Chapter 44: 1st Year: The Wall 2
POV: Commander Frag
I sat in my office within the fortress, the hurried tapping of boots and the distant bark of orders echoing beyond my walls. In front of me, scattered across the desk, lay a growing pile of grim reports.
I exhaled slowly, the weight of our unpreparedness gnawing at my mind.
"This is not good. We are not ready... we still require more time," I muttered, irritation lacing my voice.
Before me stood my three platoon officers, rigid at attention.
I straightened my posture, fixing them with a hard gaze.
"Lars. Grant. Hans," I called out.
They saluted crisply, awaiting their orders.
I pulled one of the reports from the desk and began issuing commands.
"Lars, Grant—prepare your platoons. Discard your shields and melee weapons for now. Re-equip your squads with lasguns. Our focus is to hold the fortress at all costs."
The two vanguard platoon leaders saluted again before turning sharply on their heels to carry out my commands. After they departed, I shifted my attention to the remaining officer—Hans, commander of the riflemen platoon.
"Hans, your task is to link up with Joles' company. You will be my line of communication with the 2nd Company. Stand ready for my signal, whether it be to bring them inside the fortress... or to unleash them in a flanking strike should an opportunity arise. Understood?"
Hans nodded with grim determination.
I returned the nod and waved him off. He turned briskly and moved to gather his men, knowing the importance of early coordination.
Once the officers had departed, I stood, my expression grim and resolute. I strode across the room toward the large closet embedded into the stone wall.
Opening it, I entered the wide storage space where my personal armory stood displayed with military precision. Armour, weapons, relics of my bloodline—all stacked and ordered meticulously.
My boots echoed faintly as I approached a particular mannequin: a crimson Commissar's uniform, bearing at its side a worn laspistol and a chainsword—heirlooms of my lineage.
I stood before it, the weight of memory settling over me like a heavy shroud. The tattered edges of the coat still bore the stains of ancient battles—of blood spilled by my grandfather's enemies in service to the Imperium.
I raised my hand, almost instinctively, reaching to touch the garb as I used to when I was but a boy—when he would laugh heartily and declare:
*"Hahaha! You like my uniform, my boy? Hahaha! Fear not! I'll see to it that you'll wear this garb yourself, standing proud under the Emperor's gaze!"*
The memory faded, and my hand faltered midair.
"No... I am still unworthy," I whispered, voice thick with self-reproach. "I failed you... I lacked the courage to follow your path after you fell... I am sorry."
My hand curled into a fist, and in a surge of shame and anger, I slammed it against the wall, the impact reverberating through my bones.
Breathing heavily, I steadied myself.
"I am not worthy... yet," I vowed. "But I will be. Wait for me, Grandfather. Watch from the Golden Throne above... your grandson will earn the right to wear your colours, and you shall witness it."
I turned sharply, tearing my gaze from the sacred relic, and instead retrieved my own kit—standard-issue Cadian Shock Trooper fatigues, a well-worn lasrifle, and a combat knife.
Strapping on my gear with practiced efficiency, I exited the closet, casting a final glance at my grandfather's uniform before sealing the door behind me.
---
I marched through the fortress halls, the air heavy with urgency as my men scrambled to ready themselves for the coming storm. Lasguns were checked, ammo packs secured, vox-operators barked into comm-beads. A fortress preparing for war.
Reaching the battlements atop the great wall, I peered across the wastelands.
On the horizon, clouds of dust billowed like smoke, heralding the advance of the enemy horde—the wretched bandit scum who dared challenge the might of the Emperor's chosen.
Behind me, I heard the organized footsteps of my men. The riflemen platoon had finished gearing up and were already on their way to rendezvous with Joles' 2nd Company. The vanguard platoons under Lars and Grant now stood assembled before me, lasguns in hand, disciplined and unwavering.
I took a deep breath and then bellowed out to them, my voice a hammer on the anvil of their spirits:
"MEN! TODAY WE FACE A TRIAL FROM THE EMPEROR HIMSELF! A TRIAL OF BLOOD, OF IRON, AND OF WILL! YES, THEY OUTNUMBER US—BUT WHAT OF IT? WHEN I LOOK UPON THEM, I SEE NOTHING BUT CORPSES-IN-WAITING, FERTILIZER FOR THE FOUNDATIONS OF OUR FORTRESS!"
My words struck deep, and my warriors roared in return:
"AWOOH!"
Their cry thundered against the stone and sky.
"YOU FEAR NOT DEATH, FOR DEATH HAS ALREADY CLUTCHED AT YOUR THROATS IN DAYS PAST—AND YOU WERE SAVED! SAVED BY THE HANDS OF LEON AND JACOB, OUR BROTHERS-IN-ARMS, OUR COMMANDERS! TODAY, WE HONOUR THEM!"
My voice rose, fueled by the adrenaline and fervour crackling in the air.
"WE ARE THE SWORDS OF THEIR WILL! WE ARE THE SHIELDS OF THEIR HOPES! WE ARE THE WEAPONS THAT STRIKE IN THE NAME OF THE EMPEROR!"
The men bristled with bloodlust, their eyes hard, their hearts aflame.
"SO DO NOT FEAR DEATH—FEAR COWARDICE! FEAR BEING THE CAUSE OF YOUR BROTHER'S FALL! FEAR BETRAYING THE FAITH LEON AND JACOB PLACED IN US! HOLD THIS WALL! HOLD THIS FORTRESS! HOLD THIS LINE!"
"FIGHT!" ×10
They chanted with the force of a hurricane, their unified voice splitting the very winds apart, the air itself thrumming with unleashed killing intent.
I turned once more to the enemy on the horizon.
In my eyes, they were already dead.