by Dan Abnett
‘If it is a shrine,’ said Czytel.
Which is the point of us being here, Gaunt thought, but did not say it. He just nodded.
Czytek turned the squad.
‘Pick it up! Let’s go!’ he called into the darkness.
II
The Crusade had finally begun.
The Crusade.
The top brass had been talking about it for years, and received wisdom was that the region known as the Sabbat Worlds was past saving. It was a vast territory at the rimward edge of the Segmentum Pacificus, a major Imperial holding that had, in the course of two bloody centuries been overrun by the marauding armies of the Sanguinary Worlds. Some worlds had fallen to the Eternal Archenemy. Others, like Formal Prime, had struggled on, surrounded by the barbarous foe, fighting to maintain their Imperial identities. The Sabbat Worlds deserved the protection of the Throne, their seneschals and governors pleaded for it, but liberation was a monumental task. Few thought that High Command would ever sanction the massive expenditure that a crusade war would require.
Until Slaydo. Lord Militant Slaydo was a persuasive beast, and with the victories of the Khulan Wars on his honour roll, he had been declared Warmaster and allowed to prosecute the Sabbat Worlds Crusade.
It was the biggest Imperial mobilisation in the segmentum for three centuries. The Departmento Tacticae Imperialis estimated it would take a century to successfully complete the campaign.
Ibram Gaunt had no real interest in looking that far ahead. The fighting to retake Formal Prime’s ancient and crumbling hives had been some of the most brutal and intense he’d experienced, and his career with the Hyrkans had not been lacking in bloodshed. Eight years since he’d joined the Imperial Guard as a Commissariat cadet, and he’d seen plenty of action, but nothing like this.
Sangrel Hive, the world’s most massive hab centre, was the stronghold of an enemy ‘magister’ or warlord, a monster called Shebol Red-Hand. His cult followers, the Charismites, held their ground with a zealous rage that was quite intimidating. The previous week, Gaunt had seen more men die in one hour than he thought possible.
So this, this lamplight detour mission into the rambling, pitch-black undersinks seventy kilometres beyond the recognised limits of Sangrel Hive, this could be seen as something of a perk. It got a squad of men out of the front line for a few days. It had the personal sanction of the Warmaster. The surroundings might be dismal – the unnerving darkness, the steady seep of tarry ground-water, the smell of rot and mildew, the vermin, the unsafe sections of tunnel – but the Hyrkan soldiers were out of the front-line action, and there were no screaming waves of spear-wielding Charismites rushing their formation every few minutes.
The ground shook. Dirt trickled. Gaunt noted the agitation of the men once again, the flickering beams. He realised there was a chilly lick of sweat between his own shoulder blades. Sangrel Hive was a long way away. If they could feel the earth-shock of the artillery bombardment at this distance, what kind of hell had the main front turned into?
The assault of Formal Prime was part of Operation Redrake, the Warmaster’s opening move. Named after the famous predatory serpent, Redrake was intended to be a lightning strike against multiple targets: four significant worlds at the trailing edge of the Sabbat group: Formal Prime, Long Halent, Onscard and Indrid. Slaydo had chosen to lead the Formal Prime assault personally. It was the keystone world.
If Redrake failed, then the Crusade was as good as botched before it had even got going. The High Lords of Terra would recall Slaydo. Tactics would be reconsidered. The Sabbat Worlds might be left to rot for another thousand years. Another ten thousand.
Gaunt tried not to think about it. He was an ambitious young man. He had achieved his status in the Hyrkans through sheer hard work and perseverance. He had welcomed the possibility of a major new campaign because it was an opportunity for an ambitious young man to prove himself and make a name.
The reality was bitter and exhausting. War was not a glorious thing, no matter what memories or reputations resulted from it. War was about suffering and loss, about struggle and sacrifice. It was about blood. Just a few weeks into the opening engagements of the conflict, Ibram Gaunt no longer thought about it in terms of proving himself, or building a reputation.
