THE WARMASTER

by Dan Abnett

  Van Voytz and Cybon were waiting in the third. Colonel Kazader and about twenty officers and tactical specialists were with them.

  Biota wanded the privacy veil open to admit Gaunt.

  ‘Your men can wait here,’ he said.

  ‘The Scions can,’ said Gaunt. ‘These Ghosts are my staff, so they’ll be coming with me.’

  ‘I really don’t think–’ Biota began.

  ‘Bram! Get in here!’ Van Voytz called jovially.

  ‘Follow me, please,’ Gaunt said to Daur and the others.

  Van Voytz got up and clapped Gaunt on the arm paternally. Cybon, sullen, sat at the strategium.

  ‘Good morning to you, my lord militant,’ Van Voytz said. He was in ‘good humour’ mood, but Gaunt had known the lord general’s moods long enough to catch the tension.

  ‘We were scheduled for this afternoon, sir,’ said Gaunt.

  ‘Things have moved up,’ said Cybon, just a steel hiss.

  ‘I doubt very much you haven’t absorbed the briefing data already, Bram,’ said Van Voytz. ‘You always were a quick study. Diligent.’

  ‘I have, as it happens,’ said Gaunt. ‘I would have appreciated longer. It’s considerable and complex.’

  ‘Well, we’ll have the room to begin with,’ said Van Voytz, nodding to Kazader and looking significantly at Gaunt’s men.

  ‘I’m going to have to brief my men anyway,’ said Gaunt. ‘This is Captain Daur, G Company lead, one of my seniors. Beltayn is my adjutant. Bonin is scout company, so he represents the Tanith specialty. It’ll save time if they hear it first hand. I believe time is of the essence.’

  Bonin, Beltayn and Daur had all drawn to salute the lord generals. Van Voytz glanced at Cybon, got a curt nod, then accepted the salute.

  ‘Stand easy,’ he said. ‘Good to meet you.’

  ‘They’re here to take notes, are they?’ asked Cybon.

  ‘They are, sir,’ said Gaunt.

  Cybon looked at Bonin. Daur and Beltayn had both brought out data-slates. Bonin was standing with his hands behind his back.

  ‘That man doesn’t have a pen,’ said Cybon.

  ‘He doesn’t need one,’ said Gaunt.

  ‘Immediate update, as of this morning,’ said Van Voytz. Biota flipped the table view to a projection of a southern hemispheric area.

  ‘The hot spot is Ghereppan,’ said Van Voytz. ‘All eyes on that. Major conflict reported in the over-nights. We think Sek is concentrating a new effort there. He may be in that zone in person.’

  ‘That’s where the Saint is?’ asked Gaunt.

  ‘Leading the main southern efforts,’ said Biota.

  ‘Also of note, however–’ Van Voytz started to say.

  ‘She’s a target,’ Gaunt interrupted.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is that deliberate or accidental?’

  ‘She’s leading the forces there,’ said Van Voytz.

  ‘Nominally,’ Cybon added.

  ‘But she’s bait,’ said Gaunt. ‘Is that by design?’

  ‘What are you saying, Bram?’ asked Van Voytz.

  ‘You put our highest value asset on the ground under Sek’s nose,’ said Gaunt. ‘He’s biting. Was that deliberate?’

  Van Voytz glanced at Cybon.

  ‘I’m asking,’ said Gaunt, ‘if this is part of a projected policy by the warmaster. To bait the Archenemy.’

  ‘She’s a senior commander,’ said Cybon.

  Gaunt pointed to the table.

  ‘Of course. But she is also a symbolic asset. If the Ghereppan action was commanded by you, sir, or Urienz, or me, do you suppose the enemy disposition would be the same? You kill one of us, you kill a senior officer. You kill the Saint, then you win an immense psychological victory.’

  Van Voytz cleared his throat.

  ‘There is fury here,’ said Gaunt, running his finger along the lines of the three-dimensional modelling. ‘An urgent, careless onrush. Look, they clearly haven’t secured these highways, or either of these refinery areas. This vapour mill has been bypassed. Those are all strategic wins. The Archenemy is effectively ignoring them in its effort to reach Ghereppan and engage. Sek sees the Saint as a vital target, more vital than any of the forge assets on this world. Of course he does. So see how he reacts? His tactics are hasty, eager and over-stretching. They are not typical of his usual, careful methodology.’

