Lightning powered across the charcoal grey skies of Nvarin II, illuminating a battlefield of churned up dirt, bodies and blood. The flash and crack of artillery fire had quickly become a tolerable nuisance; the piercing whistle of the shell and the inevitable earth-shaking explosion as it buried itself into the ground was now a bassline for the soundtrack of war.

Sergeant Zen Darnem lit up another Lho Stick, crushing the remnants of his previous one into the trench mud with the heel of his combat boot. He took a long drag and stared down the trench, barely lit by hastily assembled lamps and the occasional glowing red ring of a fellow Lho Stick smoker. For the past hour, he’d taken to counting how many guardsmen he could see, and each time it was the same. Nevertheless, it passed the time.

Sighing, he took another drag of his Lho Stick and wiggled around on the stool he’d constructed from a mound of mud and bits of shattered trench lining; it wasn’t the most comfortable seat he’d used in his life, but it was far from the least. A shell exploded not far from his section of the trench, and he braced himself as he was showered in bits of Emperor-knows-what, dirt and blood; you could always rely on being covered in those last two things in a war zone, you’d go in with just yourself and about five minutes later you’d have bits of the last regiment to be shoved over the top all down your shiny new flak jacket.

Zen smiled at his morbid sense of humour, stood and patted himself down. Clamping his chapped lips around the end of his Lho Stick, he found it to be covered in, well, he didn’t actually know what he’d just gotten a nice lick of, but it certainly wasn’t the good, hard narcotics he’d become accustomed to. Regretfully, he flattened his half-finished stick against his makeshift stool and reached for another, stopping only when he was one-hundred percent certain that he’d just crushed his last one, “Fething heretics, what have Lho Sticks ever done to you?” he muttered to himself as he reclined back against the mushy trench wall.

“Darnem? Sergeant Zen Darnem?” Zen heard his name echoing from down the trench and squinted to identify the source. A guardsman with a turquoise armband around his right arm was striding up the trench, questioning the guardsmen he squelched past.

“Oi! Turquoise Armband! You lookin’ for me?” Zen barked, drawing a puzzled look from the guardsman he addressed.

“Sergeant Zen Darnem?” Came the reply.

“Aye, and I’m not interested in anything you’re selling; unless it’s a Lho Stick.” Zen shouted back.

“All out I’m afraid; damn maniacs took my last one out by covering me in sludge from over the top.” The guardsman yelled as he trudged through the trench.

“Join the club.” Zen replied, “So what is it? I’m not being sent over to retrieve ol’ Commie’s trench coat buttons am I?”

The guardsman reached Zen with a morose look on his face, and pulled a folded note out of his pocket, “Worse I’m afraid; but at least you aint going alone.”

Zen knew what the note said before he’d even read it, “5am Terra Mean-Time – 1st, 3rd, 5th and 7th Platoons are to go over the top and march upon the heretics – 5:05am Terra Mean-Time – 2nd, 4th, 6th and 8th Platoons go over the top and march upon the heretics – 5:10am Terra Mean Time – 9th Platoon through 12th Platoon go over the top and march upon the heretics - Fire support will be given by 13th, 14th and 15th Platoons, 2nd and 5th Armour Divisions and 7th Airborne - Deserters will be shot without mercy – The Emperor Protects.”

“You've got 3 hours to prepare, charge your las-packs, say your prayers and put on a brave face.” The guardsman said as he watched Zen read and re-read the note.

“I take it his highness won’t be attending this latest slaughter?” Zen asked.

“Much the contrary, he’s leading the charge.” The guardsman replied.

“Has the warp frozen over already?” Zen chuckled, “Suppose he thinks this is the one that’ll break their hold then?”

“Aye, guess so.” The guardsman said.

“About fething time; I’m sick of these bastards and their Lho Stick destroying artillery. Mind you, it’s all their artillery has been able to destroy recently, you’d think after three days of shelling they’d have realised that it isn’t reaching..” Zen said, staring up at the lightning-filled sky.

