by Dan Abnett
“I…” Gaunt began.
He turned back. The figures had vanished again.
“Did you see them?” he asked Larkin.
Larkin was quietly reloading his piece.
“Ominous black figures, gathering around a battlefield and waiting for slaughter to begin, you mean, sir?” he asked.
“Yes. Yes!”
“I see “em all the time,” said Larkin, slapping his next hot-shot load in place, “but I’m not the most reliable witness, am I?”
“You’ve got the best eye I’ve ever known, Larks,” replied Gaunt.
“Maybe. Through a scope, maybe. But my brain, it’s wired funny. I see all sorts of feth. I’m surprised at you, though.”
“What do you mean?” asked Gaunt.
“You? Jumping at shadows? Going off by yourself into feth knows where?” Larkin grinned. “You were always the level-headed one. More even than Mkoll or Daur or Rawne. You always kept it together.”
“I still am, Larks,” said Gaunt. “But I saw them. The black figures. You saw them too. You put a round through one of their skulls!”
Larkin shook his head. “I fired a warning shot to get your attention. You were floundering around out here in the mud, yelling at no one like a total idiot.”
“Was I?”
Larkin nodded. “It wasn’t a good look. It didn’t inspire much confidence. Pardon me for saying so, sir.”
Gaunt sat down in the mud again, heavily.
“I’m just so tired, Larks,” he said. “You know? So tired. We’ve been on the line too long. I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”
“Longer than the rest of us, I trust,” smiled Larkin, “or we’re all fethed.”
Gaunt looked up at his loyal master marksman. “Larkin,” he said. “I see things. I keep seeing things. Worse than that, there are things I don’t see. I know they’re there, but I don’t see them.”
“Your eyes, is it?” asked Larkin.
“Yes. They hurt.”
“That’s no surprise, seeing as what they did to you.”
“What? What does that mean?” asked Gaunt.
“Nothing. Forget I said it,” said Larkin.
“Who did what to me?” Gaunt asked.
Larkin shook his head. “You’ve seen a lot, that’s all I’m saying, sir. In your career, you’ve seen a lot of stuff, more than many men could stand seeing in a lifetime. You’ve seen destruction. You’ve seen death. You’ve seen friends and comrades perish right in front of you.”
“I have. I really have,” said Gaunt.
“Let’s get you back to the line, shall we?” Larkin said, offering Gaunt his hand.
“You can see the way?” asked Gaunt.
“Of course, I’m Tanith. I may not be a scout, but I’ve got the Tanith instinct. Follow me. Let’s get you out of here before the black figures come back.”
Gaunt frowned. “I thought you said there weren’t any black figures?”
Larkin shrugged. “Just because I see “em all the time, doesn’t mean they’re real. Come on.”
X
They trudged back towards the Ghost lines under the iron star.
“I’m tired, Larks,” Gaunt said, after a while. “Let me rest for a moment.”
“Not here,” Larkin replied, “it’s not safe. Keep going. You can rest when we reach the lines.”
“I’ve got to stop,” said Gaunt, “just for a moment. Let me stop for a moment and close my eyes.”
XI
“I brought him back as far as I could,” said Larkin sadly. “He doesn’t want to come any further.”
“He’s got to,” replied Curth. “He’s just got to.”
“He’s not listening to me anymore,” said Larkin. “He’s just stopped.”
XII
Sometimes, when he was able to steal an hour to sleep, stretched out in a habitent, or curled up on a rotting bunk in a dug-out, he dreamed of a world called Jago. The dreams were powerful, and full of miserable and lingering pain.
Given that he had stopped remembering, or even caring to remember, the names of the places he and the Ghosts had toiled through, loyal and weary, weary and loyal, he wondered why Jago in particular had remained in his memory and his dreams.
It had been a dry, dusty, wind-blown place. The dust had seeped into everything, and the wind had made a sound like air singing through the openings of skulls whose tops had been sawn off. Dry and dead, that was Jago. Dry and dead, and not oozing with mud and humid like… like who the feth cares anymore.
He had other dreams, sometimes. An old man called Boniface sometimes quizzed him about theology and philosophy in an old library. The old man, scarred and mutilated beyond belief, sat in a brass chair. In the dream, Gaunt would ask Boniface about his father, and the old man would refuse to reply.