  ‘I have… I have already noted to you,’ said Biota, ‘that there is a madness in the Anarch’s battlefield craft. No logic. This has been going on for a while.’

  ‘You have, sir,’ replied Gaunt, ‘and no wonder. There is a logic, it’s just not the logic we would apply. I’ll ask again, is the Saint being used as bait to draw the Anarch into an unwise over-stretch?’

  ‘We are aware that she is a tempting prospect,’ said Van Voytz.

  ‘Really?’ asked Gaunt. ‘A tempting prospect? I’ve heard neither of you confirm that her deployment is a deliberate tactic of provocation. I’d be reassured if you said so. It’s clinical, and risky, but it’s ruthlessly effective. What troubles me is that staff is unaware of the effect.’

  ‘Once again, sir,’ said Kazader indignantly, ‘you speak with an insulting tone that–’

  ‘Shut up,’ Gaunt told him. He took the wand from Biota and adjusted the table view to a greater scale.

  ‘The Archenemy of man is an unholy monster,’ said Gaunt, ‘but we’d be fools to underestimate his intelligence. And idiots to presume his motives are the same as our own. See? In the Ghereppan zone, Sek’s entire approach has shifted. By placing the Saint there, we have altered the enemy’s plans. He’s not interested in Urdesh. He’s interested in the Saint.’

  ‘We did…’ Cybon began. ‘That is to say, the warmaster did reckon on a shift of tactics. The Saint isn’t bait. More… a goad. You have pointed out that Sek’s mode of warfare has altered. We have begun to push him into rash structural positioning and unsupported advance.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, for confirming my appraisal at last,’ said Gaunt. ‘Yes, it is working… but it must be capitalised on. Sek could be broken at Ghereppan. You’ve made him clumsy, and weakened his core. But if this ruse fails, he takes the Saint and we suffer a critical loss.’

  ‘It will be capitalised on, sir,’ snapped Cybon.

  ‘It can be capitalised on by the commander on the ground,’ said Gaunt. ‘There are huge opportunities to throttle or even crush the enemy forces. Of course, the commander on the ground needs be aware of the situation in order to capitalise on it. Is she?’

  There was silence.

  ‘Does the Saint know she’s your goad, Lord Cybon?’ asked Gaunt. ‘If she doesn’t, for feth’s sake… She won’t appreciate the enemy’s weakness and won’t be able to exploit it.’

  ‘She has senior officers,’ said Van Voytz. ‘Advisors…’

  ‘Is staff here advising her too?’ asked Gaunt. ‘Or are we just assuming? Bait needs to know that it’s bait if the trap is going to work.’

  Cybon rose to his feet.

  ‘That crest, Gaunt, has made you impudent,’ he said. ‘You lecture us about tactics?’

  ‘I think these are Macaroth’s tactics,’ said Gaunt. ‘I think he sees it very clearly. He has assigned staff to implement them, perhaps without fully explaining his thinking. Staff is executing a plan without fully appreciating why it’s a plan. This, I think, is an example of the lack of interchange you complained to me about.’

  ‘Now listen, Gaunt,’ said Van Voytz, his face flushed.

  ‘I want to win this war, general,’ said Gaunt. ‘I doubt I’m the only person in this room who thinks that’s the foremost priority. Before we implement the warmaster’s orders, we need to comprehend his ideas.’

  ‘Are you done?’ asked Cybon.

  ‘I’ve barely started,’ said Gaunt. ‘It’s not just the Saint. You think she’s the only bait here on Urdesh? Chief Tactical Officer Biota related to me the “madness” of Sek’s operations on this world. Both sides should be striv
ing to acquire, as intact as possible, the considerable resources of this forge world. After all, that’s why the reconquest wasn’t given to the hammer-fist of the fleet. Sek’s schemes have, for months, seemed to be disjointed, as if the monster has lost his way, descended into feral nonsense. But what we’re seeing today at Ghereppan can be enlarged planet-wide. From the outset, Sek has been less interested in Urdesh than in the value we place upon it. We are holding back so that Urdesh remains intact. He is counting on that. He is counting on the fact that we value this planet as a commodity to be preserved. I believe that he is so anxious to prove his worth… or so anxious to repudiate his reputation in the eyes of the Archon… that the possession of Urdesh is secondary to him. He has set the trap. He has laid the bait for us. That bait is Urdesh and Sek himself. We are so eager to take this world whole and end him. So eager, we have brought the Saint. The Saint, the warmaster, and a significant section of high command staff.’