“It is a bit strange, though I guess their artillery is at full range already. Our bassies are the best for systems around, if they moved theirs up any closer then they wouldn’t even get time to load a shell.” Replied the guardsman.

“You’re probably right.” Zen sighed; the taste of whatever was on his last stick still lingering in his mouth, “Just… something doesn’t feel right if you ask me.” He spat a puddle of saliva onto the trench floor and the taste subsided.

“I know what you mean, but they did defect; that’s not exactly right to start with.” The guardsman patted Zen on the shoulder, “Anyway, I gotta get these things a mile and half down this thing before 5.” He patted his pocket, full of copies of the same note he’d given to Zen, “Good luck out there, us at Command will be rooting for you.” The guardsman started off along the trench.

“One more thing.” Zen said, “What’s your name, soldier?”

The guardsman turned and grinned proudly at Zen, “McCormack, Neil.”

“Well, McCormack, it’s been good talking to you. May the Emperor watch over you.” Zen replied.

“And you, Darnem; give ‘em hell.” Neil responded before he turned and continued down the trench.

“I fething well intend to!” Zen shouted after him.

Slumping back into his seat, he mulled over the news he’d been given. He’d been over one hundred tops at one hundred different places, and yet anxiety was still commonplace. He chewed his bottom lip for a minute, his body already craving another Lho Stick. The next three hours would be a hellish waiting game on a hellish planet; prayers would be said; battle rites would be spoken; final war diary entries made; and last-minute re-thinkers would be executed; such were the pre-battle rituals of the Imperium’s finest meat-shields. Harsh cold buried itself into Zen’s flesh as freezing rain began to lash down from the heavens, and he decided he couldn’t postpone it any longer. He stood and cupped his hands around his mouth,

“6th Platoon! Listen up!” He bellowed, watching the shadows of the guardsmen in the trench as they rose from makeshift camps and beds, “We’ve got news from ‘Ol Commie; at 5:05am we follow 1st, 3rd, 5th and 7th over the top. Now’s the time to check your gear, say your prayers and write your memoirs, ‘cos in three hours we’ll be out showing those heretics why the Predators are not to be fethed with!”

A resounding roar of acknowledgement followed Zen’s speech, and were they not simply accepting their willingness to throw themselves at the enemy on the order of the high and mighty back at Command Central, he might’ve smiled.

“One last thing!” The trench fell silent, “I need a Lho Stick!”

Shuffles and unclipping of bags followed for about half a minute as the guardsmen of the platoon hurried to find, or hide, their stashes, until one guardsman stood and looked Zen in the eyes, “Sorry sir, we’re all out.”

Zen sighed, fell back onto his stool and folded his arms, the rain already soaking through his trench coat and seeping through his flak jacket. As if on cue, another shell saw fit to explode not far from the trench, showering him again in bits of battlefield mush. Spitting a foul-tasting mouthful of soil onto the trench floor, he took solace in the fact that in just under three hours, he’d have his chance to take revenge; “Let’s see how they like being showered in shit and having it ruin their last Lho Stick.” He muttered to himself.

By quarter to five, the torrent of rain had eased to a fine drizzle. Nvarin III’s twin suns had started to rise; their golden rays blazing through the thinner cloud lining and bathing the field of battle in a warm orange glow. As impressive as it was, it didn’t lift Zen’s spirits. The last three hours had been far too quiet; the shelling had slowed to a standstill as if waiting in anticipation and every guardsman seemed to be quieter than usual. Perhaps it wasn’t just Zen who thought something was amiss.

Despite this, the final checks before the charge were being made. Zen had taken to polishing the wooden grip of his laspistol, claimed on a different deployment in the Nvarin system from the corpse of a heretic nobleman. When he’d found it, it looked as if it had never fired a single shot in its lifetime, something that Zen preferred over the well-used official Imperial las weapons. It wasn’t a bolt pistol, but it was the next best thing, and went hand-in-hand with his chain sword.

