[Imperial Guard 03.1] - The Citadel Read online

  A WARHAMMER 40,000 STORY

  THE CITADEL

  Imperial Guard - 03.1

  Steve Parker

  (An Undead Scan v1.5)

  General Vlastan’s chair beeped in alarm, unfurled a tiny articulated servo, plunged a needle into his neck and, with a sharp hiss, injected another grey-brown dose of nutrimilk.

  Vlastan girded himself against the dizzying rush of the powerful medication. His pulse raced. Sweat beaded on his brow. His hands shook, and blood-flecked spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth. Soon enough, though, his body had stabilised again. He was well used to the effects of the cocktail after so many years.

  The frequency of the injections, however, had been increasing. He knew his condition was worsening, and the thought exacerbated his current mood.

  He sat alone in his office, gazing sullenly at the formless white void outside his window. The snow-choked streets of Seddisvarr, site of Twelfth Army’s Command HQ, were shrouded in freezing white mist. His room, on the other hand, was warm, ably heated by twin thermacoils. No wind rattled the thick glass. The only sounds now were the wet wheezing of his lungs and the whirring gyro-stabilisers of his multi-legged, mechanical chair. Both sounds had long ago ceased to intrude on his thoughts.

  Despite the insulated silence of the room, he knew the streets below would be busy with troops. Seddisvarr had been abuzz since the recent fall of Grazzen. If he really strained his hearing, he might make out the faint rumble of Vostroyan tanks and armoured transports rolling along the city’s broader avenues. With his precious Danik’s World campaign largely going to hell since the orks had overrun Barahn, there was a particular comfort in the presence of so much heavy armour nearby. The Vostroyan tanks were powerful, reliable and enduring.

  It was, he realised, exactly how he would have described Maksim, and the realisation gave his solitude an unwelcome and bitter edge.

  “Damn it all,” he swore softly to the empty room, “isn’t it time yet?”

  Soon, there would be a knock at the door and his adjutant would enter to help him dress his ruined body for the afternoon service.

  He wished the whole matter were over already. His grief confused and disgusted him. He’d long thought himself beyond such things. Indulging one’s emotions was the province of far lesser men.

  Still, he told himself, I should have expected to feel something. Today, after all, I commemorate the death of the last man I ever called friend.

  51 years earlier,

  Mount Megidde (South-east Face, 504m),

  The Sambar Basin, Valis II

  “Get some suppressing fire on that stubber-nest,” growled Sergeant Sergiev. “Mirkov, Brebnik, flank left and grenade those bastards, or we’ll be stuck here all day!”

  In the sky above the mountain, seeming almost close enough to touch, thick black clouds roiled and boomed. Torrents of water raced down every crack and crevice as if fleeing in terror from the dark, hulking shape of the enemy fortress at the top. Sergiev thanked the Omnissiah, tech-aspect of the God-Emperor of Man, for the warmth and protection of his hat and greatcoat.

  Both utilised special fibres developed to counter the lethal chill of his home world.

  Corporal Brebnik leaned from the cover of a broad rock and threw a smoke grenade. When the billowing cloud was large enough to conceal them, he and Mirkov moved out, working their way left while the enemy fired blind.

  Sergiev growled and hunkered down a little further as the raking fire of the heavy-stubber chewed rock chips from the boulder that shielded him.

  “By the Emperor’s holy balls!” he hissed.

  Despite repeated requests over the vox-net, Regimental HQ would not allow him to lead the shattered assault force back down to level ground. “Push on,” they had commanded. “The citadel must fall at any cost!”

  But what could they possibly hope to achieve now? The taking of Mount Megidde had effectively ground to a halt. The mountain’s south-eastern ascent was littered with the cooling bodies of Vostroyan dead, and Sergiev, a mere sergeant, had found himself the ranking man by default.

  He had lost his commanding officer, Lieutenant Lymarov, three hours earlier to a mutant flamer-team. Pairs of these sadistic freaks descended from the citadel to scour the slopes and ridges for luckless victims.

  A nightmare image returned to him of the lieutenant screaming and flailing as bright flames devoured him. Desperate to escape his agony, Lymarov had thrown himself from the closest precipice, plummeting like a meteor to the sharp rocks below.

