The Lightbringer
“Don’t ye worry, son. They’ll be here too. Don’t ye worry.” Sergeant McGregor said in his thick clansmen English. He spat on the ground before him and looked off into the distance. Out there they could all see the blasting and flashing from the last of the Capitolian defences.
How many times had they not charged towards those trenches, and how many times had not the Capitolians charged them? It had become almost a custom. In the mornings Capitol would come with helicopters and drop their troops well out of range from Imperial AA, out at Yankee Flats. Then, behind the canonfodder, they would roll up tanks, those small bloody desertfox tanks that weren’t good for anything ‘cept avoiding Imperial rockets. Shells from artillery on both sides rained over the land. They would fight until noon, when most Capitol troops pulled out. Everyone went home and had a nice afternoon. And in the evenings, at eight o’clock sharp, Imperials would charge across the no man’s land in APC:s. Once beyond Roland’s Cliff their own artillery would open fire, and in the same instant the Capitolians returned it. The trenchers would rush out of the little Vermins and fight until the Bullies arrived. Then it was back to the Vermin, which would run like the devil himself out of the battle zone and back to the Imperial trench. Those Bullies which had survived the Capitolian air support would come rolling back at ten. And so the days passed. People learned where to be to stay alive. No-one really expected them to gain any ground, and neither did the Capitolians. It was just a war for its own sake, so that the generals back home could say that they were fighting for whatever it was they were there to fight for. And in a way, it was safe. They always knew where they had the other. Imperial took it easy on Liberty Day, and Capitol respected the Serenity’s birthday. Life had a pattern.
But not this morning.
“Fuckin’ Necro scum.” Baisley swore. “Had to come here and play cocky, hadn’t they?” He bent down to check on the soup which was boiling on a little gasoline stove. “I hope Kowalski does something right for once in his rotten life and gives them some serious sheit.” he muttered. Everyone else laughed. They had grown used to hear the corporal swear over the incompetence of the Capitolian Major who commanded the trench on the other side.
“First time I’ve ever heard ye wish that man any good luck.” McGregor said. “What’s the matter, son? Don’t ye want yer share of the Necros?”
Baisley shook his head.
“You could have mine, sarge, if you’d want it.”
“Yea, take mine too, sarge.”
“And mine too, pretty please!”The group turned into a cacophony of voices and laughter when everyone started to discuss who should take care of ‘their’ Necros. Most votes landed on ‘Trigger-happy’ Johnson, the heavy support gunman of the platoon. As they reasoned, he’d be the only bugger crazy enough to actually want to fight the Necros. Johnson said he took it as a compliment.
“I’ll take on all these bastards,” he laughed, “and then I’ll storm the citadel in Doughpits all by myself, just to show those lazy bastards at McCraig how it should be done! I’ll take on the entire Dark Legion!”
The soldiers stood around for a while, talking and joking. They where trying to calm themselves down. No-one in the platoon had ever fought the Necros before. They had only heard the horror stories told by the veterans during boring watches, stories about living dead, about monsters taller than buildings with canons instead of arms, about the twisted mutant soldiers which had once been human. They had also heard the Brotherhood propaganda, which claimed that the Necros were the horrible Dark Legion, an army of demons which wanted to exterminate humanity and the entire solar system, originating from the tenth planet of Nero. All in all, what the soldiers knew didn’t help to ease them down. The conversation slowly slid over to this sensitive subject.
“I’ve heard they use magic.” O’Toole said. “In combat, to summon demons and… things.”
“Yea,” Baisley mumbled through mouthfuls of soup, “the preacher said so, right? Sheit, he told me that the Cardinal could use ‘em to. ‘The Arts’, he said, ‘the Cardinal has knowledge of the Arts’. You really believe that sheit?”
“Hey, I saw a show on the tele once where they said that the Necros were just a conspiracy by the Brotherhood and the Cartel to give the corps a common enemy, and didn’t exist for real.”
“Nice bloody conspiracy they dropped on our ‘eads last night. Could’ve fooled me.”