  Gaunt looked at them.

  ‘Sek doesn’t want Urdesh,’ he said. ‘He wants to decapitate the crusade.’

  The late morning had brought heavy rain in across the bay and Eltath. It was dismal. Baskevyl, Domor and Fazekiel had sheltered for two hours under the colonnades of the ordo stronghold, listening to the rain patter off the yard’s paving slabs. The last time Baskevyl had tried the porter’s office, a surly man had emerged after repeated knocks and told him that transport would be arranged, and that because of a scarcity of drivers, they would have to keep waiting.

  ‘We’ve been waiting for a while,’ Baskevyl had replied, biting back the urge to shout at the man.

  The porter had shrugged as if to say, ‘I know, what can you do, eh?’

  This time, Fazekiel had gone to the door and hammered hard. There was no response. She tried the door, and found it was locked. So was the door to the main atrium.

  ‘Have they just left us out here?’ asked Domor, knuckling rain drops off his nose.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ said Baskevyl.

  ‘No, it’s typical,’ said Fazekiel. ‘They made us wait when we got here, they’re making us wait again.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Domor.

  ‘It’s a game,’ said Fazekiel.

  ‘What’s the point of the game?’ Domor asked.

  ‘To show us who’s in charge,’ she said.

  Baskevyl buttoned up his jacket.

  ‘How far is it to the billet?’ he asked.

  Domor shrugged.

  ‘Seven, eight miles?’ he said.

  ‘We could have walked home by now,’ said Baskevyl. He started off towards the gate and the street beyond.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Fazekiel.

  ‘Walking it,’ said Baskevyl.

  Apart from the rain, Gaelen quarter was quiet. Baskevyl hadn’t paid much attention on the drive in, but now he was conscious of how empty and bleak the streets surrounding the ordos stronghold were. It wasn’t derelict. The area was full of mercantile offices, commercial buildings and counting houses, and they were all well kept and in good repair. But they were all shut, closed, locked and barred. Shutters covered their windows, and cages were padlocked across their doors. There was no sign of life. Baskevyl wasn’t sure if it was simply a non-business day, a holy day, perhaps, or if the premises were permanently closed. They all looked like they’d been locked up the night before, never to be opened again.

  ‘We just walk,’ said Baskevyl.

  ‘You know the way?’ asked Fazekiel. ‘We don’t know this city.’

  Baskevyl grinned at her, and jerked a thumb towards the despondent Domor.

  ‘Shoggy’s Tanith, Luna,’ he said. ‘He’s not going to get lost.’

  Baskevyl looked at Domor.

  ‘You’re not, are you?’

  Domor shook his head.

  ‘This way,’ he said, taking the lead. ‘Top of the hill, then to the left. I don’t remember the route they brought us, but I can find Low Keen from here.’

  They trudged up the hill in the rain, soaked.

  ‘There’s a good omen,’ remarked Fazekiel.

  Someone had daubed the words THE SAINT STANDS WITH US on the side of a nearby townhouse.

  ‘If she stands with us,’ said Domor, ‘she’s soaked to her underwear too.’

  The hill was steep. At the top, on a junction, they were able to look back and see the grey smudge of the bay beyond the sloping rooftops. The weather was coming in off the sea, a grey haze. They could see the shadows of heavy rain slanting from even heavier cloud.

  Baskevyl heard a sound and looked up. An aircraft. Its engine noise was reflected off the low cloud, and he had to search to spot the actual object. It was a dot, cutting low and east across the city. After a moment, two more specks followed it, slicing fast across the clouds.

  Domor frowned.

  ‘That’s not one of ours,’ he said quietly.

  Somewhere, far away to the north, an anti-air battery opened up, a distant rapid thumping. Several more joined in.

  ‘Oh, feth,’ said Domor.

  A vehicle was approaching along the hillside street. A cargo truck. Baskevyl stepped off the pavement and tried to flag it down. It rushed past, oblivious, hissing up standing water in a spray.

  The distant rattle of gunfire got louder, like firecrackers in a neighbouring street.

  ‘We need to get back quickly,’ said Baskevyl.

