[Gaunt's Ghosts 08] - Traitor General

by Dan Abnett

  “I was laughing,” said Uexkull.

  “Oh,” the warrior said. He paused. “Why, lord?”

  “Because we have prayed for a test, have we not?” The warrior pack all grunted yes.

  “We have yearned to face down the bright Astartes in war, but our beloved Anarch, whose word drowns out all others, decided in his wisdom such glory was not for us. He did not send us to the frontline. Instead, he honoured us with the task of overseeing this wretched occupation. Now it seems we might have worthy prey here after all. Rivals in war. Soldiers who can destroy wirewolves and make the common troopers and the excubitors chase their own tails.”

  Uexkull looked at his men. “We have grown lazy. Now there is a true challenge. I will enjoy killing them.”

  The warriors began to beat their steel-clad fists against their chest plates and bark out approval. Above the din, Uexkull heard the link chime.

  “Report?”

  “My lord,” the pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom. “The auspex has detected a metal object twenty-four kilometres west of this position, moving into the forests. A vehicle, lord.”

  “Lock on,” Uexkull said. “Hunt speed. Take us to it.”

  The long day was drawing to a close, and they were running out of road fast. A dark, sludgy brown light filled the sky, and the forests were growing increasingly dark and forbidding. The trees were closing around the track, which had now dwindled to an overgrown rut, and branches swished and flapped against the truck’s sides. Varl had dropped his speed.

  Beside him in the cab, Gaunt was talking to Mkoll. Like Cirk had done before, Mkoll was leaning to speak through the cab’s little rear window. He could only see Gaunt’s mouth through the slit. Both of them realised it was unpleasantly like a confessional booth. Mkoll knew he was owning up to his sins as surely as in any Imperial templum.

  “I gave you an order,” Gaunt said.

  “Yes, sir. I know you did.”

  “Get the team away.”

  “Yes, sir. I take full responsibility. We should have gone like you said.”

  “But you came back, all of you. You abandoned the mission and you came back.”

  “Yes, sir. We did that. Like I said, I take full responsibility. The others were just doing what I told them to.”

  “Like feth!” Curth called out.

  “Shut up,” Mkoll snapped. He looked back through the slit at Gaunt. “My fault, sir. I’ll gladly remove my rank pins. Mkvenner can take scout-command and—”

  Glimpsed through the window slit as the truck bounced and jarred, Gaunt’s mouth was smiling.

  “I can pretty much guess what happened,” he said softly. “We wouldn’t be here now but for you.”

  “Sir,” said Mkoll. “Sir,” he added.

  “Cirk says we’re doomed, Mkoll,” Gaunt went on. “She says we’re heading into a marsh waste and that there’s no hope of finding our way through. Feel like proving those rank pins to me?”

  “I do, sir. Me, Ven and Bonin. We’ll get us through.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  “Sir?” It was Beltayn. He shuffled forward along the rat-ding cargo bay and Mkoll slid aside so he could reach the window slit. Beltayn had his vox-set’s phones around his neck, and dragged the set behind him.

  “What have you got, Bel?” Gaunt asked.

  “Monitoring enemy traffic, sir.” He paused to blow his nose. His eyes were swollen and red. They’re spread out in force behind us, closing out the woods. I’m picking up chatter from at least two airbornes. Three maybe. They’re tracking in fast. I can’t get a triangulation, but I think they’re close.”

  “The boy’s right,” said Mkoll. “I can hear jetwash. East of us, low and fast.”

  In the cab, Gaunt turned to look at Varl. “We won’t get much further, will we?”

  “Does the God-Emperor sit much?”

  “Pull us over, Varl. Let’s ditch the truck.”

  The team jumped down the moment Varl brought the truck to a halt. There was no real trackway any more. The truck’s wheel arches were throttled with torn strands of bramble and choke-weed.

  “Make sure we’ve got everything,” Gaunt told Rawne.

  “Everything?” Rawne replied sarcastically. “Gee, what will everybody else carry?”

