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It was Leden。 His face slack and pale； his body covered in gruesome and horrendous wounds； he
lay at the centre of the pile with dead eyes staring up at the foreboding sky overhead。 Having not
seen Leden die during their mad flight across no…man’s land； Larn had harboured the hope the
simple…minded farmboy might have made it to the Vardan lines and survived just as he had。 Now
that hope was dashed。 Looking down at Leden’s face； Larn realised his last living link with his
homeworld had been severed。 He was truly alone now。 More alone than he could have ever thought
possible。 Alone； on a strange new world that seemed entirely given over to randomness； brutality
and madness。
“He was a hero；” the old woman said。
“A hero？”
Unsure of her meaning； Larn looked at her in confusion。 For a moment； her eyes dim and
uncomprehending with exhaustion； she returned his gaze in silence。 Then； barely more animated
than the dead bodies before her； she tiredly shrugged and spoke once more。
“They are heroes；” she said in a listless voice； as though reciting a speech she had heard a
thousand times herself。 “They all are： all the Guardsmen who die here。 They are martyrs。 By giving
their blood to defend this place they have made the soil of this city into sacred ground。 Broucheroc
is a holy and impregnable fortress。 The orks will never take it。 We will break their assault here。
Then； we will push them back and reclaim this entire planet。”
“So the commissars tell us；” she added； without conviction。
Returning to their work the women made to lift Leden from the pile。 Finding him held fast and
stuck to the other bodies by frozen and congealed blood； one of the women took a pry bar from the
side of the cart。 Sickened to his stomach； Larn watched her slide the bar under Leden’s body and put
her weight on it； the corpse rising with a crack of splintered ice as her sisters pulled it free and
tossed it on the cart。 Then； two of them pushing down the handles of the cart while the others stood
by the side to stop its contents from falling out； the old women began to wheel away the bodies they
had collected。
“What will you do with them？” Larn called out after them； not altogether sure he wanted to
know the answer。
“They will be buried；” the women he had spoken to earlier said。 “Like heroes should be。 Buried；
up on the hill past the old plasteel works on the Grennady Plass。 Heroes’ Hill； it is called。 Or at least
that is what they tell us；” she shrugged again。 “We just transport the bodies。 Others deal with their
disposal。”
43
With that she turned back to the burden of the cart； pushing it away with the other women in the
direction of the outskirts of the city。 As he watched them go； Larn belatedly tried to remember one
of the prayers he had been taught as a child。 A prayer to ease the passage of the departed souls of his
comrades into the afterlife as they went to join their Emperor in paradise。 His mind was a blank； his
heart so sick with grief it felt dull and empty。 All his prayers had left him。
“Take off your jacket and pull back your tunic；” he heard a voice say behind him。
Turning； Larn found himself face…to…face with a gaunt Vardan medic wearing a blood…splattered
greatcoat and carrying a satchel slung across his shoulder。
“If you want me to treat that shoulder wound I will have to be able to see it；” the medic said；
opening his satchel。
Looking at his own left shoulder； much to his surprise Larn noticed a small bloodstained hole in
the epaulette of his jacket。 Dimly remembering the sudden pain he had felt there when the ork bomb
had exploded in the trench behind him； he did as the medic had asked； removing his jacket and
pulling down his tunic shirt to allow him access to the wound。
“Hmm。 The good news is you’ll live；” the medic said； prodding at the wound while Larn
shivered in the cold。 “Looks like you were winged by a piece of shrapnel。 Took a little bit of flesh
with it； but it doesn’t look as though the bone is broken。”
Taking a sachet of white powder from inside his bag the medic poured it liberally on the wound
and pressed a gauze pad over the hole； applying half…a…dozen pieces of adhesive tape to hold the
dressing in place。
“You didn’t realise you had a hole in you； I take it？” he said。 Then； seeing Larn nod； he
continued。 “Probably shock。 Get yourself some recaf。 Food too； if you can find it。 It’ll help you get
yourself together。 Though I warn you； you probably won’t thank me for that advice in an hour’s
