by Dan Abnett
‘Something odd,’ Breccia said, looking a little worried. He didn’t want the commissar to think he was slacking.
He’d been using his sweeper unit to scan the plug and choose the best places to drill his charge holes.
‘When I got closer to this side,’ Breccia told Gaunt, ‘I started to get a ghost return. It’s not coming from the plug, but it’s strong. I’d say a lump of metal or something, buried in the wall this side of the plug.’
‘How deep?’ Gaunt asked.
‘Not deep at all.’
‘How big?’
‘The size of a munitions crate perhaps?’
‘What was the survey team doing if they didn’t detect this?’ Gaunt asked.
‘Beg your pardon, sir?’ asked Breccia.
‘Nothing,’ Gaunt said. ‘Keep placing the charges, or Czytel will get grumpy. Leave this with me.’
Gaunt unfastened his entrenching tool from his pack, locked the folding blade in place, and started to dig away at the wall. It wasn’t as tough as rockcrete, but it took some effort to chip the surface away.
‘What the Throne are you doing?’ Desruisseaux called out.
‘Something you should have done,’ Gaunt replied. He nodded to the men to keep Desruisseaux and his team back. Stone chips and dust began to spatter out of the hole he was making.
‘Gaunt?’ Czytel asked, approaching.
‘One moment.’
‘Gaunt, in the name of the Throne–’
‘Just give me one moment, major,’ Gaunt said more firmly, working hard and not looking at the other officer.
‘I’m not in the mood for this, Gaunt,’ Czytel growled.
‘Just wait!’ Gaunt snapped. He’d made a hole, and exposed what appeared to be a small cavity or sealed alcove. He cut some more away, grabbed his lamp, and peered inside.
‘Throne!’ he gasped.
‘What is it?’ Czytel asked, crowding in behind him. ‘What can you see?’
Gaunt reached in with both hands and gently, reverently, lifted out the object inside the cavity.
It was old, covered in dust. It had evidently been damaged.
It was a helmet from a suit of Mark VI Adeptes Astartes armour.
‘Glory!’ said Czytel.
Gaunt set it down, and wiped some of the dust away.
‘Iron Snakes,’ Gaunt said.
‘How do you know?’ asked Czytel.
‘I studied at scholam,’ Gaunt said. ‘The Chapters of the Adeptes Astartes were a particular draw for me. This emblem is of the Iron Snakes of Ithaka.’
‘Why was it buried in the wall?’ asked Breccia.
Czytel looked at Gaunt.
‘The Adeptes Astartes would only leave something this precious here if the place were significant,’ Gaunt said.
‘Exactly. A shrine,’ replied Czytel.
‘Or a warning,’ said Gaunt. He looked over at the vox officer.
‘Transmit to Assault Command,’ he said. ‘My security code. Ask them for instruction. Tell them I want to talk to someone in Tactical. Someone with archive access. Tell them we will wait and hold position here until the bombardment is over, if necessary.’
‘Gaunt!’ Czytel barked.
Gaunt turned to look at the advance’s commanding officer. He couldn’t remember ever seeing the major this angry before.
Czytel beckoned Gaunt over to him, away from the men.
‘Throne damn you, Gaunt,’ Czytel hissed, as soon as Gaunt was close enough. ‘I’ve had enough of this. You’re out of line. I’ll be speaking to the general about your performance. You don’t give orders. You do not have command here. You have gravely overstepped your remit, and–’
‘Then start giving some orders that make sense,’ Gaunt replied, his voice equally low. ‘With respect, sir, you seem to be ignoring basic evidence. There are questions here, too many questions. They should be resolved before we continue.’
‘Oh, such as?’
Gaunt hesitated. He thought of the serpent symbol etched on the Corvus-pattern helm, and how he had immediately connected it to the snake the operation was named after. Foolish. Such connections could be made wherever you looked in the galaxy. They meant nothing. Just another example of his oh-so-unreliable gut instinct. Except it didn’t feel unreliable.
He couldn’t explain it. He knew Czytel would ignore him if he tried, but he also remembered what Oktar had taught him: ‘In war, Ibram, the instincts that really count are the ones that feel so strong and sharp, you can’t put them into words.’
‘I think this is a mistake,’ he said.