“All right, ye maggots. Cut this out now!” the sarge bellowed. Everyone turned their attention to him. “Ye all gonna need some rest and food before the Necros drop us a little visit. Ye go down to Charlie at supplies and he’ll hand out conserves and water, plus a mug o’ whiskey to each and everyone of ye.” He paused to let the men’s cheering calm down, then he continued. “Now, I don’t want anyone of ye going to sleep hungry, or eating the food cold, so ye cook this and eat all of it, is that understood? Then ye get some rest. Now, off with ye.”
“Right, sarge!”The men shambled off, leaving the little stove to burn out.
The Necros had arrived last night. They had received a meteor warning from HQ earlier during the day. A meteor warning! The old-timers, being born in the belt all of ‘em, hadn’t reacted very much, but the boys that had spent their entire lives on planets bigger than an average soccer field had been quite worried. Meteors coming down and landing on top of people just wasn’t something you expected these days. And, sure enough, it proved out to be no ordinary meteors.
They had come down during the midnight watch. O’Toole had been on, and he had woken up the others in the platoon. “They’re coming down, the bloody legionnaires are coming down!” he had shouted. He had been the first to realise the horrible truth.
Outside it had rained fire and stones from the sky. What looked like giant eggs came swooshing down in a trail of fire, illuminating the dark battleground. Most of them had landed over in the Capitolian sector. And in the debris things moved about! Those damned eggs had been drop pods for Necro soldiers, dropped from orbit by what HQ had thought to be a bloody runaway asteroid. HQ radioed in that, yes, it seems as if an unidentified force actually landed during the night. Answer to any hostilities, but do not attack unprovoked. No-one said it was Necros, but it was easy enough to guess. Not even Capitolian banshees were mad enough to drop from orbit.
In the dawn it seemed as if most of the Necros had gone away towards the Capitolian trench. The soldiers had relaxed for a moment. Maybe they wouldn’t have to fight the Necros today. But then a large horde of ‘em marched away from the battle, heading out for Yankee Flats. It was first then that they realised that the Capitolians actually where loosing. More and more Necros went away, and still the evacuation helicopters where running back and forth. The sight of the long stretches of burning trench had, strangely enough, been totally horrifying. Oh, how many nights had they not wished to wake up to a sight like that? And now, when they actually did, it felt as if someone had taken a good friend away.
“It’s as they say in the clans, you know. ‘Me against my brother, but me and my brother against my cousin’, get what I mean?” Baisley said, taking a bite on an apple between the sentences. Everyone else was giving their equipment a last polish before the Necros came.
“Hey, mate,” Johnson shook his head, “the Caps’ aren’t my brothers, and the Necros bloody well aren’t my cousins.”
“Really? You sure have the family resemblance.”
Johnson stopped cleaning his gun and pointed it at Bucksham, who had cracked the joke.
“Hey, calm down.” Bucksham said, trying to look innocent. “I meant you look like the Caps’, okay?”
“Now that’s an even worse insult.” someone mumbled from a bed in the corner of the little bunker in which they sat.Johnson slowly took his eyes from Bucksham and returned to cleaning his weapon. It was an Intruder IVP, the platoons support weapon, and Johnson’s great love. Rumours had it that he preferred it better than women. This hadn’t been proven for sure, but the fact remained that Johnson and the gun shared sleeping bag. To protect it from moist, Johnson claimed.
In the special forces a weapon like that was “standard armament”. Out in the trenches the plasma launcher made it “squad support”. That gave quite a nice view of just how far up on IAF:s importance list the trenchers managed to climb. Johnson was fastening the heavy lead shield onto the launcher when the alarm suddenly sounded.
A private came rushing down from the trench.
“Everyone take their positions!” he shouted, a wild glint in his eyes. “They’re comiiing!!”
Then he vanished as fast as he had come. It took half a second for the message to sink in.The Necros were really here.
In a rush of adrenaline, everyone grabbed their equipment and ran out into the grey dusk. Outside there were soldiers running around in every direction. Battlestations were being manned. Alarms rang, making it almost impossible to hear the orders that were being shouted. But it wasn’t necessary to hear. They had done this at least twenty times a month for the last year, and everyone knew what to do. But not what to expect.