time。 Once you get your feeling back； chances are you’ll find that wound aches like a bitch。 You
have morphia？”
“Four phials；” said Larn。 “In my med…pack。”
“Good。 Let me see it；” the medic said。 Then； when he saw Larn hesitate； he held out his hand in
command。 “Kit inspection。 As company medical officer； it is my job to make sure you are properly
equipped。”
Pulling the slim oblong wooden case of the med…pack he had been issued with on Jumael from
his belt； Larn handed it over。 Breaking the seals on the box lid the medic slid it open and checked
the contents。
“Morphia。 Vein clamps。 Sterilising fluid。 Synth…skin canister。 Wherever you’re from they
obviously don’t believe in sending their sons under equipped to war。 Still； my need is greater than
yours。 I’m going to have to requisition some of your supplies。”
“But you can’t just help yourself to my med…pack；” Larn said in outrage。 “The regulations say—
”
“The regulations say a lot of things； new fish；” the medic replied； taking a handful of items from
inside the med…pack and dropping them into his satchel。 “Though you can be sure whichever genius
wrote them never troubled himself actually finding out if they worked in practice。 Anyway； I’m
leaving you with half of the gauze； morphia； and clamps。 Plus； you get to keep the insect repellent。
Given the climate； there’s not much call for it hereabouts。”
“But if I should get seriously wounded—”
“Then you’ll need a medic。 Just scream loudly and I’ll come running。”
Tossing the depleted med…pack back to him； the medic closed his satchel before looking at Larn
once more。
“Now；” he said； “seeing as you’re standing about here on your own； I take it you’ve not been
assigned to duties yet？”
“No… I… my company was destroyed and…”
44
“Go see Corporal Vladek；” the medic said。 “He’ll sort you out。 Tell him Medical Officer Svenk
sent you。”
“Corporal Vladek？”
“Over there；” the medic said； pointing to one of the dugout entrances as he turned to walk away。
“Barracks Dugout One。 Vladek is our quartermaster — the biggest scavenger； thief； pack rat； and all
round scrounger in the sector。 You’ll know him when you see him。 Oh； and a word to the wise； new
fish。 Don’t drink any more than two cups of Vladek’s recaf。 Or else； next thing you know you could
be charging the ork lines on your own in a one…man assault。”
Walking down the rough earthen steps underground into the dugout； Larn was greeted with a warm
blast of air thick with the smell of smoke and the odour of stale sweat。 Eyes watering at the stench
of it； he stepped past a couple of Guardsmen playing dice just inside the doorway and made his way
into the barracks。 Inside； he saw two lines of rusting metal bunks arranged either side of an iron
stove at the centre of the room where a group of Vardans sat talking； eating； or cleaning their
weapons。 For a moment； Larn considered asking them if any of them had seen Corporal Vladek。
Then； seeing a flabby unshaven Vardan in a stained undershirt sitting alone at a table in a corner of
the room； Larn remembered the medic’s description and knew he had found his man。
Crammed on ramshackle shelves and in alcoves cut directly into the earth of the wall behind the
corporal was a treasure trove of scavenged equipment。 Larn could see lasgun power packs； frag
grenades； boxes of dry rations； shotgun shells； bayonets and knives of all shapes and sizes； spades；
picks； hand axes； lanterns； uniforms； helmets； flak jackets； even a large metal claw that could only
have come from the arm of a dead ork。 Meanwhile； on the table and the floor around him were a
number of standard issue Guardsmen’s field rucksacks； the contents of which the corporal was
currently busy digging through with the grim enthusiasm of a bandit chieftain surveying his latest
spoils。
“Corporal Vladek？” Larn asked； approaching the table。 “Medical Officer Svenk said I should
come see you。”
“Ah； more cannon fodder；” the corporal said； pushing the rucksacks aside to clear a space as he
looked up at Larn with the glint of a smile in his red…rimmed eyes。 “Always good to see some new
grist for the mill。 Welcome to the 902nd Vardan； new fish。 Find yourself a chair。 You would like
some recaf？ I have some brewing。”
Turning to the battered pot of recaf perched precariously on a small hotplate beside him； the
corporal produced a pair of enamel cups and filled them to the brim with black steaming liquid。 He
noticed Larn staring darkly down at one of the rucksacks still left on the table。
“Here we go。 Two cups of Vladek’s special recaf； nice and hot；” the corporal said。 “Sadly； we
have to make do with a ground…up concoction o