by Dan Abnett
“This is worthless!” Rawne announced.
“Sit down,” said Gaunt.
“This is a waste of—”
“Rawne, sit the feth down. I won’t tell you again.”
“For feth’s sake, we should get our scouts out at least. Mkoll’s boys could cover the area, secure weapons. They—”
“No, Rawne.”
“But—”
“I said no and I believe I meant it.” Gaunt looked up at his flustered second. “We wait, Elim. We wait and see what they have for us. If it’s nothing, so be it. But if it’s something, I’ll not be ruining our chances with hasty measures.”
“I agree with Rawne,” Cirk said.
“Gee, no surprises,” Curth muttered. Varl sniggered.
“Shut up, female,” Cirk said, looking at Curth.
Curth got to her feet and faced the cell leader. “Maybe I was imagining it, but I think I was part of this mission team long before you came along. I have rank—”
Cirk shrugged disparagingly. “Really? We all know the reason you’re here, female.” She jerked her head in Gaunt’s direction.
“The pack leader only keeps his mind on the job if he’s happy and serviced on a regular—”
“Whoa, lady!” said Curth, coming forward. “Your mouth just doesn’t know when to stop, does it?”
Cirk drew to her full height. She was significantly taller than the Ghosts’ medic. She smiled. “Touch a nerve, did I?”
“I can locate and trigger more nerves than you’ve ever dreamed of, you b—”
“That’s enough. Both of you,” Gaunt said.
“Mamzel Curth… Doctor Curth… is here because of her medical training,” Landerson said, getting to his feet. He got in between them and stared Cirk in the eyes. To suggest anything else would be unbecoming of a Gereon soldier.”
Cirk glared. “Landerson, you’re a sycophantic piece of sh—”
There was a dull crack. Curth had landed her small, tight fist right on Cirk’s mouth. The cell leader reeled back, and only the urgent hands of Beltayn and Criid stopped her from toppling off the platform.
“You little witch!” she snorted.
“Want some more?” Curth laughed.
“Shut up! Shut up!” Larkin spat. “Shut them up, for feth’s sake! They’re coming back!”
Below, Cynulff and several other Sleepwalkers were striding towards the ladder.
“You’ll keep,” Cirk simmered.
“Uh huh. Bite me,” Curth whipped back.
“Shut up,” Gaunt said.
“Well now, the ladies are fighting over you…” Rawne clucked.
“You can shut up too.”
“Oh, how I relish these moments,” Rawne said.
Cynulff pointed up at Mkvenner and gestured.
“He wants you,” Gaunt said.
Mkvenner nodded and jumped down onto the lower platform to join the partisans. He looked back at Gaunt briefly as he was led away. Gaunt splayed his hands across his chest and made the sign of the aquila.
“I’m sorry,” Curth said quietly. “I apologise.”
“Right Think you could apologise to her?” Gaunt asked, nodding across at Cirk, who sat on a corner of the platform, her faced turned to the marsh beyond.
“If you ask me nicely,” Curth replied.
“I shouldn’t have to. Cirk’s a superior officer. Other commissars would have shot a soldier for striking a superior, without question.”
Curth stared at him. “You’re kidding me.”
“It’s true. I’ve seen it happen.”
“You’d shoot me?” Curth whispered. Her eyes were very wide.
“Not in a million years,” Gaunt said. “So go and make nice.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be very easy,” Curth said. She opened her battered narthecium and rooted around in the remains of its contents. “I ran a test. Using the last of my kit. It’s not definite. I haven’t got the equipment left for it to be definite. But I trust the result.”
“Which is?” Gaunt asked.
“The mood swings. The intolerance. It’s all part of the Chaos taint here. It’s infecting us. Changing us. Rawne’s at your throat. Cirk is completely off her chuff.”
“Who did you test?” Gaunt asked.
“Me,” she replied. Tears welled in her eyes. “I hit her because… because it’s in me now. It’s making me… different… It’s making me violent. It’s affecting our hormones. Altering them, boosting some of the repressed aggressional—”
“Ana. Shush.” Gaunt hugged her to his chest. Curth started to cry. “If what you say is true, it’s too late for us all. But I think we can overcome it. I think we can be strong. You stood up for me because you cared and because you hated to hear her slurs. We’ll make it.”
