by Dan Abnett
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m tired. My eyes hurt. I don’t know if I can make it all that way.”
“You have to,” said Caffran. “They’re waiting for you on the other side.”
“I’m so tired, Caff,” Gaunt said. “Can’t I stay here with you?”
“Get on with you!” Corbec growled.
“I don’t think I can make it all the way,” said Gaunt.
“We can’t come with you,” said Corbec. “We can’t carry you over there. Someone else will have to help you.”
“Colm?” Gaunt said, sinking to the ground.
“See you in another life, all right?” said Corbec.
Gaunt was alone.
XXV
“Get up,” said Rawne.
Gaunt looked up. “Eli?”
“Get up, you fether. Get up.”
“Eli?”
Rawne peered down at him. “Don’t you dare do this to me, Gaunt. If anyone’s going to finish you, it’s going to be me. Don’t you dare do this.”
Gaunt clambered to his feet. “I don’t like your tone, Major Rawne.”
“Oh, bite me,” said Rawne. “Come on, you bastard. You’re coming back with us.”
“Us?” murmured Gaunt.
“Seyadhe true, soule,” said Eszrah ap Niht. Ezra and Rawne scooped Gaunt up between them and began to walk him across the bridge.
“It’s so far,” muttered Gaunt. “And the Sons of Sek… the Sons of Sek are right behind us.”
“The Sons of Sek can eat my arse,” said Rawne. “You’re coming home with us. Throne, you weigh a ton. Try using your legs! Help me out!”
“I’m trying, Rawne. My eyes hurt so much.”
“They put your eyes out in the wastelands of Jago,” said Rawne. “The Blood Pact torturers virtually hacked you to pieces. Curth and Dorden, they’ve been fighting to patch you together again. You’ll get new eyes. Augmetics. You’ll get grafts and organ bionics. Just keep walking.”
“Jago?” Gaunt whispered. He began to remember.
“Oh, don’t be such a pussy, Gaunt! I’ve come all this way for you!” Rawne tried to check his temper. “Me. Me, for Throne’s sake. Don’t you dare die on me now!”
“I…” Gaunt said, feeling himself almost dragged along by Rawne and the Nihtgane. “I remember. The iron star.”
“The what?” asked Rawne.
“The iron star,” Gaunt replied. “A heated poker, a branding iron, stabbing into my eyes, burning them out, taking them. Oh, Throne.”
“Stay with me, Ibram! We’re almost there!”
“Histye, soule,” whispered Eszrah ap Niht. “Life, it bekkons.”
XXVI
The watchers in black were waiting for them at the far end of the bridge.
“Give him over to us,” one said.
“Yeah, feth you,” Rawne replied, struggling to hold Gaunt upright. “Feth you very much!”
“He’s gone too far,” said the leader of the black figures. “The poor, poor boy. He’s seen enough. Let him sleep now. Let him rest. We’ll take care of him. Don’t eke out his agony. Don’t force him to come back into a world that he hates.”
“Get out of our way,” said Rawne.
“Ibram’s at his end. It would be a mercy,” said the leader of the black figures. “We’ll take good care of him, Eli. Trust us. We’ll nurse him into the darkness. It’s what we do.”
He lowered his cowl. It was Zweil. Around him, the other ayatani priests pulled back their hoods.
“Come on, Eli,” Zweil said. “He’s done enough. Let him rest. Let us sing him to sleep. Let us anoint his body and send him off to the final rest. He deserves it. He deserves it. His war is done.”
Slumped between Eszrah and Rawne, Gaunt slowly looked up.
“Father,” he said, blood dribbling from his gutted eye sockets, “I thank you for your compassion. I really do. Rest is so tempting. It’s so very, very tempting. But I don’t think I’m done yet.”
Zweil sighed. “I was only trying to help.”
“Then don’t help me die, father,” Gaunt said. “Help me live.”
XXVII
The ayatani priests carried Gaunt’s body off the bridge onto the far side of the river. Wet with Gaunt’s blood, Rawne and Ezra followed them.
“I’ve got a pulse!” Curth cried.
“Thready but solid,” Dorden noted.
“Ten units of blood!” Curth ordered.
“Will he live?” asked Rawne, pulling down his surgical mask.
“You’ve all been through here,” Curth replied, “all the Ghosts. You’ve tried to reassure him, and keep him stable. Yes, Eli, despite everything, I think he might live yet.”
“He deserves the peace of death,” said Zweil, sitting at the end of the cot. “I could still give him the last rites.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be necessary, father,” said Dorden.
Gaunt stirred. “Colm…” he murmured.
“He’s dreaming again,” said Rawne.
XXVIII
From: Curth, medicae functionary, Tanith First.
To: Acting Commander, Elikon HQ, Jago.
It pleases me to be able to inform you, sir, that Colonel-Commissar Ibram Gaunt has roused from his coma. The injuries the colonel-commissar suffered at the hands of the Blood Pact torturers were severe (please see my request for augmetic optical implants). He suffered three systemic organ failures on the table, and the loss of his eyes is a terrible mutilation. Skin grafting will continue for several months.
I am, however, delighted to report that Ibram Gaunt is alive.
Your honoured servant,
Ana Curth (medicae).
XXIX
“Are we still on… on Jago?” he had asked his adjutant that morning while shaving.
His adjutant, Beltayn, had frowned, thinking the question over.
“Jago? Uh… yes. I believe so, sir,” he had replied.
The names really weren’t of any consequence anymore, the names of cities or continents or worlds. Each one was just a new place to get into, and then get out of again, once the job was done. He’d stopped worrying about the names. He just concentrated on the jobs; loyal but weary, weary but loyal.
Sometimes, he was so tired he even forgot his own name.
He dipped his old cut throat razor into the chipped bowl, washing off the foam and the residue of shorn bristles. He looked at his reflection in the cracked shaving mirror. Though the reflection didn’t seem to have eyes, he recognised it anyway.
Ibram Gaunt. That was it. Ibram Gaunt.
Of course it was.
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