The Commissar, Robert Laville, stared out into the gloomy darkness. Past the shell-torn no-mans-land, there was a hidden enemy, an enemy that was striking out at his men, killing a couple of men from a patrol before disappearing again. In the last week alone he had lost forty good men, men who'd be missed, men who'd be mourned. The morale of his troops was low, and sinking fast. He needed a victory, but against an enemy that wouldn't stand and fight? It was impossible.
Laville turned away, clenching his armoured left arm, feeling the phantom pain from when that alien Eldar warrior had severed his arm at the elbow five years ago. Even though the medics had replaced it with a bionic part, he still felt the agonising pain from when the blade bit into his arm. Now he was stuck with a permanent reminder of that day, of his fate, of his duty. He looked down through the hatch into the bunker. "Switch 'em on, lieutenant!" He ordered.
"Aye, sir," The aide replied. Laville shook his head and turned to look back out. Another casualty of the endless fighting, that one. The lieutenant had lost an eye to one of the attacks during the week, and had been assigned to be the Commissar's aide. Laville snorted at that thought. The least his superiors could do was to ship wounded men back, even the dead. Instead the wounded were fixed up as much as possible and the dead were left to rot on strange worlds. It was disgraceful, really, but what could he, Laville, do about it?
All along the line of scarred, concrete bunkers, spotlights were switched on. As the light brightened, and the darkness was banished into the shadows of the forest, Laville became aware of delicate alien shapes flitting at the edge of the tree line. He could almost make out the species, but scrambled back to the hatch to shout: "Lieutenant! Get the men to their stations! We have enemy at the perimeter!"
* * *
The Farseer, Karamon, withdrew his hand from the rune pouch and let go. Three runestones had been ensnared in his grasp, and on release hovered in the air, two of them orbiting the third. Refusing to look, he reached into the bag again, his fingers brushing against the smooth material, the cool runestones. For a second time he pulled out his hand, releasing the stones so they could join their fellows in interpreting the tides of fate. This time, however, he opened his eyes to see the pattern of stones in their intricate orbits.
He studied the stones, trying to interpret through the patterns in the stones the complex skein of the future. He could read what could happen, what might happen. He took a deep breath, calming his heartbeat, then reached out to touch the stones. Instantly, his mind was transported away, visions of possible futures presenting themselves for his inspection. He could see old friends and new friends, the mon-keigh forces.
But suddenly, something snapped his link to the stones. Karamon rocked back, mind reeling as it attempted to find out what had broken his concentration. His hand brushed against the comm-jewel on his armour, and he was instantly linked to his squad leaders. One wasn't reporting in, one of the Warlocks who were on the front lines.
Cursing the Warlock's impetuosity, he barked orders over the psi-channels. "Guardian Squad Goleag, move to Warlock Ithbio's position and support. Howling Banshee Troupe Blade, mount your transport, but wait for me before departing." With that, he scooped up the fallen runestones, slipped his elaborate helmet over his head and, pausing only to draw his sword, ran off to join his troops.
* * *
Laville drew his pistol from its decorated holster as he moved back to the bunker's battlements. He checked the ammunition, then took aim at one of the aliens. He snapped off a couple of rounds, as coolly as if he were on the firing range, the pistol bucking and roaring in his hand and watched the explosive bullets his home. The alien was thrown round as the first shell pierced his shoulder armour, the shell exploding in a spray of blood, the arm hanging limp and useless. The second bullet smashed through the creature's side, splinters of the armour driven deep into its insides, the explosion from the shell throwing it to the ground where it twitched uncontrollably as bright red blood seeped from its wounds. The Commissar watched the spasms die down through the gun smoke, then ducked as a storm of enemy fire threatened to rip his head off. To his left and right he could see Guardsmen, crouched as he was beneath the battlements. "What are you waiting for?" he yelled. "Get out there and slaughter the bastards!"
Beneath him, he could hear the clanking as the gates in the wall under him opened. Keeping crouched, he scuttled across to the inner wall in time to see two battle tanks move through into the storm of fire, enemy fire ricocheting wildly off the tanks heavy armour. Laville noted that the Commander was, sensibly, keeping his head down inside the turret. They were the new Exterminator variant, he saw, and as he moved to the outer wall, he heard the distinctive sound of the twin autocannon in the turret firing, the shells being spat out by the hundred. Glancing over the battlements, he saw the aliens - Eldar, they were Eldar, he realised - being chewed to pieces by the autocannon fire. To his left and right, Laville could see that the men he'd ordered to attack were still there, sheltering behind the battlements. His pistol in hand, he turned to them. "Who's in charge of you?"
One Guardsman raised his hand. "Lieutenant Jeeves, sir."
"Jeeves!" Laville bellowed. "Show your miserable face!" A worried looking officer scrambled across to the Commissar, saluting as best as he could. Laville brought his arm out, pointing the pistol between the man's eyes. The lieutenant immediately went cross-eyed, trying to look down the barrel of the pistol, his face going white.
