by Dan Abnett
Rawne tore his eyes away from her considerable appeal. He thought of the mark. The brand on her cheek. He tried to remember Banda’s face.
“You mean Feygor?”
“That’s right. He’s… lost.”
“We’re not leaving Feygor behind,” Rawne replied, looking at the trees behind her. That was no better. The arrangement of the coiled branches seemed to mimic the shape of the mark on Cirk’s cheek.
“Really? Why not?”
“Because we look after our own.”
Cirk laughed darkly. “Tell that to Acreson. To Lefivre.”
“Give me a break, Cirk. Gaunt stuck his neck out to get them clear. So did I. They died well.”
“No such thing, major.”
“Whatever.”
Cirk shrugged. Throne, she was really beautiful, Rawne thought. Luminous. And the swirling mist behind her… for a second, the wafting vapour made shapes, pictures. Figures entwined. A man and a woman.
“Anyway, what I think hardly matters,” Cirk said. “Your commander is about to ditch Feygor.”
“What?”
“I heard him say it.”
That, finally, snapped him out. He felt a new emotion, as primal as lust. Rawne started to move. “Stay here. No, go get the scouts. Get them back.”
He ran back the way they’d come.
Beltayn and Landerson laid Feygor’s body on a bulging root-mass, and tried to make him comfortable. Beltayn was trying to shoo the blood-flies away from Feygor’s face.
“We can’t carry him,” Gaunt said.
“We can, sir,” Beltayn said. “All the way.”
“No, Bel,” said Gaunt. “I mean we can’t afford to carry him. It’s slowing us down badly. Exhausting all of us.” He looked over at Curth, who had sat down on a muddy tussock and was cleaning the leeches off her calves. He’d never seen her look so tired. She was like a faded pict of herself, drained and bleached out.
“He’s not dead yet,” she said, without looking up.
“I know, Ana—”
Curth got to her feet and sloshed over to them. She pushed Landerson and Beltayn aside and ran another check on Feygor’s vitals.
“Murt’s a feth-hard son of a bitch,” she said. “It’s gonna take a lot to kill him.”
Gaunt peered over her shoulder. Feygor’s skin was abnormally pale and waxy. His eyes—closed—had sunken back into deep, dark pits and the flesh of his face was slack. Brown liver spots freckled his shoulders and arms, and Gaunt was rather afraid to ask Curth what they were. He suspected some kind of mould. A sweet, corrupted scent came out of the dying man with every shallow, ragged breath, and the flies seemed drawn in by it. Worst of all was Feygor’s throat. The flesh around his implanted larynx augmetic was swollen and sore, and it was beginning to fester. It looked like the soft, expanding rind of a rotting ploin, about to burst with its own putrescence. Stinking yellow mucus threaded out of Feygor’s chapped lips. Every weary breath rattled phlegm in the man’s throat.
“He’s going to die soon, isn’t he Ana?” Gaunt asked.
“Shut up,” she snapped, sponging Feygor’s infected neck.
“Ana, for my sake, and for Feygor’s, tell me the truth.”
Curth looked around. There were tears in her eyes again. “Shut up, Gaunt!”
“Just tell me one thing,” Gaunt said. “Is there anything else you can do for him?”
“I can—” She trailed off.
“Ana? Is there really anything else? Anything?”
Curth turned and punched at Gaunt. The blow struck his shoulder. She threw another punch, another, and then began pummelling against Gaunt’s chest, hammering with the balls of her clenched hands. She was too weary to do any damage. He put his arms around her and pulled her close, pinning her thumping fists. She started to weep into his chest.
“There’s nothing else, is there?”
“I’ve got… I’ve got nothing… nothing left… no drugs… no stuff… oh Throne…”
“All right,” he said, embracing her tightly. “It’s all right. This is just the way it goes sometimes.”
“Sir?” It was Landerson.
Gaunt slowly let go of Curth and allowed Beltayn to lead her over to a root-clump where she could sit and recover.
“Yes, Landerson?”
“I’d like to volunteer to carry Feygor, sir.”