The platoon rushed through a small corridor out to the front line. Sarge McGregor was already in position when they came there. They threw themselves against the front wall, weapons ready. In the distance they could see the Necros advance.
It was like a moving wall of dust. Tanks far larger than Imperial’s Bullies could be distinguished from the mass of battle machinery. Small scout vehicles rushed back and forth in the advancing force. Its bulk seemed to consist of some sort of infantry, which moved in a strange scuttling way, as if shoved forward by a giant hand. Great explosions tore holes in the silence and the ground as the Necro tanks opened fire. Even at this distance the soldiers could feel the shockwaves.
“Look!” someone along the line suddenly shouted. “There’s someone out there!”
At first no-one could see what he meant. But then they noticed it. Out there, being fired upon by the Necro tanks, a small Desert Fox was running a gauntlet between the explosions. It was chased by a whole pack of the scout vehicles.
“Holy mother of Durand! It’s a Capitolian!”
The Desert Fox came darting towards the trench, bouncing across the blasted terrain. The scouts were closing in, their four wheels making them able to hold higher speeds than the tracked Fox. It was going to be overrun any second.
Then, suddenly, an artillery shell struck down among the scouts, turning two of them into scrap metal in an instant. All the Imperials along the trench cheered. It was their own cannons, finally firing back at the Necros!
“RPG gunners ready!” the trench captain shouted. “When they are within two hundred yards you make those bastards regret ever leaving Nero!” Soldiers armed with anti-tank weapons rushed up to their firing positions. “Be sure you don’t hit the Capitolian! Right now that’s an ally out there! We can kill each other again tomorrow.”
The regular soldiers stood waiting. It was frustrating to see the enemy but not being able to fire back. They were still out of normal gun range. Now the artillery had met halfway. It was hard to tell what was Imperial fire trying to hit the scouts, and what was Necro fire trying to hit the Desert Fox. The little Fox went into a shell crater, and came flying out of it by sheer speed. Like a team of predators the scouts came after. One of them drove into the same crater, made a quite impressive jump, and landed just in time to get hit by artillery. The Fox made a sharp turn to avoid the shell and skidded across the ground. It ended up speeding right towards McGregor and his men.
“RPG gunners, fire!!”
From the entire line trails of smoke came flying out to meet the Necros. Some hit their goals, some did not. Artillery and rockets struck everywhere. Hell itself could not have been worse driving ground for the crew of the Desert Fox. But still it kept racing, running like mad towards the Imperial trench. The platoon could hear the coughing sound of a Southpaw automatic rocket launcher, as another one of the scouts turned into burning junk. The Fox came bouncing and bumping towards them.
“Sweet light, let them make it!” It was Baisley, uttering the first religious words anyone in the group had ever heard from him.
In the same instant, as if to smite Baisley’s faith, a trail of smoke struck from above, turning the world into a white inferno and sending the Fox tumbling like a toy. The men were momentarily blinded. When they looked up again, they saw the Fox lying on its side in the mud, heavy black smoke streaming from a hole in the rear. It could not have been more than a hundred yards from them, but all they could do was to stare in shock.
A scout vehicle came to a halt on the opposite side of the tank, thus blocking it from the line of fire. The soldiers could hear the sound of troopers leaving the scout. To check the Fox for survivors, no doubt.
Someone started to swear in a low tone, but stopped with a surprised intake of breath. The hatch on the Fox slid open, and a man heaved himself out of the burning wreck. It was a black Capitolian. He slumped down into the mud and placed himself with his back against the tank, breathing heavily and listening to the sound of Necro troopers advancing. He glanced desperately away towards the Imperials, the white of his eyes clearly visible against his dark face. The distance separating them seemed far to great.
“You think he can make it?” someone whispered.