He glanced at his watch, six minutes until the first wave went over, eleven until he’d lead his platoon out. Tugging at the soaked sleeves of his flak jacket, he peeled it away and dug his carapace armour out from beneath his rucksack, slicing his finger on his chain sword after one of the armour’s straps caught and pulled his hand back in. He was pretty sure he’d claimed first blood.

After binding the gushing wound with some gauze from a nearby med kit, he wiped the remnants of it off his carapace armour and slid the armour plates on, each one molded to his exact proportions. Pulling his flak jacket over the top, he tentatively poked around for the hilt of his chain sword, which he slid out of the pile with the utmost caution. Were it not for his unkempt appearance, he’d almost look like the lieutenant he actually was,

“Sir!” Zen turned to face the guardsman that was trudging through the trench towards him, identifying him as Sergeant Cartwright of 3rd squad.

“Sergeant.” Zen nodded his greeting as Cartwright got closer.

“Got an urgent package for you from Command from a Neil McCormack.” Cartwright said as he tried to keep his balance. He pulled an ornate square box from his jacket and passed it to Zen.

“Thanks Cartwright; your squad ready?” Zen spoke in the general direction of Cartwright as he weighed the box in the palm of his hand, smiling slightly.

“As ever, sir.” Cartwright replied. “Excellent. Dismissed.” Answered Zen.

As Cartwright disappeared back down the trench, a low pitched whine reverberated across the field, prompting Zen to check his watch; Five O’clock; it had begun. Hastily lifting the box lid, he found several luxury Lho Sticks wrapped in a small note,

“Just a good luck gift from Command, use them sparingly. Neil.” Zen laughed and pulled one out, sniffing across its length and sampling the expensive narcotics inside, “Lho Stick and ‘sparingly’ don’t mix well with me.” He muttered, stuffing the stick in his mouth and lightning it on a nearby lamp. Taking a deep drag, his body relaxed as the stick took hold, “Always wondered how a ‘Lho’ stick could make you so high…” he thought, shoving the box into his rucksack.

A cursory glance at his watch showed him that he was seconds away from being given the order, the thought further bolstered by the arrival of a vox caster to his location. The guardsman knelt down, checked the settings on the caster and gave Zen a thumbs up, handing him a headset and a microphone. Zen took them, holding the headset close to his ear and beginning the long wait for the order. Seconds ticked by that felt like minutes, growing longer with every one that passed and every crackle of static until finally, the static broke,

“2nd, 4th, 6th and 8th Platoons you have the green light to engage the enemies of the Imperium in the name of the Emperor; may he be with you this day.”

Zen dropped the Vox apparatus, grabbed his weapons and clambered to the top of the trench and shouted at the top of his lungs, “FOR EMPEROR AND IMPERIUM! CHARGE!”

He was met by an undecipherable roar of support as he climbed the last few inches of the trench and heaved himself over the top, pulling his laspistol from its holster and revving his chain sword as he led a wave of shouting guardsmen across the muddied, crater-filled battlefield.

As the original adrenaline wore off, he started to wonder why there were no bodies, not even a sign of resistance or even a previous assault. It was as if no enemy existed and there had been no original wave.

Around him, others began to think the same as the charge lost momentum. He spied Sergeants Avary and Hallan of 2nd and 3rd squads nearby and drew them into a closed huddle,

“Something’s wrong. Where are the bodies, the signs of battle, the first wave?” Zen said.

“Aye, there’s nothing here. It’s as if we’ve been ordered to charge at nothing.” Avary added.

“It’s Ol’ Commie; he’s finally lost his marbles.” Hallan responded, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say we’ve been shoved on an agri-world he’s accused of heresy and we’re currently ruining this sector’s next harvest of potatoes.”

“Last I looked; farmers didn’t have much in the way of military grade artillery.” Avary retorted.

“Clam up you two.” Zen interjected before a fight emerged, “This is a low population hive world, undergoing systematic re-population from Nvarin IV and V after the original citizens were accused of heresy and purged.”

“Well they were purged alright, there’s nobody here! I say we head back and get an explanation.” Said Hallan, breaking the huddle.

