Zero Tolerance

Micro Contro — NQ 3

The two Widowmakers dismounted their horses as instructed by the grim sentry who waved them on. These men were nervous, for the hour was late and they brought unwelcome news. The outpost seemed unnaturally still. It was as though a pall had settled over this region, and all memory of cheer was driven away.

This was quite a contrast from other outlying camps and townships the Khadoran snipers had visited recently. The taste of victory was sweet, and many superior officers had given their men a reprieve. Boxes of finer wines than most Khadorans would ever see, spiced meat, and many other luxuries unknown in the Motherland had filtered down to those who knew who to ask or where to go. The problem of discipline had prompted Queen Ayn to pass a decree requiring officers to suffer no tolerance of corruption among the subjugated Llaelese. Most took this order with a wink and a nod though, for they beleived their men must enjoy victory.

This camp felt different, and the Widowmakers knew well the reason. Here they found perfect discipline and silence. One man whispered to the other, “I do not think this is a good idea, Pytor.”

“He would want to know. We must tell him.”

“What harm, keeping silent? Do we want to get in the middle Pytor glared at his peer, “Far worse to have known and not reported it.”

“We were not involved, we just witnessed. Do we want to wake him?”

“They say he doesn’t sleep. Now be silent.”

The sergeant standing watch outside the officer’s tent gave them a pitying look as if they had just volunteered to charge the cannons at Northguard. He opened the flap and waved them inside.

Kommander Orsus Zoktavir waited glowering like some ancient warlord. His eyes flickered with inner fire although it may have been a trick of the lantern. It was clear they had not awoken him, for his bunk was undisturbed, but he wore only undergarments and a red robe. Even so, Orsus was a huge man with an imposing presence, and the snipers were fearful at having disturbed him. His armor stood just behind him and to his left like some gigantic bodyguard looming in the shadows. The haft of his axe was leaning against a nearby table strewn with an assortment of battle maps. Both of the Widowmakers eyed the weapon with dread and noted it was within easy reach.

He waited for them, but not patiently. Even standing still Orsus was like a coiled spring or a cocked rifle with his fists clenched and his jaw muscles strained.

Pytor spoke, stammering, “Kommander, we came here since we thought you would want to know. There has been… an incident. At a village a few miles west of Greywind Tower.”

Orsus leaned forward expectantly with all of his at-tention directed at the squirming sniper. His expression had changed from dour and brooding to hunger. Orsus had been order-ed to stand down by Kommandant Ivdanovich in Merywyn and was required to give his men a slight reprieve from fighting.

Orsus might have disobeyed this direct order had not the Queen sent him a personal request to make things easier for the Kommandant. It had been a test the likes of which he had never endured — sitting idly at this outpost, away from the front, seething with resentment as his countrymen bled and killed.

What his Kommandant did not understand was that ordering Orsus to stand down did not provide him relief. It only added to his strain. His eyes were red, his mind churning, and his men sensed he was ready to explode. Several had died in the last several days to “disciplinary measures” for what most would call minor infractions.

The Butcher looked at the Widowmakers with an intensity that frightened them both. Pytor wondered if he should have listened to his friend. “What incident?” Orsus growled.

“We arrived once it was already out of hand…”

Orsus snarled, “Out with it!”

“I don’t know how many innocents were killed. A number of the village men must have tried to stop it; they were shot outside the town hall. We went to check inside and saw they had gathered up the women. I don’t know whose idea it was. There were many empty crates of wine — all of the Winter Guard was drunk.” He seemed to be having difficulty saying aloud what horrors he had seen, but it did not require much imagination.

“The women screamed for help, but the drunkards just laughed and kept passing them around. I saw several bled out and tossed aside like refuse. When I saw there were officers there, I didn’t know what to do. We left immediately to tell you.”

Pytor’s voice faded to nothing as he looked at the expression on the Butcher’s face. Every muscle in his body was clenched, and his lips were pulled back in a snarling rictus. His hand gripped Lola’s haft. “WHERE?”

Although his legs were trembling and it took every ounce of courage he possessed, Pytor approached the table. His fingers were shaking terribly as he found a map of the nearby region. His jittery finger indicated a small dot representing a nameless village. “Just a f-few hours m-march…”

“LEAVE ME!” Orsus bellowed. He was already turning to his armor and beginning to strap the pieces on. The Widowmakers needed no further prompting and fled the room as fast as their legs could take them.

Orsus strode across the compound to a penned enclosure. Near the pen stood a hulking, battle-scarred Kodiak. On the Butcher’s orders it had been kept fired up at a low idling rumble. Llael had coal to spare — he saw no need to power down his ‘jacks when fighting might happen at any time. The Kodiak’s head turned to follow him as Orsus approached, picking up on the warcaster’s anger across the link they shared.

The Doom Reavers within the enclosure stood as he approached; their faces were hidden behind the iron grills of their closed helmets. There was one standing apart from the rest, a great bare-chested, tattooed brute who stood among them like a wolf among wild dogs. This was Fenris, a legend among the Reavers and a mad berserker so fierce no officers were willing to risk his presence. Fenris had been summoned at the Butcher’s request after hearing the High Kommand had debated having him executed as a safety precaution. None but Orsus Zoktavir could contain him, but he seemed to view the Butcher with some semblance of kinship. Orsus saw Fenris as too great a weapon to destroy even if almost too dangerous to wield. That Doom Reaver leaned now on the hilt of his enormous cursed blade. His posture suggested he had expected Orsus.

“Fenris, are you ready to fight?”

The Reaver needed not reply. He gave a feral grin, and his eyes were intense and black as pitch. The litany of his victims would have taken hours to relate.

Orsus spoke again. “We have traitors to wake.”