She said something, but it was muffled by his chest. He pulled back. “What?”
“I said, you’re doing that commissar thing, aren’t you? Saying the right things, the way you were trained.”
Gaunt smiled. “If I say no, you’ll think that’s just part of the training too, won’t you?”
“Maybe.”
He sat down beside her. “Then I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. Ana, we’ll be fine. If the taint is affecting us, then it’s slow. We’ve only been here a short while.”
“Cirk hasn’t. She’s been here from the start.”
Gaunt thought about that. “Yes, she has,” he said. “Yes, she has.”
“We gave you everything,” Sabbatine Cirk said, as Gaunt crouched beside her. “We’d lost our world, and you brought no word of liberation with you, and still we gave you everything we had. The entire cell was destroyed getting you in. Ballerat. So many others. For what? This nonsense. This madness.”
“I’m sorry,” Gaunt said. “If it’s any help, most of what I do… most of what my Ghosts do… appears to be madness in the doing of it. I have a mission and a goal still. We will get there, I firmly believe that.”
“You’re a liar.”
“And so many other things besides. Stick with me, Sabbatine. I need you.”
Beltayn called out.
Mkvenner was coming back.
“They said no,” Mkvenner announced as he climbed up onto the platform.
“No?” asked Brostin. “No what?”
“They’re not going to give us guides. They’re not going to help us find our way out of the marshes. We’re the old enemy. They’ve fought us for so long they’re not going to aid us now.”
“Feth,” moaned Rawne.
“Ven,” said Varl. “Where’s your fething cap-badge gone?”
“I don’t know. I must have dropped it.”
“They really said no?” Curth asked.
“Bel,” Mkvenner said, ignoring her and gesturing to the team’s vox man. Tune your set to my channel.”
“What?” Beltayn asked.
“I dropped my earplug and transmitter out of sight in the chieftain’s lodge. Tune it in.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Mkvenner looked at Gaunt. “They’re up to something. They’re not going to help us but I got the impression they don’t want us to leave either.”
“Getting nothing… just fuzz…” Beltayn said, the phones clamped to his head.
“The bastards are going to sell us out,” Rawne said.
Uexkull came to a halt. His lowlight vision was scoping nothing in this miasmal world. Heat on heat. But he trusted his eyes.
Figures were emerging out of the pools and root balls ahead of him. Tall, dusty-grey figures, flimsy as ghosts.
“Hold fire,” Uexkull ordered his men.
The spectres approached.
“How fascinating,” Sthenelus announced. “Locals, indigens…”
“Quiet!” Uexkull barked.
The lead figure approached, wading through the stagnant pool. He was draped with a cloak of moth fur, and carried some sort of crossbow.
Peasant, Uexkull thought.
But
he raised his massive gauntlet in greeting.
“Hail to you,” he called out.
“Preyathee,” the lead figure replied. “Beitye Khhaous, soule?”
“What is he saying?” Uexkull snapped over his shoulder.
“Extraordinary,” replied Sthenelus. The being appears to have no concept of what we are. Indeed, he appears inquisitive.”
“Khhaous? Beitye Khhaous? Preyathee?” the partisan repeated. He held out one grey, long-fingered hand and showed them the glinting skull-crest Tanith cap-badge he had stolen.
“They have contact with the insurgents,” Uexkull cried as soon as he saw it. “Ordinal, can you track these beings to point of origin?”
“Of course, lord. Pheromonally, and also by the wake of concentrated moth toxin they leave behind them.”
“Excellent,” Uexkull said, racking his storm bolter. “These grey souls have come looking for… what was it again? ‘Khhaous’? Was that it?”
The lead partisan nodded eagerly and held the cap badge out again.
“Let us show them what ‘khhaous’ means,” Uexkull cried.
The five Chaos Marines opened fire. Their shots mowed down the first rank of the partisans, exploding them backwards in wretched drizzles of crimson. Some ran, and were cut down. A mist of blood fumed the air.
The Tanith crest cap-badge tumbled out of a dead hand and sank quickly into the churning silt.
