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Tattershield – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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TATTERSHIELD

William Crowe

For almost eight hundred years, the great golden aquila had spread its wings in benediction over the Cathedral of the Emperor Implacable in 04-Gavaine’s capital plaza. From its high perch, the sculpted eagle blessed the toiling populace of the redoubt world as they stockpiled and fortified, readying their defences for a siege they prayed would never come. Now, its flaking gilt pinions were draped with the black banners of the Archenemy, and the eagle’s noble beak was blunted and crumpled, struck off by a mortar round in the first months of fighting.

Through the compound lenses of his field magnoculars, Kostantin Taikon, Kasrkin squad sergeant and acting field commander on the north-east battlefront, let his gaze linger on the desecrated sculpture, watching the dark banners coiling slowly in the wind. If the intelligence they had painstakingly gathered over the last few months could be believed, the cathedral had become a nest of traitors. That was where they would find their target, the enemy commander who had assumed the title of the Maligner on the day he broke his vows to the Emperor. Taikon snorted in disgust. Nothing made sense any more. The madness on 04-Gavaine had infected everything, debasing every sign of faith and honour, and the enemy took a special pleasure in trampling down the last few shreds of hope. The beleaguered Imperial defenders had already lived through unimaginable horrors, from the Fall of Cadia to the birth of the hellish rift that turned the night sky into a roiling, queasy storm of tortured pink unlight. They had survived the Great Retreat, falling back to landing pads and lighters, fighting off suicidal boarding actions to buy frigates and battleships time to shoulder their way clear of their home world’s collapsing gravity well. In shock, they had limped towards the nearest friendly star – the cold grey light of Gavaine. And they had been there, under siege, for the next two years and nineteen days.

Taikon swept the magnoculars down from the cathedral spire, scanning across the blasted cityscape. Between his squad and their target, hundreds of enemy troops were dug-in. Just as he had done a dozen times already, Taikon surveyed the positions of barricades and concealed strongpoints, noted the locations of heavy weapons teams and self-propelled artillery batteries. Through the lengthening shadows of dusk, the sergeant picked out patrolling Guardsmen in blackened flak armour decorated with steel spines and bloody trophies. Sooner or later, Taikon knew his Kasrkin would have to cross the enemy lines. Their recon specialist, Petro Yarin, was out there already, verifying the tenuous rumour the whole mission hung on. One or two experts like Yarin could slip past the enemy unseen, perhaps. But for an entire strike team – even for soldiers as skilled as the Kasrkin – that would be impossible. At least without a diversion.

Taikon checked the chrono he wore tucked under his left vambrace. Keenly aware of his squad’s eyes on his back, the sergeant tried to make the gesture seem entirely casual, though his nerves jangled. The display read 25:07. Twilight hour on Gavaine, the world’s days stretched by a long, slow orbit around its pale star. The battalion should already be engaging, Taikon thought. We should be able to hear them. But all was quiet, except for the mournful wind whistling between the dead buildings.

The squad was hunkered down in the burnt-out shell of an old Administratum complex, six Kasrkin squeezed into a vaulted corridor on an upper floor that commanded a wide view over the blasted city. So few, now, Taikon thought, recalling their losses with a twinge of grief. Eren, their bravest. Riel, who never recovered from the wounds she took in the Fall. And just a week ago, old Sojuk, ribs crushed by a rampaging ogryn during the skirmish at Gavaingard Processional. It was a bad, bloody death, and the Kasrkin still mourned it, though none of them would let it show.

Hunched against the stone walls, sipping from canteens or making last-minute checks of their equipment, the veteran troopers looked calm, bored even. But Taikon sensed their tension, their eagerness for orders. They had been together so long now that the sergeant could read his Kasrkin through the environmentally sealed carapace armour they wore. Once, that armour had been gleaming, pristine – now it was scuffed and patched, crusted with utilitarian field modifications. Once, the squad had displayed the colours of their home kasr with pride – now the only insignia they wore was a broken black shield painted on the shoulder, a mark of their shame.

Irritably, Taikon checked his chrono again, and the nervous repetition caught the sharp eyes of their combat medic, Savos Linnd. Shuffling closer to the sergeant, he spoke softly, careful to keep any hint of concern from his voice in front of the others.

‘Give them time to reach their positions. It’s a big operation. And we’ll only get one shot.’