‘What are you saying, Gaunt?’
‘I’m saying… your command decisions are questionable right now. You may disparage my education, sir, but I’ve always admired your inherent wit and intelligence, neither of which you seem to be employing at the moment. I’m asking for good judgement.’
Czytel’s face flushed red in the cheeks and jowls. He began, in a no longer suppressed tone, to tell Gaunt exactly what he thought of him. Gaunt let it come. He stepped back, not even listening. His mind was settled. He began rehearsing in his mind the precise wording of Commissariat Article 297. By the authority of my rank, and by the terms agreed in Article 297 of the code, I have to inform you your actions in command have been found unsound, and therefore you are hereby removed from command until further notice.
As a commissar, Gaunt had never had to resort to command level censure before. It was a serious step. As soon as Czytel stopped ranting, he would look him square in the eye and recite those words.
He hoped the evidence would uphold such a drastic action. If it didn’t, it would be the end of Gaunt’s career.
‘Sir!’
They both looked around. The vox-officer had approached them. He looked very uncomfortable.
‘Sir, I sent your message, as instructed,’ he said. ‘I told them quite specifically we would wait until the bombardment had stopped if necessary.’
‘And?’ asked Gaunt.
‘The bombardment ended about three hours ago, sir,’ said the vox-man.
No one spoke. Gaunt looked at Czytel, and saw a new emotion crossing the major’s face. The ground shook, and a little patter of dirt spilled down from the tunnel wall.
Gaunt turned, got back up on the ramp, and walked to the rockcrete plug. He took off his glove and pressed his hand against the plug’s outer surface.
He felt the vibration. He felt something heaving and shaking deep underground, behind the massive plug.
Something trying to get out.
He looked back at Czytel.
‘We stop,’ he said. ‘Right now.’
There was a sudden blast of gunfire from behind them.
Everyone scattered, desperate for cover. Las-rounds zipped through the chamber. Gaunt ducked behind a support beam, and saw that Wal Desruisseaux had snatched a lasrifle from Trooper Gebbs and opened fire. Gebbs was dead. Another two men had been dropped, dead or badly hit. Blood decorated the ancient tiled floor.
Desruisseaux was retreating back up the cavern, firing from the hip on auto. In the confined space, it was enough to keep everybody ducking.
‘Get him! Shoot him!’ Czytel yelled, then grunted as a las-round hit his left elbow and spun him onto the ground. Head down, Gaunt dashed across the space to the major’s side.
‘I’m all right! I’m all right!’ Czytel growled, clutching his arm. ‘Just get the bastard!’
Gaunt nodded. He had already drawn his bolt pistol. He started yelling orders to the men pinned around him.
Desruisseaux had reached decent cover in the rear part of the chamber. He had excellent angles on any assault that came at him. That smacked of military training. It would be suicide to move until the maniac had run out of ammunition.
Gaunt realised they didn’t have that
long. Desruisseaux was concentrating his fire on the area of the plug and the ramp. He was trying to hit the panniers of charges that Breccia had left there.
He was trying to set them off.
Gaunt winced as a las-round banged off the edge of one of the steel containers. The gel charges could take quite a lot of rough treatment before they’d detonate, but a square-on hit from a lasbolt was not a healthy idea.
‘Zennet!’ Gaunt yelled. The squad’s marksman was in cover on the other side of the chamber. He had lined up behind a pile of stone blocks, his long-las cradled. He had no clear angle.
‘I’m going to try to buy you one clean opening,’ Gaunt yelled over the gunfire. ‘Don’t waste it!’
Zennet nodded, and took aim.
Gaunt took a deep breath and then popped up fast, firing his bolt pistol in a two-handed grip. The bolt pistol was a powerful piece. Neither it, nor any of the lasweapons carried by the advance, had enough penetrative power to get through the cover Desruisseaux was using, but the bolt pistol’s mass-reactive rounds exploded on impact. Unlike the las-fire that Czytel’s men had been able to throw at Desruisseaux, which had chipped and dented and sparked off his cover, the bolt-round produced a withering cluster of explosions that sent debris spitting and flying in all directions.
It was enough to make Desruisseaux start and react. He moved sideways, towards the cover of a nearby pillar.
He was open for a second.
