When Duvall stepped out of the infirmary, the lights beyond were painfully bright.
His injuries had all been brought under control. Apart from the occasional stab of pain and the constricting pull of the bandages across his back, he was largely untroubled.
The infirmary had been established within what had once been the government building. Now repurposed as a makeshift medical facility, its corridors were crammed with stretchers and crude cots. The air was thick with the mingled reek of disinfectant and blood. The groans of the wounded rose and fell without cease, while medics in white coats hurried between them.
From the uniforms of the casualties, he could tell that this place held not merely Ashen Watchers, but wounded soldiers from several other nearby Astra Militarum regiments.
The window at the far end of the corridor had been half-nailed shut with planks. Through the gaps, he could see the grey sky beyond and the snow drifting upon the wind.
The cultists' offensive appeared to have halted temporarily because of the killing cold. It had granted them a brief chance to draw breath, yet Duvall could not rid himself of the feeling that this was merely the final stillness before the storm broke.
Duvall made his way along the corridor. His steps were unsteady, and he had to brace himself against the wall to keep his balance. The bandages around his head restricted his vision, but he still found the door leading to the intensive ward for senior officers.
It was made of heavy solid timber, with a sign hanging upon it: "Critical Ward. Maintain Silence."
He pushed it open. Beyond lay a quieter corridor, lined on both sides with private rooms. Metal plaques hung upon each door, bearing an officer's name and rank. The air here was somewhat better than outside; at least, the smell of blood had faded, replaced by the sterile mingling of medicine and cleanser.
Duvall stopped before one particular door. The metal plaque read: "Leonard Hoffman, Commissar, 101st Ashen Watchers Regiment." He raised a hand and knocked, but no answer came from within.
After a moment's hesitation, he pushed the door open and entered.
The room was very dark. Its only illumination came from a low-burning kerosene lamp. The instant the door opened, an overpowering stench of decay struck him, and Duvall instinctively held his breath.
Within the lamp's halo, a gaunt, skeletal figure lay upon the bed at the centre of the room. He wore a respirator mask, its tube connected to a crude ventilator beside the bed. The machine gave off a steady, hissing rhythm.
Though the sheets and blankets appeared to have been changed, thin trails of red blood and yellow pus still seeped through the fabric, staining the white linen in a mottled pattern.
Standing in the doorway, Duvall found himself unable, for a time, to reconcile that wasted shape on the bed with the stern, rigid old Commissar of his memories, a man whose back had always been perfectly straight.
Silently, he looked at the status panel hovering above the man's head.
[Leonard Hoffman]
[101st Ashen Watchers Regiment, Commissar]
[Loyalty: 100%] [Morale: 90%] [Status: Near Death] [Sanity: 86%] [Chaos Corruption: 97% (Irreversible)]
Ninety-seven percent Chaos Corruption. Duvall knew what that meant. That a man so contaminated could still retain a human shape, still preserve a lucid mind, was a miracle in itself.
As though sensing someone had entered the room, Commissar Leonard slowly opened his eyes. His sockets were sunken, his skin stretched taut across bone, yet those eyes were unnaturally clear. Within them, Duvall saw pain and exhaustion carefully concealed.
The instant the gaunt man saw the bandaged Duvall, a fierce light erupted in his eyes—a brightness utterly at odds with his present condition.
He moved his fingers, then laboriously propped himself up on his elbows and slowly sat upright. The ventilator tube swayed gently with the motion, producing a faint rasp of friction.
"Duvall." Leonard's voice emerged through the respirator. "Hah... come here."
Duvall approached the bedside, straightened himself, and gave a regulation salute. "Commissar."
Leonard did not answer at once. He wheezed for several breaths, then lifted one hand and slowly removed the respirator from his face.
The moment it left his skin, Duvall saw that the flesh around his chin and neck had ulcerated away, exposing the dark-red muscle beneath.
"It has been twenty years... since your parents died in battle... and since you graduated from the Schola Progenium on Epsterman VI," Leonard said. His voice was clearer than before, but he had to draw breath after every few words. "I remember... that war against the Orks. They died bravely."
Duvall froze.
The identity Leonard described did not match the memories he possessed.
"Commissar," Duvall said carefully, "my parents fell fighting Imperial traitors. And I graduated from the Schola Progenium on Hopsdu III."
Leonard looked at him, and a smile appeared upon his gaunt face. It was the first time Duvall had ever seen Commissar Leonard smile.
"Is that so?" Leonard said softly, nodding. "Then it seems I remembered wrongly."
He paused. His breathing grew more ragged, forcing him to put the respirator back on and take several deep breaths.
Then he removed it again and continued. "From the surviving soldiers of Sixth Company... I learned everything you did before this. You have done well."
Duvall said nothing.
"Whether it was your execution of the traitor... your leading them to uproot the cult's altar... or making the right choice... at the critical hour between life and death... you have done well."
Duvall was somewhat surprised. This was the first praise he had ever heard from Commissar Leonard.
In his memories, Leonard had been the very model of an Imperial Commissar: eternally loyal, absolutely obedient to Imperial discipline, austere, unsmiling, and without sentiment.
He had always demanded that his soldiers do better, and had been willing to lead by example. Duvall, as his adjutant and a probationary Commissar, had received no different treatment. That was why Leonard had sent him to the front, to fight alongside the soldiers.
Yet Duvall showed nothing of what he felt. He merely saluted again, his voice calm. "It was my duty."
Leonard coughed heavily twice. Blood sprayed from his mouth, spattering the blanket over his chest and the respirator hanging at his neck.
Duvall instinctively moved to help, but Leonard raised a hand to stop him. That hand was nothing but bone draped in skin, yet even raised in such weakness, it still carried unquestionable authority.
"Open... the cabinet beside the bed," Leonard said between breaths. At the same time, he reached beneath his pillow and drew out a key, extending it towards Duvall with a trembling hand. "Use this."
Duvall took the key. He walked to the bedside cabinet, bent down, and inserted it into the lock.
The cabinet door opened.
There was little within: only two items. A data-slate, and a bolt pistol in its holster.
"Take them out," Leonard's voice came from behind him.
Duvall took both objects, rose, and returned to the bedside. He placed the data-slate and pistol upon the blanket beside Leonard.
The old Commissar looked at the two items, then raised his eyes to Duvall once more. This time, solemnity filled them.
Slowly, he said, "I do not have long to live. In the battle against the traitors... I was grievously wounded. To return alive at all... was already the Emperor's blessing."
"I had intended... to grant you the rank of full Commissar after this campaign ended," Leonard said. "But in light of your performance... and my current state... I have decided to grant it to you now."
He raised his withered hand and pointed towards the bolt pistol and the data-slate.
"Duvall Edmond." Leonard straightened his wasted body, just as he had before he was wounded. Suddenly, his voice became clear and powerful, each word forced from the depths of his chest.
"You may now shepherd for the Emperor."
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