  Another vehicle was approaching, a Munitorum transport rumbling through the rain with its headlamps on.

  ‘Leave this to me,’ said Fazekiel.

  She stepped into the road and stood in its path, one hand raised.

  The transport ground to a halt in front of her. The driver peered out, regarding the commissar with some trepidation.

  ‘We need a ride,’ Fazekiel told him. ‘To the Low Keen quarter.’

  ‘Ma’am, I’m ordered to go to Signal Point,’ said the driver nervously.

  ‘Let me rephrase that,’ said Fazekiel. ‘Officio Prefectus. I am commandeering this vehicle, now.’

  As they scrambled into the cab of the transport, Baskevyl heard more aircraft. He turned and looked up.

  Planes were approaching from the south west, emerging from the heavy cloud. Hundreds of aircraft, grumbling in wide, heavy formations.

  They weren’t Imperial.

  ‘Drive!’ Baskevyl ordered, slamming the cab door.

  The rain had put a dent in the high spirits raised by Blenner’s proposed feast. Smoke and steam continued to billow out of the cookhouses, but the work had slowed down. People had drifted off, and only a few of the women and the camp cooks had stayed to keep things warm and stop them burning. The band had packed up.

  ‘They are coming here,’ said Yoncy.

  Elodie had been playing catch with her in one of the billet hallways. Rain had driven the children indoors, and they were getting fractious. Yoncy had at least stopped complaining about her hair. Elodie was glad of that. She was pretty sure she didn’t have lice, but every time the child mentioned it, she wanted to scratch.

  ‘Who are, Yonce?’ she asked.

  Yoncy frowned at her.

  ‘They are full up with woe,’ she said.

  There was noise from the yard. Elodie went out to see, leading Yoncy by the hand.

  The funeral transports had returned.

  ‘They’re back soon,’ Elodie said to Rawne.

  ‘That’s what I was thinking,’ said Rawne.

  Criid got out of the transport and hurried across to Rawne. Elodie could see that Felyx was still in the back of the vehicle. Dalin was sitting with him. Then she noticed that the coffin was still in the back of the transport.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Criid asked Rawne.

  ‘About to ask you the same thing,’ he said.

  ‘The roads are shut,’ said Criid. ‘We got to the templum, and that was locked. The attendant said the service was postponed.’

  Rawne made a face.

  ‘Felyx is upset,’ said Criid. ‘We had to bring t
he coffin back with us.’

  ‘Of course he is,’ said Zwiel, appearing at her side. ‘That won’t do at all.’

  ‘He’s actually angry more than upset,’ said Criid, glancing back at the transports. They could see Felyx yelling and gesturing at the sympathetic Dalin, though they couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  ‘Angry with everything and everyone,’ said Criid. ‘Angry at the whole fething galaxy.’

  ‘The dead must rest,’ said Zwiel, tutting, ‘they really must.’

  ‘Noted, father,’ said Rawne.

  Across the yard, a Ghost shouted and pointed up into the rain at the lowering sky. Formations of aircraft were passing over them. There were packs of them, hundreds. The shrill scream of their chugging engines was distinctive. The formations seemed to slide across the grey sky. They were heading for the Great Hill.

  ‘Secondary order!’ Rawne yelled. ‘Get up, get up, get up! All companies! Secondary order now!’

  Around him, the Ghosts scattered fast, heading for their bunk rooms and the arsenal.

  ‘Retinue into shelter!’ Rawne shouted. ‘Elam! Meryn! Get the retinue settled as best you can.’

  Ludd and Blenner ran up. Blenner looked flushed and out of breath.

  ‘See to discipline in the camp, Blenner,’ said Rawne.

  ‘Yes, but–’

  ‘See to discipline in the damn camp now!’ Rawne snapped.

  ‘Yes, major.’

  Rawne looked at Ludd.

  ‘Secondary order, and ready to move,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That includes crew-served.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Do we have any transport?’

  ‘A few of the cargo-eights,’ said Ludd.

  ‘Load them up. Munition support, plus heavier weapons. Everyone else can walk.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Ludd. ‘Walk to where, sir?’

  ‘Well, it’s not happening here, is it?’ said Rawne. ‘Unless you want to take pot-shots at those planes? Something’s coming in, and we need to be ready to meet it.’

  Ludd nodded.

  ‘Not dig in here, major?’ asked Zwiel.