“Noted, but—”
Landerson shook his head. “I understand this, sir. I understand you need to ditch Feygor because he’s slowing the team down. I understand the importance of your mission. But I’m not one of your team. If I fall behind, so be it. I’d just like to try, to give that man a chance.”
Gaunt looked Landerson in the eyes. He was amazed to feel tears of his own welling up. The man was offering such a sacrifice, and after all that—
“Landerson,” Gaunt began, sniffing hard and fighting to stay in control of himself. “You’d be dooming yourself and I won’t have that.”
Landerson was about to answer when Gaunt heard a snarl behind him. Rawne appeared out of nowhere and crashed into Gaunt, smashing him down into the water.
“Holy feth!” Beltayn cried.
Struggling, thrashing, the two figures surfaced. Rawne had Gaunt by the throat and was forcing him back down into the swamp. “Feth you! Leave him to die? Feth you!” Rawne was screaming, water spraying from his face. “You’d leave us all to die! Like you left Tanith to die!”
Blowing bubbles, Gaunt went under again.
“Holy feth!” Beltayn yelled again, and splashed forward to break up the fight. Landerson was with him.
“Let him go, sir!” Beltayn yelled, pulling on Rawne’s arms.
“Feth you too!” Rawne shouted back.
“Major Rawne, stop it now!” Landerson cried. He grabbed Rawne by the collar and yanked hard. Rawne twisted backwards and Gaunt surfaced again, spluttering for air.
“Get off me!” Rawne bawled, and chopped Landerson across the windpipe so hard, he buckled and fell over, gasping.
Curth rose to her feet. “What, now?” she said. “Now? Right now? Are you fething kidding me, Elim?”
Rawne was too busy drowning Gaunt and fighting off Beltayn. Curth ran over to the floundering Landerson and propped him up out of the marsh water.
“Stop it! Stop it!” Beltayn yelled, yanking as hard as he could. Rawne swung round and smacked a fist into Beltayn’s face. The adjutant blundered backwards.
Rawne locked both his hands around Gaunt’s neck and dunked him yet again into the thick, green water.
“I don’t fething believe this,” Curth barked. This is it, is it? The moment you finally decide to settle your score? Rawne, you’re fething unbelievable! How many years have you waited and you choose now? Thanks a fething lot, you stupid bastard!”
“What?” Rawne said.
“Your feud with Gaunt! You decide to settle it now?”
Rawne swayed and blinked. “What?” he repeated. He let go of Gaunt’s neck. This isn’t about him and me, this is about Feygor—”
Released, Gaunt came up out of the water and punched Rawne across the clearing.
Rawne slammed into a tree-bole, scraped his face on the bark, and then turned back.
Gaunt had the point of his warknife aimed at Rawne’s throat. Straight silver.
“Are we really going to do this, Rawne?” Gaunt asked.
“I won’t let you just leave him,” Rawne said, wiping his mouth.
Gaunt slowly put his blade away. “I’m going to make allowances, Rawne. This place is making us crazy. We all knew that would be a risk when we signed up for this. I don’t think any of us is really thinking straight any more. Gereon is screwing us up. Do you understand?”
Rawne nodded.
“But we have to try and hold this together. We have to try and keep our minds on the mission. Have you forgotten the mission, Rawne?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you forgotten the mission’s classification?”
; “No.”
“And you remember what that means? The mission is paramount. Everything else, everyone else, is expendable. We all understood that at the start. We all knew that a bad business like this might come along and we’d have to deal with it. Feth knows, we may yet face choices even harder than this one. But this is how it has to be.”
Rawne sighed. “Yes. I know. Fine.”
Gaunt nodded. He looked at the others. “Let’s break here for thirty minutes. Rest and collect our wits.” To Rawne, he said “Thirty minutes. Then I’ll make the final decision on Feygor.”
“Don’t just… leave him here to die,” Rawne said.
“I won’t. I wasn’t going to,” replied Gaunt. “If the Emperor can’t protect, then he can at least show mercy.”
The scout party appeared, brought back by Cirk. Brostin, Varl, Criid and Larkin were with them. Sensing that something had happened, Mkoll looked at Gaunt.
“We’ll take a short rest here,” Gaunt said. Mkoll shrugged, and the scouts found places on the roots to sit.