  At the time, Sergiev had felt a guilty, nauseating relief. He’d been about to shoot the lieutenant himself, as much to end the man’s terrible screams as to put him out of his misery. Lymarov’s leap had relieved him of that burden.

  The lieutenant had been a good man. It was no way for him to die, and the memory twisted Sergiev’s stomach and filled him with righteous anger. Perhaps falling back would be a mistake. Any ground lost now would cost more lives later. And there was vengeance yet to be had. The bastard muties had to be punished, not just for the lieutenant’s death, but for all of it: all their corruption and treachery, the wanton torture and human sacrifice they practiced, the atrocities he’d seen in the cities to the south, everything that had forced Sector Command to deploy Imperial troops here en masse.

  After overthrowing the planetary government, the Valisian mutants had launched a pogrom against their pureblooded kin. Millions were slaughtered in the name of the Ruinous Powers. They had cast their lot in with the vile enemies of the Golden Throne, and marked themselves for destruction—a filthy stain on the glorious Imperium of Man.

  Duty and honour, Sergiev! he told himself. We’ll move up, secure more ground, fix more ropes, and lay a path for those that follow. If we die, we die. The next assault will get that much closer to the summit. Sooner or later, whether it takes a thousand of us or a hundred thousand, we’ll smash that damned citadel and burn those twisted freaks out.

  “Check your ammo counters, lads,” he voxed to the men behind him. They were all that remained on the south-eastern slope—nineteen men cobbled together from the remains of four whole platoons. He wondered how many still fought on the mountain’s west face. Regimental HQ had stonewalled him when he’d asked for an update. “Get ready to move forward as soon as that stubber-nest is down. Cover-to-cover. Confirm your targets. We’ll make the best of this mess, by Terra!”

  “What about the wounded, sir?” voxed one of the troopers. Sergiev realised he had been tuning out the groans of pain all around him.

  “They rest,” he replied. “RHQ will send medics up once we’ve secured the next ridge.”

  It was a poor lie, but a necessary one. Most of the wounded were beyond help. They’d bled out past the point of saving. It just didn’t help anyone to say so.

  He slammed a fresh powercell into his lasgun, primed it, watched the counter illuminate and, with a prayer on his lips for the Grey Lady’s favour, readied himself to lead his patchwork squad further up the mountain.

  They’d have to move fast, despite the steep gradient, the endless downpour, the hunger and exhaustion. There were snipers and stubber-nests dotted all the way up the slopes, dominating the cliff-tops and ridges, firing down from the overhangs. There was little choice but to face them. The muties had laid dense minefields on the easier alternative ascents.

  There was a bright flash up ahead followed by a muffled boom. “Stubber’s out!” someone voxed. It sounded like Mirkov.

  “Good work, trooper!” Sergiev answered. “We move up till we hit the next one.” He stepped out from behind his rock, raised his lasgun over his head and shouted, “Follow me, lads. We�
�ll teach the khekking freaks a thing or two!”

  “Belay that!” barked a crisp voice from the rear. “Stay exactly where you are. You will not break cover until I order it. Not until my order.”

  Sergiev, his body responding by reflex to the tone of command, stepped back into cover before he knew what he was doing. Confusion, however, quickly gave way to a great wash of relief. There was no mistaking the sharp consonants in the voice of a Vostroyan aristocrat.

  An officer? That meant… reinforcements!

  He saw them now, a full platoon, clambering up the narrow trail to the rear behind a broad-shouldered young man in officer’s dress. Forty men! Forty of them in their tall hats, long red greatcoats and bulky carapace armour.

  But Sergiev’s joy was short lived. As the officer made a beeline towards him, the sergeant’s heart sank.

  They’ve sent a boy, he thought. A bloody shiny. He must be seventeen if he’s a day!

  Sergiev was thirty-two.

  The officer drew nearer, marching now in smart, measured steps. Despite the boy’s solid-looking physique, his features were soft, unscarred and unweathered, and his upper lip was hardly dressed at all, save with the very scantest sign of manhood.