The man slowly rose to his feet, turned around and stared into the hatch from which he had emerged. He reached inside and took something out. It was an ID-tag. The Capitolian held it in front of his face, staring at it. The soldiers could see his back convulsing in silent cries of sorrow. He looked back towards the trenchers, tears running down his face. His lips were shaking violently, as if he was trying to speak but the words wouldn’t come out.
The sound of someone cocking his weapon brought their attention back to the trench. Baisley started to climb up the side of the wall, looking determined, but was pulled down again by McGregor.
“What the bloody hell do ye think yer doing?” he hissed.
“I’m going to get that Cap out of there, sarge.” Baisley said, staring defiantly at his sergeant
McGregor glanced away at the Capitolian, who was still standing hunched over his friends ID-tag.
“He has no chance, ye know that.” he said, in a sad voice. “As soon as those Necros come around, he’ll be blood with meat lumps in.”Baisley relaxed and sighed. Then, suddenly, it seemed as if some of Baisley’s determination had been transferred to the Capitolian. Shaking with rage or sorrow, or maybe both, he tightened his fist around the tag. Still shaking, he pulled out a weapon from the hatch and checked that is was loaded. Screaming he threw himself around the burning back of the tank. A battlecry of sheer hatred sounded above the automatic fire he spread over the Necros. The trenchers could only hear as a single burst of fire from the scouts abruptly ended the cry. The body of the Capitolian was hurled back around the tank and landed on the back. Blood ran down the face and mixed with the tears. One hand still clutched the ID-tag.
The dark shape of a Necro soldier slowly crept around the corner of the tank. Along the entire line of the trench, Imperials were staring at it. The first sight of the enemy. Was it human? Alien? Demonic? No-one got the chance to see. An artillery shell struck the Desert Fox, obliterating tank, scout and Necro. And the remnants of the Capitolian soldier. No-one had the chance to see anything but its red eyes, glaring at its fallen enemy.
“I could’ve done it, sarge. I could’ve.” Baisley mumbled. He was sitting with his back against the wall of the trench, a cigarette in his mouth. The almost familiar sound of artillery shells rocked the ground.
“Aye, and ye would have been killed in the process!” McGregor hissed angrily. “That was a psychological move, that was!”
“What do you mean psycho...” someone started, but was interrupted by the sarge.
“Psychological! Just what I meant. One Cap’ tank, what would that have aided us?”
“Nothing, sarge, nothing.”
“Right ye are, son! So why did they hunt ‘im like that? They wanted that Cap’ dead, but not because he was a threat. No, son, they wanted us to see ‘im dead. To show us that not even one little unimportant bloody tank like that would survive! They’re trying to scare us, the sheepshaggers, that’s what.”
“Jesus, sarge, that’s tough.”
“Aye, it is.”Everyone fell silent, thinking about the Necros, what their real intentions with this battle could be. They could only guess.
Sudden shouts and yelps were heard as two MPs came dragging a soldier between them down the trench. The man in the middle was hardly walking by himself, practically being lifted by the two others. He was struggling in the arms of the more muscular men, and shouting all along.
“I swear!” he cried. “Nepharites! There were Nepharites out there!” Suddenly he found some source of savage strength, tore himself free from his captors and grabbed after the closest man, which happened to be Johnson. “They’re out there!” he shouted, clinging to Johnson’s shirt. “I saw them! I saw...” Abruptly he stopped as a rifle butt hit him in the head. One of the MPs, the one who had hit him, flung him over the shoulder and turned to McGregor.
“Don’t you mind him here. He’s a lunatic, not to be taken seriously.” He saluted McGregor quickly, despite the burden on his shoulder. Then he turned and continued down the trench together with his companion. The men in the platoon looked at each other, searching for answers, looking confused. Small debris from the artillery attack was raining down on top of them.
“Nepharites?” Bucksham asked frowning.
“Wasn’t that Willie Hayworth from over at C company?” someone mumbled.
“Hey,” Baisley knocked Bucksham on the helmet, “what did you do during religion class? Drool over pictures of St. Elisabeth? Nepharites were the greatest demons in the entire Dark Legion, you know, like...”