“I’m sorry,” Curth said quietly to Gaunt. That’s twice now I’ve lost it completely. I’m crying all the time, I don’t know what’s wrong with me—”
yes, you do,” Gaunt said. “It’s not you. So we’ll forget about it.”
“All right, b—” Curth broke off. “Hey, what’s he doing?”
Gaunt looked round. Eszrah ap Niht was standing beside Feygor’s body, studying him curiously.
Gaunt and Curth waded across to him, and Gaunt signalled Mkvenner to join them.
“Preyathee?” Gaunt asked.
Eszrah regarded the colonel-commissar with his dark, unreadable, mosaic-edged eyes and muttered something as he gestured to Feygor. It was too complicated for Gaunt to follow.
“Slow down,” Gaunt urged.
The Sleepwalker began to repeat himself, but it was still too complex. Mkvenner asked a question in proto-Gothic, and they exchanged a few words.
“He says his people have seen several cases of infections like this in the last few months,” Mkvenner said.
“Since Chaos came,” said Gaunt.
“Exactly,” Mkvenner nodded. The partisans had a way of treating it that sometimes worked. He’s offering to try that, if you permit him.”
Gaunt glanced at Curth.
“Look,” she said, making a helpless gesture with her hands, “I’m standing on the edge of Imperial medical science, gazing into the dark. At this point, anything’s worth a try.”
“Right,” said Gaunt. He nodded to Eszrah. “Do it.”
The Sleepwalker drew back the folds of his segmented cloak, and revealed a number of small gourd flasks suspended from his waist-belt. He selected one, opened the stopper, and wiped two fingers around the inside rim. When his fingers withdrew, they were smeared with a grey paste, the same colour as the pale dye that covered every centimetre of his skin. He leaned forward, and gently smudged the paste around Feygor’s swollen throat. Feygor stirred slightly, but did not wake.
“What is that stuff?” Curth asked.
“Hwat beyit, soule?” Mkvenner asked and listened to the reply. He looked back at Gaunt and the doctor. “It’s… um… it’s essentially moth venom.”
“What?” Curth spluttered. “Moth venom?”
“Basically,” said Mkvenner.
“Fantastic,” said Curth. “Maybe we could help Feygor by stabbing him as well.”
“Look,” said Mkvenner. “As I understand it, the stuff works. The only way the partisans have survived over the centuries in an environment this toxic is to understand it. Their skin dye, that’s for camouflage, and for ritual show, but it’s made from ground-up scales from moth wings. It’s built up an immunity in them. There are very few venoms in the Untill that can actually affect them now. They use a more concentrated version to tip their quarrels. That paste stuff has enough in it to purge taint infections.”
Curth exhaled as she considered this. “There might be some sense in it,” she admitted. “But what works for them may not work for us. Feygor’s got no immunity.”
“Feygor’s got no other chance, either.”
Eszrah finished his treatment and restoppered the flask. Then he crouched down beside Feygor, folded his arms, and waited.
The rest period Gaunt had set was over. He’d let it overrun a little, in the hope that they might see some change in Feygor’s condition. Forty minutes, forty-five. He was about to get up and call them all to order when he heard a strange, chilling moan.
Feygor was suffering some kind of violent fit. His body convulsed and his back arched. The noises coming out of him were made all the more distressing by the flat tone generated by his implant.
“Feth!” Curth cried. Everyone was already getting up and coming close. The partisan was gently trying to restrain Feygor.
Abruptly, Rawne’s adjutant writhed to his feet, slithering down off the root ball. His flailing hands lashed out and knocked the Sleepwalker off him. His head was tilted back and his howling mouth was flecked with foam. Feygor’s eyes had rolled back into their sockets.
“Grab him!” Gaunt yelled. “Hold him down!”
Bonin was nearest, but the lunatic strength in Feygor’s arms took the tough scout by surprise. Feygor threw Bonin back into the water.
And began to run.
Wailing, arms waving like a man on fire, he ran blindly, crashing into trees, tearing through undergrowth. Clouds of moths burst up into the air like confetti, disturbed by his frantic progress.