Zennet took the shot and the long-las howled.
X
They looked at the body. Gaunt tore open the front of Desruisseaux’s worksuit, and they saw the old tattoo on his chest. It wasn’t something you’d want to look at for long.
‘A cultist,’ murmured Czytel. He was looking on as Danks bandaged his elbow.
‘A Charismite, I suspect,’ said Gaunt. He got up. ‘Check the other members of the survey team,’ he told Hiskol. ‘Have them strip down and check them for marks. He might have been working alone, infiltrating a genuine survey team, but I doubt it.’
Hiskol nodded.
‘So,’ mused Czytel, ‘the Ruinous Powers wanted us to do their dirty work for them.’
‘There’s something behind that plug,’ said Gaunt. ‘Something they wanted to let out. No doubt it would have caused great disruption to the invasion of Formal Prime. Maybe stopped the whole crusade in its tracks.’
He glanced back at the plug.
‘This cult evidently didn’t have access to the explosives they needed, so they bluffed us into doing it.’
‘What do you suggest we report?’ Czytel asked.
‘That we found a shrine. It just wasn’t one of ours.’
Gaunt paused.
‘Although, it was. The Iron Snakes closed this off a long time ago, and left a warning. I think the offerings here were offerings of respect to them and their efforts, not to whatever lies behind that plug. That’s our shrine, the wall outside. The years of devotion.’
Gaunt holstered his bolt pistol.
‘We inform the Inquisition and let them deal with it. The area will probably be interdicted. Some things are better left buried. For the good of the Imperium.’
He looked at the battered helm.
‘Though we should see if we can have this sent back to Ithaka. With honours.’
The ground shook.
‘Gaunt?’ said Czytel quietly. ‘What about… about our altercation? I want to–’
Gaunt shook his head.
‘It was a difficult situation. We both did what we thought best. My report will say so.’
‘But–’
‘For the good of the Imperium, remember?’ said Gaunt. ‘For the Hyrkan regiment, at least. Some things are better left buried.’
The ground shook again.
‘I think we should pull back from this area,’ said Czytel.
Gaunt nodded.
‘Look, I appreciate your attitude, Gaunt,’ Czytel said. ‘I showed you disrespect and I’m sorry. I think you’ve got a fine career ahead of you, no thanks to old bastards like me. Maybe one day you’ll end up serving alongside a major who’ll show you the proper respect, eh?’
Czytel tried to make a jolly laugh.
‘I’m sure I will, sir,’ said Ibram Gaunt.
About the Authors
Dan Abnett is the author of the Horus Heresy novels The Unremembered Empire, Know No Fear and Prospero Burns, the last two of which were both New York Times bestsellers. He has written almost fifty novels, including the acclaimed Gaunt’s Ghosts series, and the Eisenhorn and Ravenor trilogies. He scripted Macragge’s Honour, the first Horus Heresy graphic novel, as well as numerous audio dramas and short stories set in the Warhammer 40,000 and Warhammer universes. He lives and works in Maidstone, Kent.
David Annandale is the author of the Yarrick series, consisting of the novella Chains of Golgotha and the novel Imperial Creed, as well as the Horus Heresy novel The Damnation of Pythos. For the Space Marine Battles series he has written The Death of Antagonis and Overfiend. He is a prolific writer of short fiction, including the novella Mephiston: Lord of Death and numerous short stories set in the Horus Heresy and Warhammer 40,000 universes. David lectures at a Canadian university, on subjects ranging from English literature to horror films and video games.
Aaron Dembski-Bowden wrote the Horus Heresy novels Betrayer and The First Heretic, as well as the novella Aurelian and the audio drama Butcher’s Nails, for the same series. He is also responsible for the popular Night Lords series, the Space Marine Battles book Helsreach, the Grey Knights novel The Emperor’s Gift and numerous short stories. He lives and works in Northern Ireland.
Matthew Farrer is the author of the novella ‘The Inheritor King’, which appears in Sabbat Crusade. He also wrote the Warhammer 40,000 novels Crossfire, Legacy and Blind, along with numerous short stories, including ‘The Headstone and Hammerstone Kings’ for Sabbat Worlds and the Horus Heresy tale ‘After Desh’ea’. He lives and works in Australia.
