Chapter 7: The Warband's Auxilia
Sachs was, all things considered, fine. Aside from a broken nose. He had been terrified the armsmen were dragging him to some dark ritual, or to become the main course at some lord's feast.
Instead, they had taken him to the showers, forced him under scalding-hot water, and given him a clean, silver-grey set of shipboard fatigues.
Finally, after removing the mag-cuffs, the armsmen shoved him into a brightly lit cabin. It looked like an interrogation cell, containing only a single table and a chair. But on the table... there was food.
Sachs crept closer. A hunk of bread, a bottle of amasec, and a thick, grilled steak. The aroma of rendered fat wafted into his nose, reminding him that he'd missed his protein-block ration for the day.
This was clearly for him. And it had been so long since he'd eaten real food. He gathered his courage, sat, and picked up the knife and fork. When he took the first bite, juices and fat flooded his mouth. He no longer cared if it was human flesh. The protein blocks were just another form of the same thing, after all. He twisted the cap off the amasec and took a long pull. The fiery liquor shocked his tastebuds back to life. Between the food and the wine, Sachs felt, for a moment, that he had escaped the hell of the lower decks.
The auto-door hissed open. Heavy, metallic footsteps sounded behind him. An eight-foot-tall silver figure rounded the table and stood before him.
A deep, synthesized voice rasped from the grille of the Mark III Iron-pattern helm.
"Is it good?"
Sachs, a piece of bread caught in his throat, could only nod frantically, afraid that a moment's delay would anger the Astartes.
"Relax. It is an Ancient Terran Boar, extinct on Terra. Colonists from the Old Night brought the species to this planet, and it survived. They are ferocious beasts, fond of destroying crops and vineyards. The locals despise them."
The tone shifted. "Captain Sachs, do you know why I called you here?"
"My Lord, I... I think I can guess." Sachs knew there was nothing special about him. Except... he had been a soldier.
"Captain Sachs," the Astartes intoned, "former commanding officer, Second Battalion, Fourth Infantry Regiment of the 'Sarran Sentinels' Mortal Auxiliary. Or, as you call it now, the Astra Militarum."
"Yes, my Lord. That is what the Departmento Munitorum files say."
Petros continued, his voice devoid of emotion. "You have a stain on your record, Captain. You surrendered. You were captured. However, considering that is the prerequisite for our meeting, I am prepared to overlook it. You may continue eating, provided it does not interfere with your ability to listen."
Sachs didn't dare touch the food again. From what he knew, the Iron Warriors were not known for their patience.
"Sachs, you are the highest-ranking soldier on this ship, excluding the armsmen. And your rank is not from some backwater PDF, which is a bonus. You attended an officer's academy. You have seen actual combat. You lost, but you have experience. You now have two choices. One: You will join a group of men in similar circumstances. You will train my new recruits, and you will lead them in battle. Two: Finish that steak and go back to the lower decks."
Of course Sachs was afraid of going back. He had been captured precisely because he was a coward who clung to life. He made his decision. Forcing his mind back to his academy training, he asked:
"My Lord... what is the unit's equipment and supply status? What are the enemy's numbers and capabilities?"
"Good. It seems you are already in the right mindset."
Petros reached to his belt and unclipped a data-slate, handing it to Sachs.
"You will have approximately thirty-thousand new troops. You may conscript more from the lands you conquer. They are not entirely green; they have had local... 'military' training. They wear bronze and iron armor, and use bows, wooden shields, and spears. Your enemy will be at the same level. I am ordering you to conquer this continent within half a standard Terran year."
Sachs's mind reeled. He didn't mention the punishment for failure. Then again, he probably didn't need to. This being didn't need a reason to kill him.
"I will provide a small amount of flak armor, autoguns, lasguns, and frag grenades. You will have one Aquila Lander for air support. You will have no armored vehicles and no artillery. The rest of the details are on that slate."
Petros waited as Sachs quickly scanned the information.
"Any questions?"
"No, my Lord."
In truth, he had a thousand. The training time was impossible. He had no experienced officers. Weapons and ammunition were critically low. The troops from the lower decks didn't even speak High Gothic. But he didn't dare voice a single objection. The Departmento Munitorum could scream at you, harass you hourly, and it didn't matter. You got used to it. This Astartes... he was not the type to tolerate complaints.
"Good."
The Astartes turned to leave. It was only then that Sachs noticed his armor. He wasn't an Iron Warrior. The armor was still the same gunmetal-grey, but it lacked the iconic black and yellow hazard-stripes. More importantly, the pauldron was bare. The iron mask set within the eight-pointed star was gone.
In its place was a new emblem: a silver kite-shield, wreathed in crimson flames.
After Petros left, Sachs tilted his head back and drained the last of the amasec. He decided he would finish the steak and the bread. Then he would go meet his new subordinates.
"Emperor preserve me," he prayed, and hoped the other prisoners were better men than the coward he knew himself to be.
In the City-State of Nopae, the people had grown used to the sight of the "silver giant eagle" (the Aquila Lander) soaring in the sky. Every time it landed, new faces appeared in the city—men and women with empty eyes and numb expressions, speaking strange, guttural languages. They looked like refugees from a dead world.
The Warband's two Arvus Lighters had not stopped, their pilots working in shifts. They were systematically transporting the thralls from the lower decks to the surface. Though The Ironclad was critically short on skilled crew and armsmen, it had been disastrously overloaded with thralls. The two facts were not contradictory.
Petros had deliberately stuffed the ship with these slaves before he broke from the Legion, overloading the lower decks to 300% of their intended capacity. The... slaughter... and... consumption... on the journey from the Eye had only slightly relieved the pressure.
He had done it to secure a population with basic knowledge. He wasn't expecting engineers or Tech-Priests, but these people came from civilized worlds. They at least knew what a gun was, what electricity was, what promethium was. It seemed trivial, but the lessons of the Great Crusade had taught the Legion that savages would attribute any technology they couldn't understand to "gods."
If the Warband was to exploit this world, they couldn't waste time teaching the natives about pi, displacement, or the periodic table.
In the future, he would plunder more populations to fill this planet. He needed people for his armies, for his auxiliaries, and for his manufactories. Perhaps, one day, this world would suffer from overpopulation.
But for now, it was dangerously underpopulated.