“Cut this out now, and I mean now!” the sarge growled. “As the soldier said, a lunatic. There’s no Nepharites out there. And I will have no more of this talk, ye hear? Now, mind yer stations!”
“I was gonna say, like our sarge is in IAF.” Baisley whispered.
“But St. Elisabeth was pretty fine, wasn’t she?” Bucksham whispered back, smiling.
“They’re still keeping out of rifle range, sarge. There’s nothing much more we can do right now.” O’Toole said. He was looking out at the Necros with a pair of binoculars, crouching with as little as possible of his own body over the edge of the trench. “Our artillery is practically running havoc with those small scouts. But those big ones...” He crouched even further down as another shell exploded nearby. “I haven’t seen something take a beating like that since Johnson got in a fight with that brute from 35th battalion. Some of them have taken direct hits from our guns, and they’re still rolling! Jees, sarge, these things are tough!”
“So was the guy from 35th!” Johnson shouted in mockery. “And he’s still in the infirmary!”
“Take cover!!”
The world became a place of shock impact and flying debris as yet another shell struck no more than ten yards away.
“Report!” the sergeant wailed as soon as the air cleared. “Corporal Baisley?!”
“The corporal’s down, sarge!” Bucksham shouted. He was stumbling towards Baisley’s limp form. He knelt in front of him and started to check for lifesigns. “Thank the light!” he sighed. “He’s still alive, but it seems like a pretty serious concussion.”
“Get him down and in cover!” McGregor shouted back. “Wilson, take his position!” He turned towards O’Toole, who was lying with his back pressed against the wall. “What are the Necros up to?!”
O’Toole quickly poked his head over the edge, binoculars ready.
“They have stopped to regroup, sarge! Seems like they’re pinning the tanks down into the ground, turning them into artillery entrenchments.” He moved a little further up the wall. “Some kind of larger infantry has moved to the frontline. Sweet light, sarge, seems like they have incinerators! They’re gonna be in range any second!” Suddenly he turned pale and lowered his binoculars. “Sarge, most of the infantry seems to have Capitol insignias.”
“Corpse looters, O’Toole. They’ve probably stolen uniforms and weapons!” McGregor told him, but didn’t look to sure of himself.
A lieutenant appeared out of the debris and gun smoke. He shouted orders at McGregor, then disappeared down the trench again.
“Take positions!” McGregor in turn howled to his men. “The infantry’s coming in, but the tanks have stopped out of RPG range.” He paused. “We’re going to have to fight this one under artillery fire.” he mumbled. “Fire at will!”“Yeee-ha!” Johnson cried as he steadied his weapon on a bipod and cocked it. Everyone else took their positions in grim silence. Shots were already being fired all along the line. The Necro infantry was closing in. The air roared of artillery shells being fired by both sides. A scythe of automatic fire harvested the front line of Necros, but still more were there to fill the gaps. The fire was answered. Cowered by the artillery and their lesser comrades, the great incinerator soldiers drew nearer. With a burst of laughter Johnson let loose burning radioactive death upon the advancing enemies.
Baisley slowly woke up. His head hurt something tremendously, and he felt that he had blood smeared over his forehead. He lay and just breathed for a while. Except a few burst of fire in the distance everything was silent. Seemed like the battle was over, in one way or the other.
With an enormous effort he managed to roll over on his belly and thereby get his arms under him. Slowly he pushed himself onto his knees, and took a look around. The first thing that met his gaze was the body of O’Toole, flung like a rag doll some yards away. Too fast Baisley rose to his feet, and the blasting pain in his head caused him to fall down on his knees again. After a few moments of regaining his strength, Baisley once again got up and stumbled over to O’Toole’s body. The poor bastard had been totally pierced by grenade splinter. He could actually see right through the left of the man’s scull. Baisley just stood there as if frozen and stared at him, showing no feelings what so ever. It was not the first time he saw a dead man, nor was it the first time he saw a dead friend. That was something you had to get used to in the trenches. Get used or get mad. Like Willie Hayworth. He turned away from the sight of O’Toole’s battered remains. And gave up a thin wail.