“Yeah, let’s go back and get shot for deserting by crazy Ol’ Commie.” Avary shouted after Hallan.

“Now you mention it, he was supposed to be leading the charge, but that wasn’t his voice on the vox…” Zen broke off, his eyes wide.

“Fall back! Double time!” Zen shouted, grabbing a confused Avary, “We’ve been had.”

Zen led the platoon back to the trenches, finding the sight he’d expected. The mangled bodies of 9th and 10th platoons were scattered around, their bodies riddled with bayonet wounds, indicating a close struggle. Several of 6th Platoon gagged and vomited as they cautiously stepped between the bodies and into the trench. An eerie silence hung over them as Zen pulled a map from a nearby rucksack and rolled it out on a bit a wood for him and Avary,

“We’ve got to make it to Deacon’s Ridge,” Zen pointed to a location not far from the trench system; even from the aerial view, the fortifications around it were clearly visible, “It’s the closest thing we’ve got to a fortified stronghold. From there we contact Command, get us fresh orders from a high and mighty – hopefully to get our asses outta here – sit tight and hope that our armoured support get the message in time.”

“How long should it take?” Avary asked, peering in the general direction of Deacon’s Ridge, its current location invisible in a growing fog that limited the sunlight.

“Dunno, two hours? Three hours max? Perhaps less if we speed it up, but we don’t want to make any mistakes-” Zen was interrupted by a throaty cough from behind him.

Hallan, supported by two guardsmen, limped up to Zen and Avary, a gaping bayonet wound in his chest and another deep into his left leg, “We already made a mistake, and that was coming back.”

“What are you talking about? Are the heretics still here?” Avary gripped his lasgun tighter, his knuckles turning white.

“Don’t you realise?” Hallan said, “They were here all along. 11th Platoon, 12th Platoon, the supporting Platoons; what was different about them when we were re-deployed here?”

“They were the only survivors of the initial fight.” Zen said, realisation spreading through his mind.

“Exactly! It wasn’t because they were good or lucky, it’s because they stabbed the Imperium in the back and covered it up.” Hallan shouted, wincing as a medic applied a dressing to his wounds, “The artillery that’s been thumping our lines, only our Basilisks are accurate enough to avoid provoking an early attack by one of the platoons; we never had any counter-artillery, our original artillery was shelling us.”

“As fascinating as this is, I want to know why you weren’t chased from wherever you went, but you were left with a souvenir from your visit.” Avary said to Hallan, gesturing at his wounds.

“I found a small handful of guardsmen from 9th and 10th but we were ambushed; I and a few others managed to get away but we lost contact before I stumbled across you guys.” Hallan responded.

“It doesn’t matter now; we can’t risk going back for them. We head for Deacon’s Ridge in one minute. Avary, prep the squads and fill Cartwright, Thanforth and O’Leese in on the objective; I want you and O’Leese to bring up the rear and Thanforth and Hallan on the flanks; I’ll lead with Cartwright.” Avary nodded and darted down the trenches, “Hallan, your squad has a vox caster, send him up here ASAP and tell him to set Command frequency, see if there’s any chatter before we attempt contact.” Hallan also nodded his reply to Zen and limped down the trench.

Zen fumbled around for his packet of Lho sticks, forgetting he’d left them in his rucksack and must’ve dropped the other one back when they were running. He cursed under his breath and checked his watch; six O’clock, barely an hour in and already there was trouble, “Thirty seconds until we move out! If you fall behind we aint comin’ back for ya! Get your arses in gear and prepare for a trek to Deacon’s Ridge!” Zen shouted, “Where’s my damn vox caster?”

“The vox is dead, sir, nothing but static on all frequencies,” Came a shout from down the trench, “Either this piece of shit is defective or we’re the only ones out here with a caster.”

Zen swore loudly, “Alright, you heard the man. We have to assume we’re the only ones out here still loyal. That does not mean fire at will, but it does mean be on your toes and stay alert. We don’t want any unnecessary friendly fire; have I made myself clear?” He barked down the trench. A resonating cry of ‘Yes sir!’ told him that they’d heard, “Alright guardsmen, your one minute of R&R is up! Check your bayonet attachments, check your packs are charged and check you’ve got a clean pair of underwear because we will not be making any stops unless it’s to kill something or die trying! Ears open; eyes forward; move out!”