  Still, moustached or otherwise, the boy wore lieutenant’s stripes, and Sergiev knew his place. On Vostroya—a world of dangerously proud men—the high-born were the proudest of all, and it was a foolish trooper who dared openly disrespect them. So, when the boy halted two yards in front of him, Sergiev stood ramrod straight, puffed out his chest and whipped his hand to his brow in salute. He received a short, sharp salute in return.

  “Name and rank, soldier,” said the boy.

  “Kitko Sergiev, sir. Sergeant, 112th Magdan Lasgunners, Eighth Company, Second Platoon.”

  The boy nodded. “Good to know you, sergeant. Are you in charge here?”

  Was that a test? Sergiev wondered. “Not anymore, sir.”

  The boy smiled then dropped unceremoniously into a crouch behind the cover of Sergiev’s rock. Looking up with a cocked eyebrow, he gestured for Sergiev to do likewise, and the sergeant dropped down beside him.

  “My name,” said the boy, “is Second Lieutenant Maksim Kabanov, commanding the 116th Sohlsvodd Infantry, Tenth Company, Sixth Platoon.” He glanced in the direction of his men as he spoke. They had taken up positions of cover alongside Sergiev’s lot and were dispensing hot ohx from their flasks. Their medic was already about the business of treating Sergiev’s wounded.

  “My honour and pleasure, sir,” said Sergiev.

  Lieutenant Kabanov turned his eyes back to the sergeant. “To answer your unspoken question, I’ll be eighteen by next Emperor’s Day. Yes, my men and I are as green as grass, and every last one of us is a good decade younger than you, I imagine, sergeant. But we’ve come to do the Emperor’s work nevertheless. My troopers are well trained and will quickly prove themselves.”

  “They’re Firstborn, sir,” replied Sergiev. It was the only proper answer he could give.

  Kabanov grinned. “Yes, they are. Just like you. So, if you’ll fight alongside us, if you’ll take my orders and give me the benefit of your experience, I’m sure we can make General Krupkov a happy man.”

  Sergiev stared hard into the lieutenant’s fierce blue eyes. Young nobles fresh from the military academies were notoriously eager for swift advancement, and usually paid for the privilege with other men’s lives. Why should this boy, this Kabanov, be any different? Was it Vostroyan zeal that lit his face, or a raging thirst for personal glory? The two were difficult to tell apart.

  “You harbour doubts, sergeant,” said Lieutenant Kabanov, “and so you should. I’ll prove myself through action, in any case. But I’m not here to win you over. I’m here to cripple that citadel’s aerial defences. If you think you might be up for that, let’s push on!”

  Despite reservations, Sergiev found himself grinning. The young man’s audacity was certainly infectious. If he lived long enough to back it up…

  Kabanov stood and raised his voice. “Listen up, Firstborn. The freaks think they’ve got Third Army beat. Right now, they’re pissing on a picture of the Emperor and calling Vostroyan mothers pigs: I’m not having it. What about you?”

  “Sir! No, sir!” the men yelled back at him, angered by the images his words evoked.

  “Good. That’s what I thought you’d say. So let’s get our backsides up this bloody mountain and kill some mutants!”

  While the troops roared approval, Sergiev leaned across and said, “The wounded, sir?”

  Kabanov half-turned towards him. “My medic will do what he can, then follow us up. I’ll have my vox-man call in an evacuation request. It’s the best I can do for them right now.”

  Sergiev nodded and dared to hope that this unbloodied pup might not get them all killed.

  Third Army Headquarters, Cadenna,

  Sambar Basin, Valis II

  Vlastan and Kabanov sat stiff and unspeaking in the austere outer room while a torrent of screamed abuse emanated from inside the captain’s office. The captain’s adjutant, sitting silently at his desk, feigned preoccupation with loose papers, but it was clear to Kabanov that he was listening intently. His expression was miserable.

  Someone isn’t popular, thought Kabanov, but is it the captain or his visitor? It doesn’t bode well for Vogor and I in either case.

  Abruptly, the shouting stopped and the heavy wooden doors to the captain’s room crashed open, ejecting a tall, thin man in a long red greatcoat.

  Ignoring the adjutant, he stormed towards the exit, boots clacking sharply on the marble floor.