This had not been a battle, it had been a bloodbath. The Necros were lying in piles where they had tried to storm the trench. And just as many of them filled the floor of the trench. By sheer numbers they had broken through the Imperial lines, and by sheer numbers they had killed everyone. Every last Imperial soldier. No-one moved through that gutter of death. The entire trench was just a mass of bodies. Baisley stared in shock, his mind abhorred by what he saw. Sure, you got accustomed to death as a trencher. But not like this. Not on this scale. This was a slaughter, no, worse, this was the Apocalypse, leaving no survivors. Except Baisley himself. The thought, combined with his pounding head, turned his bowels inside out. Convulsing he threw up his last meal, his body trying to cleanse itself from all this death.
He stood hunched over his own misery and pain, hugging himself and making small noises which could have been coughing or crying. After a while he stood up, took a deep breath. The smell of burned flesh made him sick. He staggered away, trying to find somewhere where there weren’t so many dead people. He came about twenty yards before he stumbled across another one of his friends. ‘Trigger-happy’ Johnson was lying in a pool of his own blood, a Necro slumped over him. It seemed as if they had killed each other. Johnson had driven a great army knife, big as a sword, through the back of the Necro. The Necro itself looked so human, Baisley first thought that it was a Capitolian. But the weapon lying next to it couldn’t possibly have been wielded by a human. Not without shredding the hands. As if to show the difference Johnson’s IVP was thrown on the ground beside it. The plasma launcher was still red hot. Baisley knelt beside the IVP. Johnson’s love had served him into the end. Heaps of Necros still lay smouldering on the edge of the trench. He carefully picked it up and looked at it. Into the butt Johnson had used to carve a line for each enemy he shot. The butt would have been to small to cover his last stand.
“A friend of yours?” a hissing voice asked behind Baisley.
Like a reflex he spun around and aimed the gun at whatever was there. The sight gave him a shock more serious then that which the body-filled trench had given him.
A Nepharite. No doubt about it. Pictures painted on cathedral walls had described their looks for over a millennia. Horrorstories and movies had pictured them just as well. The three horns and the black armour, that hungry look in the yellow eyes. A Nepharite, or something doing a dammed good job imitating one. Hayworth hadn’t been mad. The Dark Legion was actually here. The stories parents scared their children with were true. Baisley was frozen by primal fear. A Nepharite.
The tall, pale figure smiled at him, a smile as cold as death. It found joy in his terror.
“So our operation left a survivor? How fortunate.” It laughed, a dry, harsh sound which hurt Baisley’s ears. “I was becoming bored. After I had slaughtered the first few hundred men it all started to seem so dull.” It laughed again. Baisley thought that his sanity would crack completely if he heard that sound once more. He was to afraid even to cover his ears and wail like a child, as his mind urged him to do. When the creature drew forth a great sword and pointed it towards Baisley’s throat, the only physical evidence of his violent fear was a mad glint in his eyes.
“Duel me.” it hissed. Baisley just stared at it in numb horror. When Baisley gave no hint of noticing the demand at all, the look on the creature’s face grew darker. “Take your friend’s sword and duel me! Or I will rip out your pathetic heart right where you stand!”
Take your friend’s sword. Something like desperate logic inside Baisley’s head fought through his fear, and he glanced quickly away towards Johnson’s knife. It was definitely big enough to pass for a short sword. His friend’s sword. Baisley had heard the stories of how the first Cardinal had defeated the Apostle of Darkness in hand-to-hand combat. He had used a sword called ‘Lightbringer’. He stared at the knife. Johnson’s sword. But that knife wasn’t Johnson’s sword.
A series of quiet thuds was all that betrayed that Baisley had fired the IVP, as three rounds of plasma ammo penetrated the Nepharite’s scull and engulfed it in bright radioactive flames. A look of pure surprise was etched onto it’s face as it fell to the ground without making a single sound. Baisley felt the bitter-sweet taste of revenge in his mouth.
“Touché.” he mumbled. Calmly he carved another line into the butt of Johnson’s sword.