The dense fog grew thicker as Zen led his platoon closer to Deacon’s Ridge. At one point he could barely see his hand in front of his face, yet by some miracle, the platoon was still together as the grey wall dissipated. Resistance was also nonexistent bar the odd opportunist animal that was quickly dispatched by lasfire. Deacon’s Ridge was in view soon after the wall of fog complete dispersed. Consulting his watch, Zen determined that they’d arrive about half an hour ahead of time if the path to the fortifications was as clear as the plain between the ridge and the trenches was.

Flashes of the watchtower searchlights were visible even in the midday sun on what appeared to be becoming a clear day, lifting the spirits of the platoon until they reached the mouth of the mountain pass. The secure gate had been blasted open, but not by any tank or armoured vehicle; the pass was far too narrow for a Leman Russ, and a Sentinel risked toppling on the loose rocks. Either it was done in the air; or by something on the ground that wouldn’t leave a footprint in the solid rock,

“Looks like someone beat us to it sir.” Cartwright stated, rubbing his chin like a philosopher pondering a deep meaning.

“Aye; but what…” Zen trailed off as he followed the visible sections of path with his eyes. None of the bodies had remained intact enough for him to guess at the weapon used, “Whatever was here looks to be gone now, let’s mo-” Something was poking up from the rocks a little further along the path, and it was moving ever so slightly.

It was all he needed.

“Ambush!” Zen shouted, pointing his laspistol at the rock. A guardsman jumped up from behind it, his blood red eyes spinning wildly in their sockets as he ran towards Zen, bayonet at hip level. Tapping the trigger of his laspistol, Zen quickly dispatched the maddened guardsman, only for more to emerge from crevices in the path. The body of the dead guardsman twitched violently and burst in a rain of blood and gore. The entire of 6th platoon fired into the masses of the crazed heretics, but for each that fell, another took his place, slowly pushing the platoon back.

“O’Leese, get your flamers up here now! Hallan, have your grenade launchers give them some support. Lasguns rank up and fire on my mark!” Zen desperately tried to organise a counter, O’Leese’s flamers flanked a wall of bayonets, with Hallan’s grenade launchers blasting apart the larger groups of enemies, “Take aim!” The front rank of the bayonet wall crouched low and took aim, the second rank crouching just above, with the third standing behind them, “First rank; fire!” A volley of lasbolts ripped into the charging mob of heretics, “Second rank; fire!” The second volley was as deadly as the first, claiming another wave of enemies, “Third rank; fire!” Down came another line of heretics.

“Flamers; cleanse!” The flanking flamers roared as streams of burning promethium burst forth from the weapon. Screams and shrieks filled the air as the heretical guardsmen burned, “Cease fire! Lasguns, take aim!” The flamers shut off as the guardsman re-shuffled, the front three ranks taking shooting positions. As the smoke cleared and the fires wore down, all that remained was scorched rock.

“Something isn’t right; they were crawling all over the place before.” Zen realised all too late. Shouts and protests of the rear guardsmen turned into bloody gurgles as the mob of heretics re-appeared after having soundlessly flanked them, “Stay in formation! Beat the scum back!” Zen cried, revving up his chain sword and cleaving the nearest heretic in two, watching both halves liquefy before they’d even hit the ground.

They were coming from all sides now, the path up to the fortification was the only possible way, “A predator cornered will fight twice as hard” he muttered under his breath, “Fight to the fortification! We will see how they fare when the only way they can come at us is through cold Nvarin steel!” His booming voice barely audible over the shouts and the sounds of the melee; bayonets striking bayonets with sharp metallic clangs and the bloody gurgles of dying guardsmen.

