Bendikt cursed. His augmetic arm was a masterwork of the Departmento Bionica, indistinguishable from a human hand but augmented with steel-rod tendons and a grip that could crush plate armour. Or a table. And he was still getting used to the power within it.

‘We should be returning to El’Phanor!’ Bendikt growled. ‘On the front line! Not here. A second-line army could break this fortress. We are Cadians!’

Prassan looked away as Bendikt shook the fragments of table from his fist. The trooper standing guard by the door winced. Six months ago, when they had arrived on the ice world of Crone B9, Prassan had been assigned to the command staff. When he received his orders Prassan could hardly believe his luck.

It was Colour Sergeant Tyson who had given him the news.

‘Don’t go getting excited, Prassan,’ the blunt officer of Sec­ond Company had snapped. ‘You’ll be back in the line soon enough. We don’t leave anyone in HQ. They get soft. And when a trooper gets soft they get themselves killed. And worse than that, they get others killed as well!’ He had lifted a scarred finger in warning. ‘When you do come back, I’ll be waiting, and if you’ve turned into one of those smooth-handed pen pushers I’ll have you leading the next charge with nothing but a bayo­net. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir!’ Prassan had saluted and then run to get his dress uniform in order. He couldn’t stop grinning.

But now Bendikt was starting to erupt and Prassan didn’t know where to look.

Bendikt took a moment to calm himself down. He sucked in a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks. ‘Apologies, gentlemen,’ he said at last, clearing his throat. ‘What were we discussing?’

Mere stepped forward with the discarded files. They were the honours lists of the regiments currently serving on Malouri.

‘These all seem the run-of-the-mill sort. Apart from the Mordians, of course.’

It was true. The forces were drawn from local militias and regiments from the Gallows Cluster, with a few main-line regiments to add a little backbone to them all. Mostly mediocre warriors given mediocre training and officers with mediocre expectations made of them. They could garrison, or fill a trench and shoot in the right direction, but show them a fort and order them to take it and you’d come up short.

One of the named regiments stood out. ‘Potence Mountain Infantry,’ Mere read aloud.

Bendikt turned. ‘Didn’t we fight alongside them on their home world?’

Mere nodded. ‘Yes, sir. General Dominka. Died at the cathedral.’

Bendikt nodded and carried on through the list. There were a few regiments of note drawn from the planetary elites or from wild tribes. The Drookian Fenguard was both of these. The regiments had official numbers, but the truth was they simply came from one of the many clans that inhabited the benighted swamps that made up their planet.