Another dream involved someone called Uncle Dercius. Uncle Dercius would arrive unexpectedly. Gaunt would be playing with a carved wooden frigate on the sundecks, and would look up in glee as Uncle Dercius walked in. Uncle Dercius had a strange look on his face. He had a gift for Ibram. It was a signet ring.
In a different dream, someone called Colm Corbec was waiting for him in a woodland glade. Tall, bulky, bearded, Corbec was dressed in Tanith black, and smiled when Gaunt approached. Gaunt could smell the resin sap of nalwood. He knew Corbec was the greatest friend he’d ever had, and the greatest friend he’d ever lost.
Another dream, ebbing from some memory of a hive city, was filled by Merity Chass, of the noble House Chass. She was young and beautiful, and became even more beautiful when her dress slid away. Her voice was as soft as her skin. She said…
XIII
“For Throne’s sake, wake up!”
Gaunt started. Astonishingly, he had actually been dozing off. That had never happened before, not in three decades of soldiering, I must be getting weary. Loyal but weary.
“Don’t fret, Rawne,” Gaunt told his number two. “I’m right here. Just resting my eyes.”
“It’s Curth, Ibram.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.”
“You were a long way away from me then.”
“I’m just tired, Curth. Just napping for a moment.”
“Try to stay with us. We’ve got to close this artery and cross the bridge.”
“Before nightfall.”
“Exactly,” she replied.
“Let’s get this done, then,” he said. “I want to talk to the flamers.”
XIV
The flame troopers gathered around him. Brostin, Dremmond, Lubba, Lyse, Nitorri and the rest. They stank of promethium fuel, their stock in trade.
“Where the Throne are your flamers?” Gaunt asked.
“We left them outside,” said Lubba.
“Outside?” Gaunt asked.
“Lubba meant back on the track over there, sir,” Dremmond said quickly. He nudged Lubba with a heavy, grubby arm. “Idiot.”
“Our tanks are being topped up just now,” said Brostin, with a broad grin. “We’re all ready to go. You give the word.”
“You understand the objectives?” asked Gaunt.
“Why don’t you run through them, just for us?” Dremmond suggested.
“Haven’t the company leaders briefed you?” asked Gaunt.
“Of course they have,” said Brostin.
“Immaculately,” said Lyse.
“We just, uhm, like to hear it from you in person, sir,” said Brostin.
Gaunt chuckled. “Very well. We have to get across this bridge by nightfall. Ten units of blood. Blood Pact. You’ve got to cauterise this artery right now.”
“Artery?” asked Lubba.
“This river.” Lubba nodded.
“Not a problem,” said Brostin. He took out a lho-stick.
“Not here!” Curth called out.
“I’m not going to light it, doc,” Brostin protested.
“They’d see the spark,” said Gaunt.
“Who’s that, sir?” asked Brostin, sucking on his un
-lit lho-stick.
“The Blood Pact down on the river.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Brostin replied. “That’s why I’m being careful. We’re ready to go as soon as you want.”
“Then get to it,” said Gaunt. “And Brostin?”
“Sir?”
“Say hello to Mister Yellow for me.”
XV
The iron star throbbed. The bridge waited. It seemed all too close to nightfall.
Gaunt adjusted his cap, brim first, checked the load of his bolt pistol, and drew out his power sword, the famous blade of Hieronymo Sondar. It purred as he switched it on.
He rose up, the mud squelching around his boots.
“First and Only!” he yelled.
Whistles blew, and line officers called out orders for readiness. “Straight silver!” Gaunt instructed. Clicks and clatters sounded down the Ghost formation as the Tanith fixed their warknives to their bayonet lugs.
“Flamers advance!” Gaunt called.
The flame-troopers climbed up out of the forward dug-outs they’d crawled to. As they rose, their tanks thumped, and spears of liquid flame spat down across the river’s edge. On their hastily constructed siege platforms, the Blood Pact troopers screamed as inferno engulfed them.
Mortar charges, carried over the dead river on pontoons, began to catch off and explode. Bodies and fragments of splintered wood were hurled up into the air on ferocious spurts of fire.