TWENTY
“There,” said Beltayn, concentrating as he made minute adjustments to the dial of his vox set. “I’m picking up voices. Very faint…”
He handed the headphones to Mkvenner, who pressed them against his ears and craned to hear.
“The bastards are going to sell us out,” Rawne repeated.
“Shhh!” Mkvenner said. “I can barely… Bel, can you boost the signal at all?”
“Trying,” Beltayn replied. “Better?”
“A little.” Mkvenner listened hard. “Hnh. Yeah. There’s talking. I hear the chieftain. Couple of other voices. Talking about waiting. Waiting to learn something. Hang on.”
Everyone except the still-sleeping Feygor grouped around Mkvenner in silence, even Cirk. It seemed to take an age for Mkvenner to hear enough. Finally, the scout looked up at Gaunt.
“It’s not good,” he said. The partisans have located another group moving into this area. Other outsiders.”
“Searching for us?” Gaunt asked.
Mkvenner shrugged. “That’s a good bet. The chieftain has sent a group of his warriors to make contact and find out more about them.”
“I told you!” Rawne snapped. “Sell us out! They’re going to sell us out!”
“The sort of monsters who are looking for us won’t be interested in doing deals,” Gaunt said.
“Whatever,” said Cirk. The partisans will lead them right to us, whether they mean to or not.”
“Right,” said Gaunt. This is a bust. We tried, and it didn’t come off. Time to cut our losses. Let’s retrieve the weapons and get mobile. If the partisans don’t like it, tough. Be ready to—”
Mkoll was suddenly ignoring him. The scout leader turned and looked out off the platform into the foggy darkness. “Gunfire,” he said.
Uexkull and his warriors came in out of the swirling marsh mists, wading through the soupy water and firing indiscriminately. Their weapons’ flash lit up the gloom. Bolter and cannon shot lashed from Uexkull, Nezera and Virag, plasma shots lanced from Czelgur and roaring cones of fire belched from Gurgoy’s flamer. Ordinal Sthenelus followed them, fanning out his excubitors to lend support.
The western end of the encampment withered under the remorseless assault. Tree trunks splintered, foliage shredded, platforms shook as they were punctured, tents burst into flames.
Sleepwalkers died. Many of the grey-skinned people watched in a mystified daze as the attack came on, baffled by the massive warriors invading them. Uexkull’s warriors cut them down: men, women, children. Others began to run. Czelgur raised his plasma weapon and speared bright, purple beams of energy at the encampment site. An entire platform section collapsed into the water, sending dozens of partisans tumbling into the swamp. Thrashing and struggling, they were mown down in the next hail of fire.
Uexkull strode up one of the walkways, which groaned under his weight. He fired his cannon and ripped down three fleeing partisans. Burning scads of grey feathers drifted like ash from their torn segmented cloaks.
“Fan out,” he ordered. “Kill everyone. Find the Imperials and bring their bodies to me.”
“Move!” Gaunt yelled. He could see the flashes and hear the ugly roar of the assault breaking across the far end of the encampment. “Rawne! Brostin! Larkin! Recover the weapons! Beltayn and Landerson… pick Feygor up! Move!”
“We have to run!” Cirk yelled.
“They’re massacring these people!” Gaunt replied.
“Oh, for fern’s sake,” Rawne snouted, already halfway down the ladder. These people were going to sell us out, and they’re not even Imperial citizens anyway!”
“Follow my orders!” Gaunt shouted back. “We need our weapons! No more damn running! We face them here!”
Ignoring the protests behind him, Gaunt leapt off the platform and landed on the lower staging with feline grace, rising from his bended knees and drawing the power sword. “The Emperor protects!” he yelled, and ran towards the attack.
Partisans fled past him, running the other way. Gaunt realised that one crucial thing was missing from this terrible scene. There was no screaming, no cries of horror. Even the Sleepwalker children were silent.
The guns weren’t. He heard plasma fire, a flamer’s crackling hiss and spit, and bolter weapons. Heavy stuff…
Pushing ahead, he got his first sight of the attackers as they strode forward through the camp, firing wholesale.
