Warhammer: Hail to the Void Lords!.

Chapter 926, 08.925: 'The Oathbreaker'

“I’m sorry, Commander, I cannot, and have no right to, uncover that sad history of the Vádłow family… If you insist on knowing, perhaps… perhaps it would be more appropriate for you to ask Colonel Jadwiga yourself. I’m sorry… you can ask about other things, and I will answer you to the best of my ability.”

The man lowered his head apologetically, his brows furrowed, and fell silent.

“It’s alright. I was only asked to help Sir Bayar and Baroness Ambis find the High Princess. If I have the chance after the battle, I will ask her again.” Horatio could see the intense struggle in his heart.

He was not an unreasonable bureaucrat.

When he mentioned the title "Supreme Princess," he keenly caught Poniatowski's momentary stiffness—a sudden, unexpected breath, a gloved hand unconsciously clenching into a fist, and a fleeting pain deep in his eyes, like an old wound being reopened.

He realized that he had inadvertently touched a forbidden zone that was sacred and painful in his memory.

He doesn't like to force people to do things against their will; he will use his own methods to explore the truth behind everything.

After a period of intense inner struggle, Poniatowski spoke again. This time, his tone was chillingly heavy, as if every word was soaked in blood and regret.

“Commander,” he raised his head, looking directly at Horatio, “I, Jadviga, and Brigadier General Jean Lannes… our fathers, and ourselves, have all failed our knightly oath.”

He bit his lower lip hard, and a trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his dry, rough lips, which looked particularly glaring on his weathered face.

"Now, we put on our uniforms again and return to the battlefield, and our mission is crystal clear."

His voice trembled, yet it contained an iron will: "To protect the unarmed people, and to deter aggressors who threaten peace."

This time, we are willing to give our lives.

This time, we will not let you down!
-
"Commander, Commander, we're almost at the energy hub," the Dragoon driver of Horatio's vehicle reported through the built-in communicator, his voice calm and professional, like a precise timer.

However, Poniatowski did not respond.

His fist, which he had just released, now pressed warily against the hilt of the knife at his waist, the worn leather handle making a slight creaking sound between his fingers.

The tense atmosphere inside the carriage was instantly replaced by a more primal and deadly premonition.

Horatio followed his gaze to the window, where howling winds swept sand and gravel across the rolling dunes, and there was nothing but monotonous yellow sand in sight.

The tactical display screen inside the command vehicle was calm, and the sensitive Imperial detectors did not report any anomalies.

"What's wrong?" Horatio sensed something, and a keen premonition of hostility subtly tugged at his heartstrings.

“The enemy.” Poniatowski’s voice was low and whispered, but it was extremely penetrating. “The enemy is rapidly approaching us.”

Horatio noticed that his pupils had contracted into warhorse-like horizontal pupils, scanning the distant sand dunes warily.

His long ears, covered with short downy hair and perched on his head, were twitching slightly, trying to catch sound waves beyond the range of human hearing.

This is an instinct derived from bloodline, a unique physiological advantage.

Before he finished speaking, the scout cavalryman at the very front of the column charged forward like a bolt of lightning tearing through the sand.

His warhorse was panting heavily, puffs of white steam billowing from its chest and nostrils, its belly soaked with sweat that evaporated in the cold air.

"Commander!" The cavalryman beside Poniatovsky's command vehicle jerked the reins, his horse rearing up and neighing anxiously. His voice was urgent yet exceptionally clear, each word seemingly shouted with all his might: "The Greenskin Vanguard Mobile Force has appeared on our right flank! They are attempting a surprise attack on the energy center! Expected contact in eight minutes!"

Poniatovsky abruptly turned his head, his gaze shooting like a drawn sword towards the unusually churning sand beneath the dune on his right.

His intuition was brutally proven true.

Without the slightest hesitation, with a clang of metal scraping, a gleaming saber was drawn from its sheath.

"Dragon Riders!" His roar, amplified by the loudspeaker, drowned out the engine's roar and the wind's howl, transforming into an unquestionable torrent of commands. "First, second, and third squadrons! Form combat formation immediately! Face the seven o'clock direction! The rest of the units continue to converge on the energy center! Fifth squadron, protect the Commander! We'll cover the rear!"

At his roar, the order was executed instantly.

This dragoon force was like a precision war machine that had been activated, with every gear meshing and turning perfectly.

The cavalry column that was called upon emitted a series of synchronized hoofbeats as they skillfully adjusted from a marching formation to a line formation to meet the enemy. The horses' hooves thundered as they pounded the railway tracks.

The wheeled "Pegasus" chariots passed through the passages left by the cavalry, their tires kicking up clouds of dust as they smoothly and precisely drifted, turning their heavy frontal armor toward the direction of the approaching threat.

The hydraulic system emitted a heavy hum, and the laser turret on the roof rotated accordingly, aiming at the reverse slope of the sand dune. The invisible aiming beam had locked onto that death zone, ready to unleash deadly energy at any moment.

The dragoons moved with composure and speed, drawing Imperial-standard laser carbines from their saddlebags. The crisp clicks of their mechanisms echoed throughout the room, creating a chilling symphony.

"Waaaaaaagh!!!"

A terrifying, inhuman roar came from behind the sand dunes.

The voice was filled with pure brutality and a bloodlust, shaking the heavens and earth as if it were about to tear the gray sky apart.

This was not just a sound, but a spiritual shock, a primal, savage force that made the air tremble.

Even the battle-hardened warhorses, blindfolded, felt an instinctive unease, their hooves pawing restlessly and snorting.

The dragoons' long ears stood erect, capturing every movement of the enemy.

To Horatio's surprise, none of them showed any fear on their faces.

On the contrary, on those resolute faces weathered by wind and sand, an uncontrollable anger, a mixture of pain and hatred, surfaced.

The fear had long since been burned away, leaving only the chilling flames of revenge.

Their discipline was the vessel, perfectly containing and guiding this destructive rage.

This gives them a natural advantage when facing enemies like the Ork, who are driven by primal fighting instincts.

Horatio could see that these men might not be the best soldiers, but their hatred for the green-skinned aliens might make them the most steadfast force against the green-skinned aliens on this land.

"They're here!!!" Poniatovsky raised his saber high, the gleaming blade reflecting a cold, bloodthirsty light in the dim light of Minova.

"Those brutal butchers!"

(End of this chapter)