Tales of Keres

[Linaeus]

Killed In Action

"She always picks th'houses furthest from th'damn Barracks."

Torrak grumbled as he trudged miserably down the Altmere road. It wasn't that the road was long or the journey difficult - after years in the Army, he was accustomed to minor hardships such as these. The thing that made the trip unbearable was the memories. In every shadow there was a phantom of the past. A friend lost to war or an enemy cut down with remorse that came only years later in moments of reflection like these.

He paused for a moment beside a tree where he'd watched a young recruit die, pinned to the trunk by a Yewish spear. A recruit that had been his responsibility. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth against the guilt and anger and the creeping fear that came with the knowledge that some day it would be his turn to die ingloriously amongst the cries of battle and flashing of blades. It had been his fault. He hadnt prepared those men for the task. He walked them into a trap. It was his failure as a leader that had cost that recruit his life.

Torrak dismissed these thoughts with a swing of his axe and a muttered curse. Nine out of Ten Recruits, he reminded himself. The lad was a statistic - a memory. All that could be done now was to work harder. Prepare, drill, train, practice, improve, and then do it all again. The best way to atone for his failure was to ensure that there was no next time.

Slowly, he continued along his way.

[Linaeus]

Justice

A defeaning roar and a boneshattering concussion hurled the brigands to the ground as the grenade struck the tree behind them, splintering it in two. A bolt whirred from the treeline, catching the third in the chest and dropping him on his back. Just as the first two were getting back to their feet and drawing weapons, a second grenade burst amongst them, choking the clearing with thick, black smoke.

The first brigand wretched, blinking back tears as the smoke stung his eyes. A rhythmic, metallic clinking drew nearer and nearer, broken only by a howl of agony, but he could not see its source. He squatted low, covering his mouth with the collar of his shirt. A sudden gust of wind cleared the smokescreen, and in his final moment the brigand glimpsed the corpses of his accomplices and the Bronze Plate of a Baron's Own Grenadier.

[Linaeus]