He had realised that the Sabbat Worlds Crusade was something he was going to have to endure. It was something a man simply had to survive.
Gaunt wondered what kind of strength that feat was going to require. He wasn’t sure he had it. He wasn’t sure he’d ever had it. He was just an over-educated, over-privileged scholam boy with too much book-learning and–
The ground shook.
‘Here,’ said Gaunt. ‘Sir?’
Czytel turned. Gaunt shone his lamp down a side passage that was partly obscured by architectural debris.
‘This is the junction?’ the major asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Gaunt.
Czytel shrugged, and clambered through. The men followed, lasguns across their chests. Gaunt wanted to assign them a covering pattern, to send some men ahead to recon. However, the Hyrkans, excellent, well-drilled battlefield soldiers though they were, generally lacked an aptitude for scouting and recon.
Besides, it was not Gaunt’s place to issue commands. That was the officer’s job. Gaunt was merely the commissar.
III
The sinkway ran for about eighty metres, then opened out into a series of large, irregular caverns. It was part of the old arcology that had once formed the massive underhive realm of Sangrel, when the hive had been in its prime. Using his lamp, Gaunt could see rusted threads of technological out-ports and power cables embedded in the crumbling walls, and the remains of cross-arch roof supports and rockcrete pillaring. But the space was old, and had not been maintained at all in the century or more since the hive had shrunk and its outer quarters had been abandoned.
Like the undersink they had trekked through, it was derelict. The ceiling had collapsed in places, littering the ground with rubble and twisted metal rebar. Pools of oily water had accumulated in the darkness. Gaunt could hear the scratch of vermin. He could see the partial remains of an old, tiled floor, the relic of grander days.
There was light ahead. It seemed strange, out of place. Glow-globes and lumen units had been strung from the exposed girders or threaded up on wire supports to hook pins that had been power-sunk into the rock. They could hear the low, background throb of a generator.
Gaunt sniffed. He could smell rock dust, the fine dry powder kicked out by an excavator’s drill.
Czytel flashed a few gestures, and the advance sharpened up. Lasrifles swung up ready, covering style, as the men fanned out and prowled forward. Zennet, the squad’s sniper, unsleeved his long-las and popped the cover on the scope. He and Breccia, the squad’s sweeper, had been lugging the charge panniers, so Zennet took up a spot nearby, allowing him to both scope the area and stay close enough to guard the payload. Breccia began to unpack and assemble his sweeper broom. His lascarbine lay ready on the ground beside him.
Czytel had drawn his laspistol. With his left hand, he flashed some more fingers, indicating numbers and groupings. The advance scurried forward, switching off their lamp packs and adjusting their eyes to the light of the strung lamps.
Gaunt took out his bolt pistol. It felt far too heavy.
Danks and Hiskol were beside him. Gaunt nodded, and they moved ahead into the lit cavern.
Right in front of them was a woman in work overalls, carrying a tray of potshards.
She saw them and yelped, dropping the tray as though it was red-hot. The contents smashed on the ancient tiles.
‘Calm. Calm!’ Gaunt told her. He reached for her and pulled her down into cover.
‘Don’t shout,’ he said firmly.
‘You’re Guard?’ she asked, breathless, looking up at him.
‘Yes.’
�
��The Guard detail we sent for?’
‘Yes. You’re with the dig team?’
She nodded.
‘You scared the living shit out of me,’ she said.
‘Kallie? Kallie? Are you all right?’
A man’s voice echoed through the cavern. He appeared at the far end, bracing an autorifle.
‘Kallie? I heard you cry out. Kallie?’
‘Put it down,’ Danks told him, aiming his lasrifle from the cheek.
‘Do as he says,’ Hiskol emphasised, closing from the other side, lasrifle aimed, one eye closed.
‘Throne!’ the man said, and lowered his rifle to the floor, terrified.
‘Don’t let them hurt him!’ the woman told Gaunt.
Gaunt rose.
‘Stand down,’ he said. He approached the man, who was on his knees. Danks had kicked the autorifle away.