And he realised he had made a bad call. A very bad call. Maybe Curth had been right. Maybe the taint was so deep in them now they were acting rashly and irresponsibly. They should have run. Just run. Forgotten the weapons. Just fething run for their lives.
The attackers were giants, clad in the whirring power armour of Space Marines. Gaunt glimpsed ceramite plates as polished and luminous as mother of pearl, gold laced with filigrees of rust adorned with abominable badges.
Chaos Space Marines. The most grotesque, most powerful warriors in the archenemy’s host. Imperial Guard didn’t fight Space Marines. They left that job to the superhuman Astartes, for the simple reason that there was precious little a Guardsman could do that would even annoy a Chaos Marine. On the battlefield, brigades of well-armed Guardsmen regularly fell back in rout when even a few Chaos Marines appeared.
Gaunt had about a dozen Guardsmen in his team. They were unarmed, their weapons shut up in a coffer somewhere. Outclassed didn’t even begin to cover it.
Bad call. Bad, bad call.
Beltayn, Landerson and Curth were struggling to get Feygor down off the platform. Criid and Varl jumped down past them. The others had already taken off in the direction of the coffer.
“He’s gone in alone,” Criid was insisting. “Gaunt’s gone in alone and it’s Marines.”
“You’re kidding me,” Varl said.
“Look for yourself.”
“Holy feth. We are dead. We have to get our guns…”
“Why?” snapped Criid. “So we can fluster them a little?”
“Tona—” Varl warned.
“Give me your satchel. Now, Varl. Right now!”
Without thinking, Varl tossed her the satchel containing the last six tube-charges. She caught it and started to run after Gaunt.
“Tona! Don’t be a total gak!” Varl shouted. But she was already gone.
Varl started to run in the direction of the weapons chest, then came to a halt “Feth!” he cussed, and turned back to chase after Tona Criid.
Grey bodies lay everywhere amongst the burning tents and damaged trees. Some hung from the edges of the platforms, draping dead limbs into the green wa
ter, their segmented cloaks broken and disarrayed like the wings of dead birds, or swatted moths. Nezera, nearly two and a half metres tall in his hulking carapace armour, thumped up the walkboard bridgeway onto a higher level, and turned his cannon on a group of partisans who were trying to cower behind the remnants of a buckled tent dome.
Gaunt came out from behind the thick tree that provided central support for the platform’s weight. He put all his strength into the two-handed sword blow. One chance.
Nezera had just enough time to realise a figure had appeared to his right. Then the scalding power sword of Heironymo Sondar sliced round and through him. Ceramite armour could withstand just about anything… lasfire, bolt rounds, even cannon shot But it was like paper to the powered blade. Gaunt’s lacerating blow cut through Nezera’s chest plating, through the torso inside, and out through the spine in a fog of gore His body half-severed at mid-rib height Nezera stumbled, amazed, his system trying to manage the pain and repair the traumatic damage.
It was far too grievous. Blood poured out of the huge fissure in the plating like water over the edge of a wide cascade, jetting wildly in places. The cut edges of the armour plate glowed and crackled.
Nezera fell, heavy and dead, face down on the platform. The impact was so great that the platform shuddered and wobbled.
Gaunt looked at the cowering partisans. Their mosaic-edged eyes were wide in awe.
“Get up!” he yelled, not even trying to use their language any more. “Get up and fight back, or they’ll kill us all!”
Something’s changed, Uexkull thought, raking bolt fire through a cluster of tents and bursting open more grey flesh in bright splashes of blood. He could feel it. Like the change in the air before a thunderstorm. He—
The first shots came at him. Metal quarrels, hissing in the air like angry hornets. They pinged off his carapace armour, stopped dead by the bonded ceramite casing.
So, the peasants are fighting back, he smiled.
Then an iron quarrel smacked through the flesh of his left cheek.
There was some pain, but his bio-motors countered it. Uexkull closed his jaw and plucked the metal arrow out in a spurt of blood. Immediately, he felt his body glanding antivenin at a furious rate, the product sluicing through his system. The arrows were poisoned. An extremely lethal compound, no doubt derived from the local moths. An ordinary man would have been stone-dead in a second or two.