  He was right. They were in poor shape. Ammo was perilously low. Gaunt had only a clip or two left for his bolt pistols, and everyone else was down to their last few las cells. The cannon had fired off so many rounds at the wirewolves Brostin had barely half a hopper left. Mkvenner didn’t even have a rifle. The wolves had destroyed it. He had his autopistol, and he’d salvaged his warknife. Rawne had no tube-charges left. Varl still carried the team’s last six in a satchel. They were low on food, and down to half on drinking water. Except for a few basics, Curth’s narthecium was empty.

  And that was the worst part, really. The ague was gripping them all now. Rashes, ulcers, headaches. Everyone seemed to have a head cold, especially Beltayn and Criid, who were sniffling. Feygor was still so dazed from exposure to the glyf that he had to be helped to walk.

  Curth told Gaunt quietly that the infection around Feygor’s voice box implant seemed to be getting a great deal worse, and spreading.

  “Whatever you’ve got, give it to him,” Gaunt said.

  And that was just the start. Brostin had weeping burn blisters from his pyrotechnics on the causeway. Rawne, Mkvenner and Gaunt himself had a bad case of what seemed like sunburn from the wirewolf immolation. Curth nursed her badly bruised shoulder. Rawne’s wrist was sprained from Mkvenner’s life-saving grip. A hundred other knocks and cuts and—

  Gaunt sighed. It won’t be easy. That’s what he’d said. It won’t be easy. He could picture himself saying it. Standing to attention in a sunlit hall on Ancreon Sextus, with the windflowers nodding in the breeze outside the mansion walls. Biota had just finished his briefing, and Van Voytz had risen to his feet.

  “I know it won’t, Ibram,” Van Voytz had said. “But do you think you can do it?”

  Gaunt had glanced sideways to his waiting officers. Rawne, Daur, Mkoll, Kolea and Hark. Rawne had just folded his arms. Mkoll had nodded. One tiny nod.

  “Yes, general. The Ghosts can do this,” Gaunt had said.

  “There’s a fast picket already prepped to leave high anchor,” Van Voytz remarked. “What’s it called, Biota?”

  “The Fortitude, lord.”

  “Ah, yes. That’s an appropriate word, don’t you think, Gaunt?”

  “Yes, general.”

  “Tac suggest you should choose a team of no more than twelve. The groundwork’s been laid. Intelligence has made contact with the local underground to welcome you. Ballerat. Ballerat, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Biota replied.

  “He’s the man to find. So… any first thoughts about who you’ll take?”

  Both Kolea and Daur had raised their hands, interrupting each other.

  “I’d be anxious to—”

  “If I could offer my—”

  “Thanks,” Gaunt said, looking at them. “I’ll pick the team tonight.”

  “Just as you say, Ibram… this won’t be easy.” Van Voytz had turned to stare out of one of the hall’s deep windows. The sunlight fell across his face. It betrayed nothing. There’s a good chance you won’t come back.”

  “I realise that, general sir. I’ll make sure a strong command structure for the Tanith First remains in my absence.”

  “Of course. Just so. Look, Ibram…” Van Voytz turned to face him. This is a messy business. But crucial. I won’t order you to do it. If you want to back out, say so right now and we’ll forget this meeting ever took place.”

  “No, general. I won’t. I feel this is down to me, sir. But for my decision, this situation would never have occurred. I’d like the chance to clean it up.”

  “I thought you might. Because it’s him?”

  “Yes, general. Because it’s him.”

  “Sir?”

 
Gaunt blinked and came out of his thoughts. Night was closing in. The team was ready to move out.

  “I’m coming, Criid,” he said. She nodded, and moved up to the head of the file.

  “Let’s go!” Gaunt called. They started to march away into the dense, dark forest.

  Cirk was beside him. “Gaunt, there’s one other thing I think you should know.”

  “Really? More bad news?”

  “Yes,” she said. The Untill. It’s not safe. Not at all safe.”

  “Because?”

  “Apart from the predators and the toxic plants… there are the partisans.”

  “The what?”

  “Partisans, sir.”

  “Oh great,” he replied.

  EIGHTEEN

  Desolane drew one of the vicious ketra blades from under the drifting smoke-cloak and set it down on the table beside the pheguth.