‘That’s what worries me, Linnd.’ Taikon scowled. He hated the necessity of the plan, the huge sacrifice Anvil Battalion would soon be making on his orders. He was only a sergeant, not a damned lord marshal! And he had learned, quickly and cruelly, that coordinating a war was very different to leading an elite strike team. But there had been no one else left alive to take command. And though his training had not prepared him for the responsibility, Taikon was Kasrkin. That meant that he would do what had to be done, unflinchingly.

This was a conversation they had had many times over the last few months. Running the Maligner to ground had been a gruelling operation. With single-minded efficiency, the Kasrkin had systematically raided the enemy’s forward strongpoints, leaving him with nowhere to retreat. They had sabotaged vox-towers, severed supply lines, and assassinated the Maligner’s adjuncts one by one. All to leave him isolated, primed for the final, vengeful, executing blow. That strike would come under the cover of a full-frontal attack by the grizzled shock troopers of Anvil Battalion. It was an audacious plan, and all but suicidal. Those lives – those deaths – were on Taikon’s conscience and his alone.

‘It’s a gamble. But it’s still the best chance we have,’ Linnd said carefully. ‘We badly need a win.’ Taikon recognised the truth of it. Their morale hung by the thinnest thread. Despite his misgivings, the sergeant raised his voice, performing for the soldiers listening in on their conversation.

‘We’ll get that win, Linnd. Whatever it takes. For Cadia and the Emperor.’ They all knew the oath, and the assembled Kasrkin chorused the words in a low mumble. Only the demolitions expert, Auber, spoke them with conviction, her eyes bright with zealous certainty. For the rest of them, the words were hollow. It was all Taikon could do to bite back the dispiriting truth. Cadia is dead, and we’re a long way from the Emperor’s light.

A tense silence settled, then stretched. And then a low, heavy rumble ran down the grey valley of the street like a thunderclap, booming and echoing from the walls of the cracked towers all around. They all recognised the sound. Artillery. And in its wake, the dolorous drone of war-horns. Anvil had made contact with the traitor line. The battle had begun.

Taikon swept his magnoculars east, focusing through the ever-present veil of ash. He could make out flashes through the fog, the yellow-white blooms of high-yield explosives and the ruby threads of las-fire. The sergeant watched a ripple of excitement shiver down the enemy line, the message passed by yowling alarms and braying beasts. Gradually at first, but soon with frantic haste and frightening eagerness, the enemy left their positions, rushing to join the battle, boiling out of their emplacements like reclaimer ants sallying from their hive pit to strip the meat from a fresh carcass.

Without the need for orders, the Kasrkin were on their feet, shouldering packs, drawing themselves up into two neat columns.

‘Tattershields!’ The sergeant addressed them with the censure name their squad had adopted in the blackest days after the Fall, a reminder of the failure they could never atone for. The Kasrkin snapped to attention. ‘This is a priority-target execution strike. One chance, no reinforcements.’ Taikon watched his soldiers’ reactions as he bluntly laid out the odds, noting their nods of acknowledgement, Linnd’s resigned smile, the battle hunger in Auber’s eyes. Vigen, unfazed as ever. Cennovich, unbowed by the weight of the crudely repaired vox-caster strapped to his back.

‘We are tattered, we are few. But we are Kasrkin. Let’s show the enemy what that means.’ The sergeant gave a last glance over the squad, and his gaze finally settled on the hunched figure who still sat polishing his meltagun with slow, methodical precision. Alone amongst the troopers, he had yet to stand, or even show a sign of having heard his sergeant’s words. Taikon sighed, but there was patience in his voice when he added, ‘And somebody collect Gunner.’

As the rest of the Kasrkin filed away, Auber headed back down the line until she stood over the preoccupied trooper, laying a firm hand on his shoulder.

‘Gunner…’

Abruptly, he lurched to attention, spine going rigid as he sprang to his feet.

‘Sir!’ he barked in belated acknowledgement. Auber accepted the title without comment. It was hard enough to get whole words out of Gunner. He had lost himself during the Fall. Though his body had refused to give ground, his mind retreated into the bunker of his skull. All that was left now was a soldier – a gunner – not a whole person. Still, he handled his melta more skilfully than anyone Auber had ever seen, so long as someone pointed him in the right direction.

‘We’re moving out.’

Wordlessly, Gunner clasped his meltagun across his chest and began to march after his comrades.

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A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

This eBook edition published in 2024 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Represented by: Games Workshop Limited – Irish branch, Unit 3, Lower Liffey Street, Dublin 1, D01 K199, Ireland.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Pedro Nunez.

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ISBN: 978-1-83609-104-2

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