‘Imperial Guard,’ Gaunt said. ‘Hyrkan Eighth. Are you a member of the survey team?’
‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘Yes.’
‘We came in response to your message,’ Gaunt said. ‘I’ll need to see some identification.’
The man immediately reached for his pocket. Gaunt’s aim with the bolt pistol was unwavering.
‘Do it gently,’ he advised.
The man produced an ident slate and proffered it to Gaunt.
‘Wal Desruisseaux,’ he said. ‘Survey Advance. You scared me.’
‘Yeah, we’re supposed to do that,’ said Danks, his aim still steady.
Gaunt suppressed a smile. He studied the slate.
‘This survey was undertaken with the authority of the Warmaster,’ Desruisseaux said. ‘His personal authority–’
‘I understand,’ said Gaunt.
‘No, he really–’
Gaunt looked at the kneeling archaeologist.
‘I understand, sir. Warmaster Slaydo is particularly concerned that the Crusade recovers, authenticates and preserves all traces of the Saint Beati Sabbat, especially her votive shrines. It is an underlying standing order. It explains why so many archaeological and survey teams have been allowed prominence in the vanguard. It explains your presence here, and why we have responded so directly to your call for help. Believe me, I understand, sir.’
He tossed the slate back to the archaeologist. Desruisseaux caught it and got to his feet.
‘Are you the officer in charge of–’ Desruisseaux began.
‘Throne, no,’ replied Gaunt. ‘You’ll meet him shortly. How many of you are there?’
‘Eight,’ said the archaeologist.
‘Get them to come out right now. Into the open. My men are tight on their triggers. Let’s not have an incident.’
‘I thought you said they weren’t your men?’ said Desruisseaux.
‘Get them out front,’ said Gaunt.
IV
They herded the eight archaeologists into the globe-lit inner cavern space. Czytel’s squad surrounded them and kept watch.
Desruisseaux was in charge. The girl that Gaunt had grabbed, the survey team’s second, was his wife.
‘Explain what you have found,’ Czytel said, lighting a lho-stick. ‘Come on, now, professor, we’ve come a long way through the dark.’
Desruisseaux glowered at him.
‘So have we, sir,’ he replied.
‘We’ve spent our lives documenting and determining the history of the Sabbat Beati,’ said Kallie. ‘This crusade provides us with an unparalleled opportunity to physically investigate her–’
Czytel blew a raspberry.
‘You’re an encumbrance is what you are. Throne-damned academics, worming away where war is happening. We’re dying, don’t you know, a Throne-awful lot as it is, without having to risk our lives protecting the likes of you.’
‘The Beati–’ Desruisseaux began.
‘Shut it,’ said Czytel.
‘But this shrine–’ the woman said.
‘What have you found?’ asked Gaunt.
V
It was a huge rockcrete plug, filling what might have once been the mouth of a tunnel or a cavern in the rock. The walls around were covered in votive offerings and the calcified drip of wax from a million candles. Though this undersink had been deserted for over a century, people had continued to come here and place offerings at the wall. This was sacred ground.
And it shook. The distant artillery bombardment made the cavern throb.
‘This is your shrine?’ asked Czytel.
‘Sir, yes. It is obviously so,’ Desruisseaux replied. ‘See the layers of votive wax here, and the number of offerings. Even in modern times, during the cruel reign of Shebol, hivers have flocked here through the dark to make observance.’
‘I don’t really know what I’m looking at,’ Czytel said, stepping back and frowning.
‘As I understand it,’ said Gaunt, ‘the shrine lies in the cavern beyond. This rockcrete plug is sealing the entrance.’
‘Exactly,’ said Kallie. ‘So, I take it you’ve brought the explosives?’
VI
Breccia and Zennet had been carrying the charge panniers. Cold-packed fyceline gel in ten-mil cases. Enough to bring down a curtain wall.
‘Drill them in,’ Czytel ordered.
Breccia nodded and hurried to oblige.