  The pheguth turned slowly to look at it. His ear and hip were wrapped in surgical wadding. He had been given pain-killers for the first time, on the advice of the doctors of fisyk. They hadn’t helped with the headache.

  “What’s this for?” he asked.

  Desolane spread one hand on the table, fingers splayed.

  “For punishment. Punish me, pheguth.”

  “What?”

  “I failed to protect you. You were injured. You are now permitted to exact punishment.”

  “I’m sorry?” The pheguth looked up into the pale blue eyes behind the bronze mask.

  “For failure. For my failure of charge as a life-ward. You are allowed to exact punishment.”

  “What sort of punishment? Am I supposed to kill you?”

  Desolane shrugged. “If that is what you desire. For this type of failure, a master would ordinarily sever one of his life-ward’s digits.”

  The pheguth sat up sharply. “Let me get this straight. You’re suggesting I should hack off one of your fingers?”

  “Yes, pheguth.”

  “Because I was attacked?”

  “Yes, pheguth.”

  “Don’t be so silly, Desolane. It wasn’t your fault.” The pheguth settled back against his pillows. They made a fine change to his usual sleeping conditions. He was quite enjoying the luxury.

  “I was absent, and you were left vulnerable,” Desolane said. “I don’t think you understand. I am a life-ward. I am bred to protect my charges. You are my charge. Please punish me.”

  “I’m not about to chop off one of your—”

  “Please!”

  The pheguth looked up at Desolane again. “You seem very anxious to be maimed, life-ward.”

  “The Plenipotentiary is outraged by today’s attack. He is insisting that I am not fit to guard you.”

  “Well, I don’t believe that’s true. I believe you’re very fit. You saved me from those gunmen.”

  Desolane shrugged slightly. The life-ward’s hand remained splayed on the table. “Please,” Desolane said again.

  “No,” said the pheguth, turning away. “This is just stupid.”

  “Pheguth… understand me. If you don’t punish me, the Plenipotentiary will decide I am not fit to guard you. He will replace me. You hate me, pheguth. You fear me. But you will hate and fear the ones who might replace me even more.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The other life-wards available for assignment. They would not… treat you as well as I do. They would make your life harder. Don’t let them. I have grown to like you, pheguth. I would hate to see you… discomforted.”

  The pheguth sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “So, unless I maim you, I will subject myself to greater cruelties?”

  Desolane nodded.

  “Great Throne!” the pheguth murmured. Desolane flinched. The pheguth picked up the blade and balanced it in his palm for a moment. “You want me to do this?”

  “For your own sake, pheguth.”

  The pheguth raised the ketra blade and—

  Put it down again.

  “I can’t. The truth is, I have grown to like you too. You look after me, Desolane. You understand me. I couldn’t begin to hurt you.”

  “But… please, pheguth…?”

  “If it’s so important to you, take off your own digit. I couldn’t possibly do something that coarse.”

  Desolane sighed. The life-ward reached out and took the ketra blade, and very quickly lopped off the smallest finger of its right hand. Blood, bright blue-red, spurted out of the stump. Desolane quickly closed a surgical clamp around the wound.

  The pheguth stared in astonishment.

  “Thank you, pheguth,” Desolane said. The life-ward picked up the severed finger and sheathed the blade.

  The pheguth rolled away so he was facing the far wall. Unseen by Desolane, there was a smile on his face.

  Now that, he thought to himself, that’s real power.

  “Desolane,” he said quietly. “How did two Imperial agents get so close to me? I mean, on a world like this.”

  “They didn’t,” Desolane replied. The two assassins were not Imperial agents.”

  “What are you talking about?” the pheguth asked, looking round sharply.

  “The matter is closed,” said Desolane, and strode out of the chamber.

  They spent an uneasy night in the cold blindness of the forest, and then started west just before daybreak.

  To the west, the land shelved away in a deep gorge of black earth and broken rock. They descended into the cave-like gloom, screened from the sky by the towering forest. The trees were ancient, twisted things, massive forms that clung to the steep slope with gnarled clusters of thick roots. A furry grey lichen coated most surfaces, and where it didn’t, treebark and boulders were caked with foul black moss. Strange fungal forms sprouted from the soil, some fleshy and pink-lipped, some rough and hard like stale bread or shoe leather. The largest of them were several metres wide.