John French has written several Horus Heresy stories including the novellas Tallarn: Executioner and The Crimson Fist, and the audio dramas Templar and Warmaster. He is the author of the Ahriman series, which includes the novels Ahriman: Exile and Ahriman: Sorcerer, plus the short story ‘Hand of Dust’. Additionally for the Warhammer 40,000 universe he has written the Space Marine Battles novella Fateweaver, plus a number of short stories. He lives and works in Nottingham, UK.
Nick Kyme is the author of the Horus Heresy novel Vulkan Lives, the novellas Promethean Sun and Scorched Earth, and the audio drama Censure. His novella Feat of Iron was a New York Times bestseller in the Horus Heresy collection, The Primarchs. For the Warhammer 40,000 universe, Nick is well known for his popular series of Salamanders novels and short stories, the Space Marine Battles novel Damnos, and numerous short stories. He has also written fiction set in the world of Warhammer, most notably the Time of Legends novel The Great Betrayal for the War of Vengeance series. He lives and works in Nottingham, and has a rabbit.
Rob Sanders is the author of The Serpent Beneath, a novella that appeared in the New York Times bestselling Horus Heresy anthology The Primarchs. His other Black Library credits include the Warhammer novel Archaon: Everchosen, the Warhammer 40,000 books Redemption Corps, Atlas Infernal, Legion of the Damned and various shorter tales for the Horus Heresy. He lives in the small city of Lincoln, UK.
Nik Vincent is the author of the Gaunt’s Ghosts short story ‘Viduity’ in Sabbat Crusade, and ‘Cell’ in Sabbat Worlds, which focused on the Imperial resistance on a Chaos-held world. She also co-wrote, with Dan Abnett, the novels Gilead’s Blood and Gilead’s Curse. She has also written a number of short stories focusing on the Iron Snakes Space Marines, including ‘The Third Wise Man’ and ‘The Fissure’.
An extract from Yarrick: Imperial Creed.
1. Yarrick
I watched t
he deployment embarkation as if seeing one for the first time. There was a strong element of truth to that impression. During my years as a storm trooper I had taken part in many mobilizations, many invasions, but I had always been in the midst of the troop formations – one cog among thousands of others, marching into the drop-ships. Now, briefly, I stood apart from the great mass of the troops. I was on a balcony overlooking the loading bay of the Scythe of Terra. For the first time I saw the full spectacle of a regiment about to enforce the Emperor’s will. The perspective drove home the magnificence of the engine of war that was the Imperial Guard. Below me was the 77th Mortisian Infantry Regiment. The sons and daughters of the dying hive-world of Aighe Mortis stood at attention in phalanxes of geometric perfection. They were no longer individuals. They were a collective entity, a massive fist as clockwork and unwavering in its precision as the limb of any Titan. I saw and understood how right and proper was the anonymity I had known before. I had been completely replaceable. I was still, only now I was required to understand why.
This was what I was learning from my new vantage point, in my new identity, in my new uniform. The peaked cap and the greatcoat with its epaulettes creating an imposing silhouette, the colours of authority and discipline embodied in the dress black and the crimson collar: this apparel obliterated the identity of its wearer as surely as had my storm trooper armour, or the khaki fatigues of the Mortisians. But where the troop uniforms merged the self into a force-multiplying whole, my garb stood out. Visibility was vital to the commissar. He had to be seen in order to inspire courage and fear. The clothes were the symbols of authority, of righteousness, of discipline. They were what bore the meaning of the rank. The actions that were carried out when they were worn had to be worthy of them, and were crucial to maintaining their power and honour. The actual individual under the cap was irrelevant.
So I thought.
I was not alone on the balcony. I was there with Dominic Seroff. Together we had been the terror of our dorms at the schola progenium. Smiling fate had seen us in the same platoon, inflicting terror of a different sort on the heretic and the xenos. Now, as I answered the calling I had felt for as long as I can remember, Seroff too had donned the black coat. I on the right, Seroff on the left, we flanked a legend. Lord Commissar Simeon Rasp had summoned us to witness the final minutes before embarkation. On a grand podium opposite the hull doors, Colonel Georg Granach held forth to the soldiers of the regiment, praising their faith and zeal, and prophesying martial glory.