  Vlastan, seated on Kabanov’s left, whispered urgently, “By Terra, Maksim! That’s General Krupkov.”

  The general’s hearing must have been exceptional because, at the barest whisper of his name, he halted and spun to face the two young lieutenants. His hard, angular face was still flushed from shouting.

  As one, Vlastan and Kabanov bolted to their feet and threw up razor-sharp salutes.

  Kabanov felt his gut lurch. He was sure that, with two new targets in his sights, the furious general would resume his tirade, for no other reason, perhaps, than he was madly angry and not at all ready to calm down.

  But, as General Krupkov eyed them, taking in their crisp, clean uniforms and the look of fearful admiration in their eyes, his rage seemed to dissipate. When he spoke, his voice was level. “You’re new,” he said. “I suppose you came in with the last lot.”

  Kabanov, as was his habit, let Vlastan answer for both of them. His charismatic friend was older by almost a year, taller by a good fifteen centimetres, and typically eager to do the talking for both—something that Kabanov had been thankful for many times during their friendship.

  “We landed two days ago, sir,” said Vlastan, “and arrived at the front just this morning. Second Lieutenants Vogor Vlastan and Maksim Kabanov, at your service. And the Emperor’s, of course, sir.”

  The general pursed his lips, lifted a hand to stroke his splendid grey moustache and said, “Vlastan and Kabanov. So, those worthy names are among us once again.” With a sidelong glance towards Captain Tyrkin’s office, he added, “New blood is just what’s needed around here. The north-eastern front is the most critical theatre of operations in this war today. Absolutely critical, mark you! There’s plenty of opportunity here for fine young officers to earn a reputation.”

  “Yes, sir!” said the young lieutenants in unison.

  Eschewing further comment, General Krupkov, high commander of the Vostroyan Third Army and the much-lauded Hero of Hell’s Ridge, spun on his boot-heel and marched off, leaving Vlastan and Kabanov standing stiffly to attention in a room suddenly silent.

  Silent, that is, until a weary and impatient voice shouted, “Georgiev! Where in blazes are those two wet-arses I’m supposed to brief?”

  * * *

  Roughly ten minutes later, Vlastan and Kabanov stood together with Captain Tyrkin and his adjutant, Georgiev, on soft, muddy ground, faci
ng north-east in the pouring rain. The air was thick with dampness and the smell of wet earth. The line of the horizon lit intermittently with the flicker of distant explosions.

  Tyrkin, shielded from the rain by his adjutant’s umbrella, pointed to a vast, shadowy shape and said, “There she is, gentlemen. Mount Megidde, all nine hundred and seventy-three metres of her. And on her summit sits the notorious enemy stronghold—Megiddzar.”

  Vlastan and Kabanov squinted against the rain. The mountain sat black and forbidding against a low, thundery sky but, as Kabanov looked, he realised that the storm accounted for only a small percentage of the flashing and booming near the mountain’s peak. “Heavy artillery, sir?” he asked.

  The captain nodded. “From that altitude, their long guns can punish our forces on the valley floor with absolute impunity. Until three days ago, when the Emperor Himself blessed us with these rains, nothing we put across the River Aimes was safe. Even now, we can get infantry across in trickles, but any attempt to move armour onto the far bank brings down a punishing barrage. Our own artillery can’t even get close.”

  “Air support, sir?” asked Vlastan. “A bombing run, or paratroopers?”

  Under the umbrella, Tyrkin turned to face the tall, darkly handsome youth. “Neither is feasible, lieutenant, until we do something about their damned anti-air batteries. Anything we fly in gets torn apart at range. Say what you will about these warp-blasted mutants, but they’ve got the Sambar Basin held vice-tight. If we don’t break through the Murgoth Line within the next five days, the offensive at Therabourg will have to be cancelled. Who knows how much longer the war will last if that happens?” His face creased in a deep scowl. “General Krupkov needs someone inside that citadel to knock out their damned anti-air batteries, and he needs it done yesterday.”

  Vlastan’s mind, Kabanov knew, would already be weighing the honours he might win. He made no secret of his vast ambition. Military greatness, he’d often boasted, ran in his bloodline. Vostroyan military records seemed to bear that out.