  There was no birdsong and no breeze, but the still upper spaces of the sinister forest rang with woodtaps, buzzes, clicks and odd purring clacks. The only sign of animal life was the occasional long-legged fly that hummed past like an intricate clockwork toy set running and slowly winding down.

  And the moths. They were everywhere. Some were tiny, and speckled the air like floating wheatchaff. Some were as big as birds. When they flew by, their dusty wings made a sound like the pages of a book being flicked. When they landed, they vanished, their wings perfectly camouflaging them against lichen and crinkled bark. Brostin mis-stepped and disturbed a fallen log, and hundreds of them took flight into the air, lazy and sluggish, like a flock of birds startled up in slow motion.

  It made Brostin jump in surprise, and that amused the scouts. But Curth became jittery.

  “I’ve got a thing about moths,” she confided to Gaunt.

  “What do you mean, a thing?”

  “They give me the creeps.”

  “Ana, yesterday you faced down a wirewolf.”

  She grimaced. “Uh huh. But it wasn’t all furry and dusty, was it? I’m just squeamish about them, that’s all.”

  “You? Squeamish? Feth, woman! You’re a surgeon. You regularly deal with stuff that makes even my stomach turn, and—”

  “Yeah, yeah, it’s all very funny and ironic. Duhh!” She flapped her hands as an albino-white moth beat past her face. “We’ve all got something, and mine is moths. All right? And on the subject, isn’t it your job as mission leader and, oh—I don’t know, commissar?—to say something reassuring at this point to keep up the spirits of a valued team member like me? Something along the lines of ‘everything’s fine, they can’t hurt you, Ana, they’re just moths and I swear by the Throne of Terra to personally swat any that come near you’?”

  “Everything’s fine, they can’t hurt you, Ana, they’re just—”

  “Ha ha. Too late. I’m creeped out.”

  Gaunt looked at her. “Everything is fine. Ana, if the worst thing I have to do on Gereon is keep you moth-free, I’ll be happy. Be thankful your “thing�
� is moths and not, let me think… Chaos.”

  She grinned. “You’ll do,” she said.

  Ahead of them, down the steep, black slope, Cirk paused and looked back up the group. “I forgot to say,” she called. The moths are poisonous. Don’t touch them or let them touch you.”

  Curth glared at Cirk, then at Gaunt. “She was listening. She’s got it in for me.”

  “She wasn’t and she hasn’t.”

  “Yes, she has.”

  “Well, you killed a wirewolf. It’s probably an alpha-female assertion thing.”

  “You think?”

  He nodded.

  “Yeah,” Curth said, almost to herself. You’re probably right. She’s probably making it up to mess with me.”

  Without even looking back, Cirk called, “I’m not making it up.”

  The deeper they went, the darker and hotter it got. The gorge seemed to drop away into the belly of the earth. It was humid, and an increasing odour of putrefaction filled the close air. Their faces began to bead with sweat. The thick foliage of the trees around and above them was glossy black and moisture dripped from it. Parasitic vines and veiny epiphytes knitted about the trees. The weird sounds grew louder and more frequent.

  By the time the steep slope began to level out, most of the team had stripped down to their vests and undershirts. Their arms shone with sweat and their throat-hollows gleamed wet. Feygor was still fully clothed.

  “You feeling all right, Murt?” Rawne asked him quietly. Feygor was walking unaided now, but the trauma of the previous day had not left him yet. There was an unblinking, unfocused look in his eyes, and his face was pale.

  “I’m cold,” he said. This place is so cold and wet.”

  Rawne, sponging perspiration out of his eyes with the corner of his cape, just nodded.

  Feygor was shivering. The flesh around his throat implant was swollen and angry, and when he spoke the augmetic tone sounded like it was drowning in phlegm. Casualties of war, Rawne thought. There were always some. It was the price of combat, and this time it was going to be Murt.