“Advance!” Gaunt ordered, and the line officers repeated the call. He began running. Sword raised, he slipped and slithered in the mire. He heard the Ghosts behind him, the crack and fizzle of lasrifles, the roar of voices.
Enemy fire began to whip his way. It was so bright and quick, it hurt his eyes.
“Keep on them!” he yelled.
“Steady, Ibram,” Curth warned.
“Get into cover, medicae!” he shouted at her.
“I’m staying right with you,” Curth whispered.
He ploughed on into the billowing smoke. The air smelled of fyceline, blood and slime. Stray shells whumped in and kicked up mud that spattered across him. Blast concussions made the smoke eddy and swirl in curious patterns, like ripples on water. The noise was overwhelming.
He saw shapes moving towards him in the smoke ahead. Blood Pact troopers loomed into view, charging up from the river to meet them. Feral sounds and inhuman heresies issued from the screaming mouth-slits of their iron masks.
Grim human trophies, like finger bones and ears, jangled from their webbing and their munition belts.
Some of the Blood Pact carried lasrifles, with bayonets fixed. Others brandished spears or billhooks, or spiked hammers made for trench fighting. Their howls rose in intensity as they caught their first glimpse of the Imperial troops.
“Into them, Break their backs,” Gaunt shouted. “The Emperor Protects!”
He didn’t falter in his stride. If anything, he ran faster, raising his bolt pistol to shoot, swinging his sword back. For a beautiful moment, the weariness left him. It just lifted off him. He felt as if he could take on the Archenemy single-handed. He felt the way he had done as a young man, with the whole galaxy before him.
He fired two shots and knocked down a pair of charging Blood Pact troopers, who went over as if they had been demolished by wrecking balls.
Then he was in amongst the rest. He swung the power sword, and the blade went clean through a throat. A billhook sang towards his face, and he chopped it away, and then drove the sword, point-first, through the billhook owner’s torso. Shapes whirled around him. This was the killing time—close combat, face to face, without quarter or compunction. Gaunt had tangled with the Archon’s Blood Pact often enough to know that they fought like wolves, and seldom relented. Many were hard-bred Imperial Guardsmen, who had defected, or who had been seduced away from the power of the Throne by the perversions of Chaos. The Blood Pact was one of the few forces in the Archenemy’s host with proper military training and discipline.
Ghosts slammed into the brawl around him, black shapes stabbing with glittering silver bayonets. Las weapons went off point blank, thumping bodies off their feet into the mire. Figures wrestled and grappled.
Gaunt shot another Blood Pact trooper, who was charging at him with a spear, and then ducked as a trench-mace came down to crush his skull. He kicked out the legs of the trooper with the mace and, as the man fell, Gaunt cleaved his sword through his shoulder blades and spine. Another came close, at Gaunt’s elbow, and Gaunt made a quick back-turn and rammed the pommel and grip of his sword into the man’s throat. The Blood Pact trooper stumbled backwards, choking, and Gaunt finished his work with a fencing master’s thrust. Two more hurled themselves at him. A rusty bayonet grazed Gaunt’s arm, ripping the sleeve of his stormcoat. He fired wildly, instinctively and, though wild, the bolt round blew a leg off at the hip. The other enemy trooper swung his billhook down, but Gaunt blocked it with his sword. The powered blade cut the billhook in half. Gaunt sliced his sword-arm backwards, and ran the blade in a slash across the man’s chest. Blood exploded from the massive wound. The trooper dropped to his knees, masked face tilted up at the sky, and Gaunt took his head off.
“Tell your heathen masters the Ghosts have come for them!” he yelled into the darkness.
Las bolts rained down through the smoke cover like incandescent drizzle, and made sucking, sizzling punctures in the mire. Gaunt heard the rasp and belch of flamers from nearby. Further off, mortars were grunting like bullfrogs at the river’s edge, and autocannons were rattling like infernal mill engines.
Gaunt looked around, trying to assess the fight, but the smoke was shrouding everything. All he could see was blurred figures mobbing in the half-light. Someone lobbed a star-shell into the sky, where it wobbled and bobbed like a second, brighter iron star, but it did nothing to improve visibility.