"Lieutenant, what the hell are you doing? The Emperor's enemies are there for you to kill, and you're skulking around here like some mewling infant. Explain yourself!" Laville said, in a cold menacing tone that was somehow worse than the shouting.
"Well, sir," the officer said, stumbling over the words as he stared down the barrel to almost certain death. "The tanks are out there now. I was thinking that they could go and hose down the enemy, then we'd go in to mop up the mess."
"That's what you thought, is it?" The Commissar said, in such tones of menace that the lieutenant swallowed sharply. Beads of perspiration were becoming obvious on the man's forehead, even in the bitter cold they were experiencing. "The Emperor doesn't pay you to think! I should kill you now, but at the minute every man we've got is useful to me." An explosion tore through the night, and pieces of hot metal rained down around the men. A couple jumped as the red hot fragments caught them, but they were more interest in the confrontation going on between the two officers. "I believe," Laville said. "That the tanks aren't finding it so easy, don't you? Now, pick up your weapons and get your selves down there!"
The Commissar turned away. He remembered the Colonel saying something very similar. Behind him, he could hear scrapes and clangs as the infantry prepared themselves to go down. The amount of fire that was going over the battlements was reducing, so he decided to risk another look. It was as he feared. At the edge of the wood, the Eldar had been able to set up one of their weapons platforms; its long slender barrel suprisingly delicate compared to the destruction he knew those things could do. That weapon had obviously blown one of his tanks apart, and it was probably charging for a second shot. Three Eldar stood around the platform, one in the ornate battle armour that showed him to be one of the Eldar psykers. The other two fussed around their weapon, preparing it to fire again. Laville lifted his pistol over the battlements, flicking on the laser sight as he did so. Sighting the weapon carefully, he positioned the red dot over one of the Eldar's hearts, and fired a three shell burst, then switched to the other and did the same, firing quicker this time, with no chance to aim properly.
His first burst struck its target, the shells punching through the armour as easily as if they had been fired through paper. The second burst, not aimed as accurately, only hit the target twice, but both shots ripped through their target's head, dropping him to the ground instantly. The Warlock stood alone, looking around in shock, until the Commissar put the last two shells of his clip through the alien's helmet. "That'll teach the bastard to wear that bloody stupid armour," he thought.
As he loaded a new clip, he heard a high pitched screaming. His arm spasmed, dropping the clip to the floor. Laville's eyes widened. Only one sort of warrior used those masks. He span around, looking down to the battlefield, in time to see the Banshee's charge strike home. Not even wanting to see what happened, he turned and ran down the steps to the gate, pistol discarded on the battlements. He drew his power sword as he ran; after the charge, the Banshee's were immensely vulnerable to a counter-attack; he knew from experience. The Banshee's were hacking through the motionless Guardsmen with ease, practising sword strokes as they moved through the living statues. The Guardsmen couldn't do anything; the psychic scream of the Banshee's having paralysed their bodies, leaving their minds to watch what happened. Laville ran out the gate, in time to see one Banshee decapitate a helpless corporal with practised ease. His eyes narrowed, and he ran towards the Banshee, who didn't seem to notice his approach, moving with a fluid grace towards his next victim.
The Banshee didn't notice his approach until it was almost too late. The Commissar's sword lashed out at the Banshee's unprotected back, but somehow, warned by some sixth sense maybe, the Eldar turned and parried the sweeping slash. Unfortunately, she wasn't able to parry the Commissars fist, the power field crackling with unreleased energy as it span around with a hammerblow to the Eldar's head, flattening it easily. Around him, Guardsmen were starting to revive, their bodies coming back under their conscious control, as the effects of the psychic scream wore off. A small group of survivors, less than a squad strong, pulled together, bayonets ready, lasguns up and aimed. At the Commissars nod, they opened fire, their energy bursts cutting through the delicate movements of the Eldar, throwing them like discarded rag dolls to the ground.
One Eldar warrior remained, and as it turned to face him, Laville felt the pain of his arm again. His eyes narrowed as they took in the armours detailing, the patterns, the intricate blade. He held up his sword arm, preventing the infantry from firing, then motioned them back to the tank. Laville walked slowly forward, sword held low by his side, power fist ready and charged. The Eldar Farseer, his weapons ready, watched him like a cat as he approached.
When he got close enough, Laville leapt, sword swinging in a wild, uncontrollable pattern of strokes. The Farseer was hard pressed to fend off the blows, his own blade parrying time after time. Laville kept his fist low by his side, ready for if the opportunity arose. His arm began to tire, the strokes coming slower, and with less power. Soon he was pushed back on the defensive, as the Eldar opened up with a full attack pattern, sword moving in interlinked infinity loops. Both men stood there, human and Eldar, swords flashing as they strove to find the gap, the one chink in their opponent's defence. Laville saw his chance.
Parrying one particularly wild swing, he held the Eldar's blade wide to his side, and stepped through, behind the Farseer's guard. He spoke four words as his fist came up in a pendulum arc, the energy in the power field ripping through the armour, peeling back flesh and bone, burning through organs. Those words were the last thing the Farseer heard, the Commissar getting revenge on the creature that had denied him a normal life: "Don't you ever learn?"
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