly decorous, sat beneath the first. Not every compartment had been filled, but the ones that had contained… Trinkets, was how he liked to think of them. Here, a button, there a quill nib, a pin in the shape of a leaf. To the casual eye, they were the kinds of keepsakes soldiers occasionally took from the warzones they fought in, the contraband but largely tolerated spoils that described a tour of duty.

Several items stood out, however, mementos of Agria. A metal ingot taken from a hetman-officer, a gold chain that had once conjoined with a captain’s antique timepiece. He had left a space for this last one though, a thin-necked ivory pipe that he set down carefully on the oxblood baize, and as he closed the lid Fenk felt a sense of vindication. And smiled his adder’s smile.