His blood was up. As he faced down and killed three more Archenemy troopers, Gaunt recognised the firry in his heart. It was the old fury, a courage and a determination he had begun to fear he’d lost. These last few years, it had started to feel as though its fire had died out, leaving nothing in his soul but dull embers.
Some gust of passion had breathed upon those coals and rekindled the flames. With a measure of sadness, Gaunt realised that he only ever felt decently human when he was locked in the madhouse of battle. His dead soul blazed, and his dull limbs cast off their aches and pains. His mind became clear. His life, the very essence of his life as an Imperial soldier, was here, vital and vibrant in the insanity of combat.
Only on the razor-edge of life and death could he feel alive. Only in death could he live.
A Blood Pact officer, an etogaur, lunged out of the cinder-smog. He was a massive beast, with corded muscle bulging under his blood-stained coat. His grotesk was dirty gold. His huge greatsword was running with Imperial gore.
The etogaur growled as he looked around for another Guardsman to butcher.
“Over here, you son of a gak,” Gaunt roared.
XVI
Ana Curth bent over her patient. Battlefield medicine was not a precise art. Her scrubs were smeared with blood.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “His vitals are bright and strong, but he seems to be slipping away.”
Dorden put his hand on her shoulder. “We’ve done all we can.”
“No.”
“Ana, we have hundreds of casualties to treat. Perhaps—”
“No,” she said, emphatically. “I’m not going to give up.”
“Look at his wounds,” Dorden said, nodding down at the stricken patient. “The Blood Pact has done its work as brutally as ever.”
“There’s still a chance,” she said, reaching for a clean scalpel. “There’s always a chance.”
XVII
The etogaur uttered some abominable battle-cry, and expertly whirled his greatsword around his head and shoulders in a display of strength. It was a powered blade, and its gleaming length crackled with indigo sparks, like thread veins of e
lectricity.
Gaunt’s bolt pistol was spent. There was no time to reload. That suited him fine. He wanted this to be sword work.
The etogaur rushed him. Gaunt raised the sword of Hieronymo Sondar to parry the first swing, and managed to do so, but the sheer power of the heavy blade’s impact jarred his wrist and forced him to brace his stance. The etogaur was fast. He evidently knew sword-play, and he revealed a master’s finesse, even though he was wielding a monstrous, heavy blade designed for wholesale slaughter rather than duelling.
Gaunt blocked three more quick blows, turning his sword with a dextrous touch. The etogaur was using the sheer weight of his blade for momentum, swinging each blow into the next, changing his grip on the double-handed pommel to swoop and turn the greatsword around his body for maximum kill power.
The etogaur brought the greatsword around in a bodyline cut. Gaunt stopped it dead with a flat-blade parry, and then drove back, robbing the etogaur of swing momentum. With brute force, the etogaur hefted up his blade, and tried to swing again. His sword was twice as long as Gaunt’s. He had reach. He had power.
His boots sloshing in the mire, Gaunt out-paced him, and turned around his left flank. The etogaur tried to turn, but Gaunt drove in a slice that the etogaur barely parried away. He was wrong-footed, unbalanced.
As the etogaur tried to regain his poise and bring his greatsword up, Gaunt ripped his sword in. The weight of the blade cut through the greatsword’s grip. It cut through the etogaur’s right wrist, and severed all the digits of his left hand.
The etogaur uttered a bark of disbelief. He took a step backwards, blood squirting from his wrist stump and his dismembered hand. He stared at Gaunt through the eye-slits of his dirty gold mask, awaiting the finishing stroke.
Gaunt aimed his sword at the etogaur, tip first. “Run,” he said. “Run and tell them. The Ghosts of Tanith have come, and they will kill you all.”
The etogaur began to howl. He turned and stumbled away into the smoke, bleating out his distress and his terror.
Gaunt allowed himself a smile. He could feel tears of blood on his face.
Turning, he saw a Ghost nearby, beset by two Blood Pact troopers. He hurled himself into the brawl, and severed the spine of one of the Archenemy warriors with his sword. The beleaguered Ghost used the advantage to lance the other Blood Pact marauder with his bayonet.
