wouldn’t do any good。 He’s bled out。 The round probably hit a rib and caused bone fragments to
perforate his liver in a dozen places。 Clear the table。 We can’t save this one。”
Grabbing a piece of discarded cloth to clean his hands； Volpenz stepped away from the table；
pausing only to glance at the dead Guardsman as Curlen signalled for the stretcher bearers to take
him away。 How old was he； he thought。 He looks to be in his forties； but that means nothing here。
Broucheroc has a way of aging a man。 He might only be in his early thirties； even late twenties。
Then； as they lifted the dead man’s body from the table； Volpenz noticed an old scar in the patient’s
side。 He’s been wounded before； he thought。 And patched up。 I wonder； was it my work or someone
else。 Doesn’t matter now； I suppose。 Whoever saved the poor bastard’s life before； there was no
saving him this time。
Sighing； he turned away to gaze once more at the confines of the operating room around him。 As
he did； he realised how little good could be done there for the dying and suffering men who came to
the field station day after day。 It’s not the war or even the orks that kills most of them； he thought。
It’s the shortages。 We’re short of anaesthetics； antibiotics； plasma； even the most basic of medical
equipment。 Short it seems of everything except pain； death and futility。 Here in Broucheroc； these
things at least are never in short supply。
Then； as he made to throw away the cloth he had used to clean his hands； Volpenz noticed
something was written on it。 Looking at it more closely； he saw there was a name stencilled in the
cloth。 Repzik。 Abruptly； he realised the cloth must have come from the dead Guardsman’s tunic —
one of the pieces Jaleal had cut away earlier to reveal the man’s wound。 Repzik； Volpenz thought
sadly。 So that was what his name was。 Then； just as abruptly； he realised that it made no difference。
Whatever name the man had come here with； he did not need it now。
In the shadow of the dugout emplacements； a little way behind the trenches； the corpses of the men
killed in the last hour…and…a…half had been piled in a line three cadavers deep。 Their feet bootless；
their bodies stripped of their equipment； some with faces wrapped in concealing cloth； others with
dead features left naked to the biting cold： all of them laid haphazardly atop each other like so many
logs ready for the burning。 Like firewood； Larn thought as he stood gazing down on the dead bodies
of the men who had made the journey with him from Jumael IV。 Men he had known and liked。 Men
42
who had crossed the unimaginable distances of the void only to waste their lives on the wrong
planet and in the wrong campaign。 His comrades； now reduced to nothing more than a temporary
landmark in the unforgiving and war…torn landscape he saw all about him。 For what？ To Larn； it
seemed the most pointless of the many horrors he had witnessed already in this desolate place。 A
lesson in utter futility。
Hearing the protesting squeal of a rusted axle； Larn turned to see four bent…backed old women
bundled in ragged layers of civilian dress pushing an empty handcart across the frozen ground
towards him。 Noticing the faded insignia of the Departmento Munitorium on the khaki…green
armbands they wore on their sleeves； Larn realised they must be militia auxiliaries levied from
among the local population。 Wheeling the cart past him； they halted beside the line of corpse and
wearily began to lift them into the cart。 Until at last； as their labours revealed the face of a corpse
hidden deeper in the pile； Larn saw something that made him cry out and race towards them。
“Wait！” he yelled。
Startled； cringing away as though afraid he might hurt them； the women stopped their work。
Then； seeing Larn standing by the pile to peer down at the face of a corpse； one of the women spoke
to him in a voice made dull and lifeless with fatigue。
“You knew him？” she said。 “One of the dead men？”
“Yes；” Larn said。 “I knew him。 He was a friend。 A comrade。”
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 ab