Duvall did not know how the battle had ended. He thought the blast wave from the explosion must have hurled him to the ground, leaving him concussed when his head struck the floor. His back had likely been burned as well, though his entire upper body was now swathed in tight bandages.
Thank the Throne, their medic had survived.
Half-squinting, Duvall staggered through the dark subterranean passageway, supported by a trooper. They were still pressing onward.
Before him hovered the translucent panel of the Legion Soul.
[Current Command Authority: 101st Ashen Watchers Regiment, Sixth Company]
[Remaining Personnel: 11 (including 3 critically wounded)] [Company Experience: Veterans]
[Overall Supplies: 9%] [Overall Loyalty: 85%] [Overall Morale: 46%] [Overall Sanity: 70%] [Chaos Corruption: 40%]
[Passive Enhancements Acquired: Iron Ring (Basic), Forced March (Basic), Unyielding]
Looking at the Sixth Company, reduced to only eleven soldiers, Duvall could not shake the conviction that his orders had brought about this catastrophe. His heart was filled with guilt and grief.
Yet he was grateful for one thing: Stroud and Anderson had not died.
Stroud had been blasted from the grain storehouse by a bolter shell, suffering extensive fractures across his body and falling directly into unconsciousness. Anderson had taken a chainaxe blow across half his body, followed by the explosive impact of a bolt round. His organs were damaged, he was bleeding profusely, and he too had fallen unconscious.
Even though the medic had used their last haemostatic gel to administer rudimentary treatment in time, no ordinary man should have been able to survive such wounds.
The sole good news was that the reward for uncovering the truth had been a passive ability and three hundred points of Emperor's Wrath.
That passive ability was called:
[Unyielding]
[When members of the Legion under your command suffer grievous wounds that are not immediately fatal, they can endure for longer. Their wounds also heal more quickly.]
[May the Emperor protect you.]
Duvall gave a humourless laugh within his heart. Well, thank you very much.
At that moment, the column came to a halt. A trooper approached Duvall and spoke in a low voice.
"Sir, there is another fork ahead. Which way do we go?"
Duvall gestured for the man to lead him over. Yet after staggering to the two broad tunnels ahead and studying them for some time, he hesitated.
Perhaps it was merely his imagination, but the passage to the left filled him with nausea. Simply looking into its depths of darkness made the back of his already aching head begin to throb anew.
"...We go right," Duvall rasped, hoping he had not made the wrong choice.
The column resumed its slow advance. Evan carried his sister on his back in the very centre of the formation. The remaining troopers wore uncertainty and unease upon their faces, but whenever they looked towards the staggering figure at the head of the column, some measure of that confusion was dispelled.
Their Commissar was still with them.
Duvall had been right. He had chosen correctly. After a time, the ground ahead became paved with stone slabs again, and the passage was far broader than the tunnel through which they had entered from the village.
As they climbed the steps, a wooden board barred their path.
Two troopers attempted to shove it upward, but managed to force open only the narrowest crack. Something appeared to be piled atop it.
They turned back and shook their heads at Duvall, indicating that they could not force it open.
Duvall motioned for the soldier supporting him to let go. He took the lasrifle from the man's hands, set its output to minimum, and fired once into each of the board's four corners. With a sharp crack, the board fell away.
A mass of grain cascaded down from above, knocking the column off its feet. A moment later, they coughed and rose from the dust, looked at one another's sorry state, and could not help laughing as they cursed.
With the aid of the nearby troopers, Duvall struggled up a mound of grain sacks and finally climbed back to the surface.
The sound of his shots had already alerted the Astra Militarum troops stationed nearby. Hurried footsteps rushed towards the granary door. With one savage kick, it burst open, and blinding light fell across Duvall's face.
Excellent. They were friendlies. At last, they were safe.
It was Duvall's final thought before unconsciousness claimed him.
*
Duvall lay within a palace filled with pink mist. Beneath him was a soft, sumptuous bed; at his side stood a gentle beauty.
She had wheat-coloured skin and straight black hair, and she gazed upon him with smiling eyes full of tender affection.
As Duvall's gaze gradually travelled upward, he abruptly saw the golden laurel crown gleaming atop her head.
Duvall jolted awake from the dream, his heart hammering as cold sweat broke across his back.
What kind of cursed dream was that...? he swore inwardly. His throat was painfully dry, and he began coughing violently.
Duvall struggled to sit up from the hard cot, only then realising that he lay in a white medical ward.
The room was dimly lit, and the air carried the mingled reek of antiseptic and blood. Faint, stifled groans of agony came from nearby—other wounded men, perhaps.
An aged voice spoke from beside him. "Do not move about, lad. I am changing your bandages shortly. The burns on your back are severe, but thankfully there is no infection. Medicine has already been applied."
Duvall turned his head and saw an old man in a worn white coat, bent over a cabinet beside him as he searched through it. His hair was grey-white, his eye sockets deeply sunken.
"Doctor Wayne," Duvall blurted out instinctively.
The old man's hands paused. He turned, surprise briefly crossing his face before it softened into a faint smile.
"Mm. It seems your mind is still clear enough. The impact did not smash your brains completely to ruin."
He came to the bedside and indicated that Duvall should sit up slowly. Only then did Duvall feel that his head too was tightly wrapped in bandages, a dull ache pulsing beneath them.
"What about the other wounded?" Duvall asked through the pain, his voice severely hoarse.
Doctor Wayne did not immediately answer. Instead, he carefully began unwrapping Duvall's old bandages, already stained through with blood. They had adhered to the burned skin, and every strip he peeled away brought searing pain. Duvall clenched his teeth as cold sweat seeped across his brow.
"They are all in the critical ward next door," the old doctor said as he worked, disbelief clear in his voice. "Truly, with wounds like theirs, they should never have held on long enough to return."
"Throne above, it would seem they have received the Emperor's protection."
As the cooling ointment was spread across his wounds once more, Duvall could not help replying in his heart: They truly had.
Once the bandages had been changed, Doctor Wayne gathered up the bloodied old gauze and added, "The intelligence you brought back was valuable... that journal, and the information about the underground tunnels, has already been reported."
He turned and walked towards a bed on the other side of the tent. His voice grew faint with distance.
"Oh, and Commissar Hoffman asked that you see him once you woke."
Leonard Hoffman.
At once, Duvall pictured a severe, rigid face beneath a regulation peaked cap. His immaculate Commissar's uniform was always pressed to perfection, and his gaze had forever been sharp enough to flay the skin from a man.
He was the official Commissar of the 101st Ashen Watchers Regiment, and Duvall's nominal direct superior.
"Where is he?" Duvall asked.
Doctor Wayne had already reached another cot, where he bent down to examine the wounds of a soldier who was continuously groaning under his breath.
"Next door," he replied without looking up. "He is still conscious enough for now... best go quickly."
Comments (0)
Please log in to leave a comment. Login or Register