A rough formation followed Zen as he led them up the winding trail towards the fortification. Screams of guardsmen as they lost their footing or were pushed over the side of the ravine pierced the panicked shouts of 6th platoon and the rabid snarls of the heretics as they stalked Zen’s unit like bloodthirsty pack animals. The further they climbed, the less opposition they encountered, until the last of the heretics roared and darted away, Zen catching the final traitor in the back of head with a well-aimed laspistol shot and watching the body fall tumble backwards off the ravine and liquefy in mid-air, splattering the rocks below with blood.

Despite reaching the fortification, the toll 6th platoon took had been heavy; just glancing back at the trail revealed the devastation wrought by the traitors. Bodies of fallen guardsmen littered the pass, covered in a variety of las and bayonet wounds and those sustained from the unforgiving terrain,

“Headcount; Sergeants, to me.” Zen panted, out of breath from the trek through the pass. He felt his stomach drop as nobody stepped forward, until Hallan limped to Zen’s side, supported by Cartwright; surprisingly, Hallan seemed to sustain no further injury save a few scrapes and bruises, Cartwright equally unscarred yet visibly shaken, “Feth…” Zen muttered, wondering about the fates of Avary, Thanforth and O’Leese. He would ensure their deaths would not be in vain,

“Hallan, how many of your squad remain?” Zen asked the calm Sergeant of 3rd Squad. He watched the Sergeant turn his head a few times and roll names off his tongue,

“Three remain, sir. Flannery; Haire and Gerran.” Hallan replied, wincing as pain coursed through his body from his wounds.

“And you, Cartwright; how fared 5th squad?” Zen asked the Sergeant. Cartwright was the youngest Sergeant in the platoon and the least experienced, the previous skirmish already having a noticeable effect on him.

“Erm… f-f-four… s-s-sir.” Cartwright stuttered, shaking as he scanned the crowd.

Zen did a quick body count. His previous platoon size of fifty guardsmen, not including him, had been whittled down to twenty-four, “How many flamers and grenades launchers do we have left?” Zen asked, getting one short guardsman, no older than nineteen, shuffling forward cradling a flamer, “Right, from here on in we form two squads. Cartwright will lead eleven of you; Hallan and I will lead the final eleven.”

He turned to the guardsman with the flamer, the boy’s eyes told Zen he was close to tears, “I need you to go with Sergeant Cartwright’s group. He’s a little shaken, so I need you to look out for him; do you think you can do that?” The guardsman shook his head slowly from side to side, eyes fixated on something behind Zen, who turned but saw nothing.

Without warning, the guardsman dropped his flamer and ran back down the path of the ravine. Zen sighed, levelling his laspistol at the fleeing guardsman, but his finger hesitated on the trigger. To his right, Zen saw Hallan pull his laspistol from its holster and fire at the guardsman, striking him square in the back. Zen watched helplessly as the boy staggered forward, slipping on the bloodied rock and falling hard to his knees, where he stayed swaying for a few moments before keeling over onto his side, like a puppet whose strings had been severed.

The execution plunged the whole ravine into an eerie silence. Zen’s eyes were wide and his mouth agape; he still had his laspistol aimed at where the boy had been standing moments ago. A mixture of anger, sadness and disbelief washed over him like a tidal wave of emotions. For the first time in Emperor knows how long, tears crept into his eyes. He’d been in wars; fought beside men and watched them fall; yet for some reason, this boy’s death seemed to have been the final straw. Hallan’s hand rested itself on Zen’s arm and lowered it to his side, “It had to be done, Sir.”

Zen took a minute before replying, playing the statement over and over in his head like a broken record; it had to be done… it had to be done… “Yes… Yes, well…” He blinked rapidly to clear the tears, wiping his eyes with the back of his hands, “It’s done now…”

“Sir, we need orders.” Cartwright muttered, his shaking had cleared after witnessing Hallan’s lack of mercy.

“Orders…?” Zen lapsed momentarily before snapping back into reality, “Yes, orders.” He turned to face the fortification, its doors and entry console seemingly intact, “Yes, see if you can get those doors open.” He said to no one in particular, “And… and see that it’s done quickly, before those things come back.”