Duvall awoke in his private barracks room. He opened his eyes and stared blankly at the white ceiling for a moment.
In this disorderly universe, three quiet days of rest were a luxury beyond measure.
He sat up and worked his shoulders and neck. The bandage around his head had already been removed, and the burns across his back had been reduced to a faint tightness. His recovery had been astonishingly swift.
It was reasonable to suspect that he, too, counted as a member of the Legion, and that its auras and passive abilities affected him as well. That was good news. At least he need not fear that his forces would grow ever stronger while he himself was felled by a single stray shot.
There came a knock at the door.
"Come in."
Evan pushed the door open with his shoulder. In his left hand he carried a small tin cup of steaming black coffee; in his other, an iron tray bearing several slices of hard bread and a small portion of steamed egg.
This was the standard officer's ration, and one of the few things Duvall could still eat that reminded him of his former life. At the very least, it was better than those gelatinous ration bricks. There was beer as well, of course, but that was not something he could drink at present.
"Your breakfast, sir." Evan set the meal upon the small table beside the bed.
Duvall nodded and took a sip of coffee. It was richly bitter, touched by the faint aroma of scorching.
He looked out through the window. The blizzard had ceased. The entire world lay shrouded in white beneath a lead-grey sky. There was no sun, yet the light remained reasonably bright. The distant horizon was tranquil—too tranquil to be comforting.
As he ate, he summoned the status display into his vision.
[Current Command Authority: 101st Ashen Watchers Regiment, Sixth Company]
His authority still extended only to Sixth Company. Duvall was not surprised. In most Astra Militarum regiments, the colonel commanded the battle while the Commissar oversaw discipline and loyalty. Their authority did not overlap.
There were rare exceptions. Commissar Gaunt, one of the Imperium's three most renowned Commissars, had received a special appointment from his superiors: the title of Colonel-Commissar. It had granted him the right to raise his own regiment, and thus command authority over the entire Tanith First and Only.
Duvall plainly had no such opportunity.
There was one other circumstance: if the regimental commander fell, the Commissar would temporarily assume command of the regiment.
Duvall shook his head, casting the thought aside. If an Astra Militarum colonel had been killed, how favourable could his own circumstances possibly be?
He only wanted to take it easy and survive for as long as he could. A life ambition roughly comparable to that of Ciaphas Cain would do nicely. If he could also encounter a beautiful Inquisitor, all the better... No. He probably did not have that kind of fortune.
He drained the rest of the black coffee in one swallow, then left a slice of bread and half the steamed egg on the tray and pushed it toward Evan.
"Eat."
Evan blinked. "Sir, that is your..."
"I cannot eat that much." Duvall cut him off, his tone allowing no argument. "You are still growing. Get taller and stronger, so you can protect me at close quarters later. Besides, ordinary people do not often get the chance to eat this regularly. Hurry up."
Having said it, he found himself rather pleased with the reasoning and nodded to himself.
Evan looked at the bread, then at Duvall. At last, he murmured, "Thank you, sir," picked up the bread, and began nibbling at it in small bites.
Duvall rose and dressed in the black greatcoat of a Commissar, along with the old peaked cap, before fastening his belt. They had belonged to Commissar Leonard, but Leonard was now grievously wounded, and the clothes had been lent to Duvall for the time being. They fit reasonably well; the two men were of similar height and build.
He stepped outside the barracks. Cold air struck his face, though it was far gentler than the bone-biting winds of several days ago. Snow had buried the entire camp. Soldiers were clearing the roads and digging snow from the emplacements, their breath drifting as white vapour through the dim grey light.
It was fine weather, yet the enemy had still not assaulted their line.
That only deepened the unease in his heart. Over the past three days, he had visited Colonel Nathan Fox twice. Both times, he received the same reply: not one scout sent to investigate that tunnel fork had returned, and higher command had issued no new directives.
Which meant they could not abandon their defensive positions without authorisation, or they would face severe punishment.
"Those cultists are waiting for something," Duvall muttered. His right hand unconsciously rubbed at the stubble sprouting along his chin. It had been too long since he had shaved; the growth was beginning to prick his fingers.
His unfocused gaze drifted over the distant horizon. There was only an endless white snowfield, broken here and there by the black shadows of trees. Even the artillery had fallen wholly silent. The world was quiet enough to inspire dread.
"Good morning, Commissar. May the God-Emperor watch over you."
A hoarse greeting came from beside him.
Duvall came back to himself and turned. A figure was walking past from the far side of the barracks. He wore the standard uniform of the Ashen Watchers, but a dark-grey cloak lay across his shoulders and a grey hood concealed his face, leaving only his eyes exposed.
Slung across his back was a long-barrelled las sniper rifle wrapped in oilcloth. Several small notches had been carved into the exposed stock: kill marks.
Finn Valentine.
The 101st's sole sniper to have earned the Marksman's Lanyard, the regiment's record-holder for marksmanship, and the soldier whose faith in the Emperor was most fanatical of them all.
While familiarising himself with the camp these past days, Duvall had attempted to speak with him. Finn had remained distant every time. Whenever he had free time, he could always be found reading copied editions of the Litany of Imperial Redemption or the Daily Prayers to the Emperor, paying no heed to anyone else.
Just as now, Finn offered his greeting without slowing his stride and walked straight on, leaving only a silent back behind him.
Duvall sighed. An Ecclesiarchy zealot. Truly, earning the goodwill of one's subordinates was far too difficult.
Most soldiers held complicated feelings toward Commissars. Reverence, fear, resentment—these far outweighed affection. Conversely, those were precisely the feelings a Commissar required. The Commissar's ultimate purpose was to ensure that soldiers obeyed discipline and continued fighting even in the depths of despair.
Yet maintaining authority through fear alone was the lowest of methods. Such Commissars rarely lived long, and all too often died to a stray round fired into their backs.
Duvall had no wish to be shot in the back.
He had to find a way to make the soldiers believe in him, rather than merely fear him. But that would take time, opportunity, and proof that he was not merely a Commissar who enforced discipline, but an officer capable of leading them to survival.
"Sir."
Evan's voice interrupted his thoughts. The boy had finished the bread and steamed egg, gathered up the tin cup and iron tray, and stood at the barracks entrance watching him.
"Colonel Nathan Fox sent someone with a message. He wants you at the command post," Evan said. "He said there is new intelligence."
Duvall narrowed his eyes.
"New intelligence?"
"Yes, sir. The soldier who brought the message did not say what it was. Only that you should go at once."
Duvall nodded. He gave the serene horizon one final look, then turned toward the command post.
Evan jogged after him, his boots stamping a hurried trail of prints into the snow.
"Sir, what do you think the news will be?"
"I do not know," Duvall said. "But at a moment like this, any news is better than none."
The pair followed the cleared road. Soldiers they encountered stepped aside and saluted. Duvall could feel their eyes upon him—curious and appraising, but more often cautious and reserved.
He had not yet earned their complete trust.
That was only natural. He had only just become a full Commissar. Sixth Company had been all but annihilated, and the rest of the regiment knew him only as the former Commissar's adjutant, Commissar Leonard's successor, and the probationary Commissar who had led a handful of survivors back from beneath the earth.
He needed a victory—or at least one successful operation—to prove himself.
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