Gaunt and Rawne ran after him. Rawne shot a threatening, malevolent look at the Sleepwalker as he ran past him. “Hold the team here!” Gaunt yelled over his shoulder to Mkoll.
They ran out into the marsh, ducking under fibrous branches and shawls of lank moss, their boots churning up the muck. Already, Feygor was out of sight in the gloom, but they could still hear him, and still see his footprints in the water.
Dark brown blooms of disturbed sediment stained the green pool in a long, twisting line.
“Well, that’s it then,” Rawne spat as they ran on.
“I was trying to help him,” muttered Gaunt.
“Good work,” said Rawne.
“Wasn’t anything better than nothing?”
“I suppose.”
“The toxin must have been too much.”
The miserable screaming came from off to their left now.
“He’s doubled back,” said Rawne. “Feth, he sounds like he’s in agony.”
“There he is!” Gaunt cried.
Feygor’s pale, ragged figure had stumbled to a halt in the next clearing. His awful moans had subsided and he had slumped forward against the trunk of a leaning cycad. His scabbed hands clawed and dug weakly at the bark.
Gaunt and Rawne slowed down as they approached. Gaunt glanced at Rawne and took out his silenced autopistol.
“He won’t know a thing,” Gaunt said. “Better it’s quick, than a drawn-out death by poison.”
Rawne blocked Gaunt with a raised hand. There was a terrible look of fatalism in his eyes.
“Better it’s me,” he said.
Gaunt hesitated.
“For this sort of kindness, it should be a friend.”
Gaunt nodded, and handed the pistol to Rawne.
Rawne waded across the pool, clutching the pistol to his chest. “Golden Throne of Earth, forgive me…” he whispered. Feygor had slumped down in a heap, his face against the tree, his trailing arms, curled around it.
Rawne racked the gun and aimed it at Feygor’s head.
At the sound of the slide, Feygor suddenly looked round. He stared at the gun Rawne had levelled at him.
“What the feth is that for?” he asked.
TWENTY-THREE
“Is this going to take much longer?” Sturm asked. Desolane looked at the hunch-backed master of fysik and the man quickly shook his head.
“Not much longer now, pheguth,” Desolane said.
“Desolane…?” There was a warning note
in Sturm’s voice.
“My apologies, ph- My apologies, sir. I am having trouble getting used to the new name.”
“Old name, Desolane. My old name.”
The master of fysik completed his battery of tests. He lifted the articulated chrome scanner hood away from Sturm’s head and removed the needles from his scalp.
“You may sit up,” the master of fysik said.
Sturm sat, small motors whirring the examination couch back upright to support him. The traitor general gazed with some distaste across the hall of fysik. Ornate medical apparatus was arranged all around: sensoriums, transfusers, servo-surgery tables, wound baths, blood drains and metal frames for laser scalpel assemblies. Steel surgical tools were laid out on bright red silk. Bottles and flasks containing fibrous organic specimens in urine-coloured fluid lined the shelves, and on the walls were charts and parchments, maps of nerve distribution, blooding points, trepanning techniques and other anatomies described in brown ink. Articulated skeletons, some human, some sub-human, hung from metal frames, their bones and joints labelled with parchment tags.
The master of fysik pulled open Sturm’s right eye and peered in, reading the capillaries of the retina through a lensed scope. “Your headache?”
“Barely there.”
“And the anomia is passing?”
“I remember my own name. The names of others who were just blank figures in the fog that clouded my memory until this morning.”
“There is considerable improvement in brain activity,” the master said to Desolane. “But I can detect very little physiological trauma. I recommend the psykers see him as soon as possible.”
“More transcoding?” snapped Sturm, getting to his feet.
“We must make sure the collapsing mindlock has left no nasty surprises,” Desolane said. This is the most critical time.”
Sturm was naked, but he did not cower. The change in him was quite startling. Even his posture had altered. There was a marked difference in his bearing and even the tone of his voice. Confidence, and a regal arrogance that had straightened his back and squared his shoulders.
Desolane held out his tunic.
“No,” said Sturm. “Not those rags. I can’t abide them. Find me something suitable to wear, or I’ll go naked.”
