Chapter 46: 1st Year: Reinforcement
POV: Commander Frag
*Crick* — *Bam*
I slammed the door to my command office, the battered slab of ceramite groaning under the impact. Blood dripped from my battered carapace armor, staining the rockcrete floor — though, by the Emperor's grace, most of it was not my own.
With a grunt of effort, I stripped the ruined breastplate from my body, the clasps squealing in protest. My muscles screamed in protest as I limped across the chamber and collapsed into the throne-like chair behind my command desk.
"Hrrghh... We endure..." I muttered, dragging a blood-slicked hand across my eyes as visions of the day's carnage flashed through my mind — the mutilated corpses of the Emperor's faithful and the butchered wretches of the enemy.
As I brooded over the heavy losses, a sharp knock rattled the door.
"Platoon-Captains Lars and Grant request audience, Lord Commander," came Lars' disciplined voice.
I sighed, forcing myself upright with a grunt of pain.
"Enter," I barked.
The door swung open, and the two platoon-captains marched in with grim expressions, casualty slates clutched in bloodstained gauntlets.
I steeled myself. "Report."
Lars stepped forward first, his voice clipped and professional despite the black circles under his eyes.
"Lord Commander, the western and southern bastions report nineteen fatalities, five grievous injuries, and thirty lesser wounds. Three manned defense turrets rendered inoperable by the siege."
I exhaled slowly through clenched teeth. Far too many dead for our depleted forces... and the loss of turrets would only bleed us harder tomorrow.
Without pause, Grant began his grim recitation.
"The northern and eastern bastions fare no better, my lord. Twenty-five dead, fifteen gravely wounded, thirty-seven lightly wounded. Six manned defense turrets destroyed beyond immediate repair."
My gauntleted hands clenched the armrests until the metal groaned under the pressure.
"Forty-nine dead..." I hissed under my breath, struggling to contain my fury. "Damnation... Emperor preserve us."
The grim reality weighed heavily on my chest. At this rate, by tomorrow, there would be no one left to man the walls.
"Relay orders to Goss," I commanded. "He is to initiate emergency reparations immediately. Salvage what we can from the wreckage. I want at least *some* of the turrets operational by dawn."
The two platoon-captains saluted crisply before departing, leaving me once again in silence.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the cracked ceiling above.
"Only twenty-five warriors remain of my two platoons..." I muttered darkly. "Tch. We are bleeding out."
Desperation clawed at the edge of my mind.
A dangerous thought slithered its way into my consciousness — the construction workers. Civilians, but able-bodied. Not trained soldiers, but men who could at least hold a lasrifle.
"Emperor forgive me..." I muttered. "Desperate times call for desperate measures."
I closed my eyes and prayed to the God-Emperor for deliverance, the dark silence of my office suffocating around me.
---
**POV: 2nd Company Commander Jole**
The growling roar of modified Chimera-pattern trucks tore through the wasteland as we raced toward the embattled fortress.
I sat in the passenger seat of one vehicle, a massive black *power greatsword* resting across my lap, its presence a grim reminder of the battle to come. The grinding sound of whetstone against the blade's adamantium edge filled the cabin, setting my men's nerves on edge — but none dared to voice complaint. Not to *me*.
We drove hard through the darkness, engines straining, burning through our precious promethium reserves without mercy.
I stared out the vision slit, seeing the other nine modified trucks hurtling after us, each packed with warriors of the 2nd Company. Two trucks had been requisitioned for Frag's platoon.
Sparks flickered as my blade drank from the whetstone, shrieking against the metal.
"How long till we breach the fortress perimeter?" I growled without turning.
"Sir, we estimate arrival by tomorrow afternoon, Emperor willing," my driver answered stiffly.
I nodded grimly and grabbed the vox-unit mounted to the dashboard, keying it to open broadcast across our convoy.
"Prepare yourselves. The moment we arrive, we punch through, no hesitation. *No mercy.*"
Before the confirmation could finish crackling across the vox, another voice broke through — the officer of Frag's company, Platoon leader Hans.
"Sir, Commander Frag requested we await his signal before—"
I cut him off with a growl that brooked no argument.
"We... *force*... our way through," I snarled. "Do you understand?"
The vox fell silent.
I exhaled slowly, allowing the anger to burn through me like fire through dry scrub.
"My decision is final," I continued. "According to your reports, the enemy musters no less than 1,500 heretic scum. Commander Frag cannot, *will not*, hold until nightfall without reinforcement."
My voice dropped to a grim rumble.
"We will tear them apart. Divert their forces. Give Frag the chance he needs. Leave the slaughter... to me."
With a final click, I slammed the vox-unit back into its cradle.
Reaching into my belt, I withdrew another vox — this one unmarked, independent.
I muttered darkly under my breath as I tuned its frequency.
"Time to call in *Varn*..." I whispered.
The convoy of ten roaring trucks continued its relentless march toward the beleaguered fortress, engines howling into the night like the baying of hungry beasts.