‘Sir,’ said Gaunt, taking him to one side, ‘is that wise? We have no idea what we’re–’
Czytel turned to look at him.
‘Gaunt, they’ve called us in to blow up that rockcrete plug. Behind it, most probably, is a shrine to the Beati. If there is, the Warmaster will praise us. If there isn’t, then he will approve our efforts to confirm or deny. Whichever way it turns out, we are going to blow that plug out.’
Gaunt stepped back and took a moment to look at the cavern. The idea of revealing a genuine shrine to the saint thrilled him, but there was something unnerving about the tilt and balance of the light in the space, something that gave him pause.
VII
‘There was some inscription here,’ Gaunt said.
‘Yes,’ said Kallie, following him along the wall beside the plug. ‘It collapsed. It crumbled.’
Nearby, Breccia was drilling charge holes into the plug. He was fitting the explosives into position a stick at a time. Gaunt knew there was about an hour before they’d have to withdraw to a safe distance. Breccia was good at his job.
He reached down into the stone litter at the foot of the wall and picked up a shard on which there was a scrap of inscribed script.
‘You never thought to piece this inscription together?’ he asked.
‘There’s been too much work to do,’ she replied. ‘Why?’
‘It looks significant,’ Gaunt said. ‘And it looks as if it’s been cut away deliberately. As if the surface had been chipped or blasted away.’
‘No, it just collapsed. It crumbled,’ she insisted. ‘It was very old.’
‘Exactly. But you didn’t think it was an imperative to reconstruct it?’
She looked at him.
‘You’re a soldier. What does it matter?’
‘I’m an over-educated, over-privileged scholam boy,’ Gaunt replied. ‘That’s why.’
VIII
Gaunt drew Czytel aside quietly and told him he thought they should stop placing the charges.
‘Stop?’ Czytel frowned.
‘I believe we need to know more about this site, major. We–’
‘For Throne’s sake, Gaunt,’ Czytel began. ‘That’s why we’re going to blow it open. To find out. To prove it is a shrine. This is a fool’s errand and a waste of time. I want it resolved one way or another.’
‘I have a gut feeling that detonating the charges would be a bad idea, sir,’ said Gaunt.
Czytel sniffed.
Gaunt’s gut feelings were all too real
and all too unreliable. He’d almost been split in two by Dercius’s chainsword two years earlier. The sight of the scar across his belly made even veterans shiver.
Czytel looked at the young commissar.
‘We’re going to blow this open, Gaunt,’ he said. ‘We’re going to find this shrine, and we’re going to go back to the line and report a duty completed. The Warmaster will smile upon us, and we will all be warmed by that smile.’
Gaunt wanted to speak, but he hesitated.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said.
IX
The ground shook.
Breccia was working diligently. Gaunt watched for a while, then wandered along the outer wall of the alleged shrine. To either side of the rockcrete plug, the tunnel walls were thick with wax from the candles pilgrims had brought to light. The wax had set around old, dry flowers, coins, medals and other votive offerings fixed to the wall. Though they had been on site for a good while, the survey team had made no attempt to clear the wax and examine the wall. Gaunt was still puzzled by their disinclination to recover the inscription. The only real effort they seemed to have made was in futile drilling to unseal the plug.
The ground shook.
‘Vedic?’ Gaunt called. The squad’s flame trooper hurried over from where he been waiting, chatting to fellow members of the advance.
‘Sir?’
‘Get a low heat on this section of wax,’ Gaunt told him.
Vedic frowned, but made no comment. He tightened the flamer’s light and washed a little fire over the wall. Old wax bobbled and streamed. Flowers crisped. Coins, loosened and heated, dropped onto the ground.
Gaunt had been hoping for more inscriptions, inscriptions that had been covered up by the wax. But the exposed wall was bare. The only inscription around the shrine entrance had been the one that had mysteriously crumbled.
He noticed that Breccia had stopped work.
‘What’s the matter?’ Gaunt asked, crossing to him before Czytel noticed. He walked up the stone ramp to where Breccia stood by the plug.
