[Gaunt's Ghosts 04] - Honour Guard

by Dan Abnett

  Gaunt saluted the lord general and introduced his fellow officers. The band played on.

  “This is Imperial Tactician Blamire,” said Lugo, indicating the tall, elderly woman. She nodded. Her face was lean and pinched and her greying hair was cropped.

  “I am here because of that…” Lugo said flatly, turning to look across the concourse and the holy city beyond to the flaring aurora flames flickering over the Citadel.

  “That, lord, is an abomination we all regret,” Gaunt said.

  “You will bring me up to speed, Gaunt. I want a full report.”

  “And you’ll have it,” said Gaunt, guiding the lord general across the concourse to the waiting land cars and their Chimera escort.

  Lugo sniffed suddenly.

  “Have you been drinking. Gaunt?”

  “Yes, sir. A cup of altar wine during the morning obeisance conducted by the ayatani. It was symbolic and expected of me.”

  “I see. No matter then. Now show me and tell me what I need to know.”

  “Starting where, sir?”

  “Starting with how this simple liberation turned into a pile of crap,” said Lugo.

  “You realise it’s a signal,” said Tactician Blamire, lowering her magnoculars. “A signal?” echoed Colonel Furst.

  “Oh yes. The adepts of the Astropathicus have confirmed it as such… it’s generating a significant psychic pulse with an interstellar range.”

  “For what purpose?” asked Major Kleopas.

  Blamire fixed him with a craggy gaze, a patient smile on her lips. “Our imminent destruction, of course.”

  The party of officers stood on the flat roof of the treasury, escorted by over fifty guardsmen. Prayer kites and votive flags cracked and shimmied in the air above them.

  “I don’t follow,” said Kleopas, “I thought that it was just a spiteful parting gift from the enemy. A booby trap to sour our victory.”

  Blamire shook her head. “Well, it’s not, I’m afraid. That phenomenon—” she gestured to the flickering blaze on top of the Citadel plateau. “That phenomenon is an operating instrument of the warp. An astropathic beacon. Don’t think of it as fire. What happened up there four days ago wasn’t an explosion in any conventional sense. Its purpose wasn’t to destroy the Citadel, or to kill those unfortunate Brevian troops. Its purpose is to beckon.”

  “Beckon who?” asked Furst.

  “Don’t be dense,” said Gaunt quietly. He fixed Blamire with a direct gaze. The site was significant of course. “Sacred ground.”

  “Of course. The warp-magic of their ritual required the desecration of one of our shrines.”

  “That was why they removed all the relics and icons?”

  “Yes. And then withdrew to wait for the Brevian Centennials to move in and act as the blood sacrifice to set it off. This Pater Sin clearly planned this contingency well in advance when it looked like his forces would be ousted.”

  “And is it working?” Gaunt asked.

  “I’m sorry to say it is.”

  There was a long silence broken only by the whip and buffet of the flags and kites above them.

  “We have detected an enemy fleet massing and moving through the immaterium towards us,” said Lord General Lugo.

  “Already?” queried Gaunt.

  “This summons is clearly something they don’t intend to ignore or be slow about responding to.”

  “The fleet… How big?” There was an anxious tone on Kleopas’ voice. “What is the scale of the enemy response?”

  Blamire shrugged, rubbing her gloved hands together uncomfortably. “If it is even a quarter the size we estimate, the combined liberation force here will be obliterated. Without question.”

  “Then we need to reinforce at once! Warmaster Macaroth must retask crusade regiments to assist. We—” Lugo cut Gaunt off.

  “That is not an option. I have communicated the situation to the Warmaster, and he has confirmed my fears. The recon-quest of the Cabal system is now fully underway. The Warmaster has committed all the crusade legions to the assault. Many are already en route to the fortress-worlds. There are categorically no reinforcements available.”

  “I refuse to accept that!” Gaunt cried. “Macaroth is fully aware of this world’s sacred significance! The saint’s home world! It’s a vital part of Imperial belief and faith! He wouldn’t just let it burn!”

  “The point is moot, colonel-commissar,” said Lugo. “Even if the Warmaster was able to assist us here — and I assure you, he is not — the nearest Imperial contingents of any useful size are six weeks distant. The arch-enemy’s fleet is twenty-one days away.”

  Gaunt felt helpless rage boil up inside him. It reminded him in the worst way of Tanith and the decisions he had been forced to make there. For the greater good of the Sabbat Worlds Crusade, another whole damned planet was going to be sacrificed.

  “I have received orders from the Warmaster,” said Lugo. “They are unequivocal. We are to commence immediate withdrawal from this planet. All Imperial servants, as well as the planetary nobility and priesthood, are to be evacuated with us, and we are to remove the sacred treasures of this world: relics, antiquities, holy objects, works of learning. In time, the crusade will return and liberate Hagia once more and, at such a time, the shrines will be restored and rededicated. Until then, the priests must safeguard Hagia’s holy heritage in exile.”

  “They won’t do it,” said Captain Herodas. “I’ve spoken to the local people. Their relics are precious, but only in conjunction with the location. As the birthplace of Saint Sabbat it is the world that really matters.”

  “They will be given no choice,” snapped Lugo. “This is no time for flimsy sentiment. An intensive program of evacuation begins tonight. The last ship leaves here no later than eighteen days from now. You and your officers will all be given duties overseeing the smooth and efficient running of said program. Failure will result in the swiftest censure. Any obstruction of our work will be punishable by death. Am I safe to assume you all understand what is required?”

  Quietly, the assembled officers made it clear they did.

  “I’m hungry,” Lugo announced suddenly. “I wish to dine now. Come with me, Gaunt. I wish to explain your particular duties to you.”

  “Let’s be frank about this. Gaunt,” said Lugo, deftly shucking the shell of a steamed bivalve harvested from celebrated beds a few kilometres down river. “Your career is effectively over.”

  “And how do you figure that, sir?” Gaunt replied stiffly, taking a sip of wine. His own dish of gleaming black shellfish lay largely untouched before him.

  Lugo looked up from his meal at Gaunt and finished chewing the nugget of succulent white meat in his mouth before replying. He dabbed his lips with the corner of his napkin. “I assume you’re joking?”

  “Funny,” said Gaunt, “I assumed you were, sir.” He reached for his glass, but realised it was empty, so instead picked up the bottle for a refill.

  Lugo chased a morsel of food out of his cheek with his tongue and swallowed. “This,” he said, with an idle gesture that was intended to take in the entire city rather than just the drafty, empty dining chamber where they sat, “this is entirely your fault. You never were in particular favour with the Warmaster, despite your few colourful successes in the last couple of years. But there’s certainly no coming back from a disgrace like this.” He took up another bivalve and expertly popped the hinged shell open.

  Gaunt sat back and looked around, knowing if he spoke now it would be the beginning of a swingeing rant that would quite certainly end with him at the wrong end of a firing squad. Lugo was a worm, but he was also a lord general. Shouting at him would achieve nothing productive. Gaunt waited for his anger to subside a little.

  The dining chamber was a high-ceilinged room in the summer palace where the high king had once held state banquets. The furniture had been cleared except for their single table with its white linen cloth. Six Ardelean Colonial infantrymen stood watch at the doors, letti
ng through the serving staff when they knocked.

  With Lugo and Gaunt at the table was the heavily-built commissar who had arrived with the lord general’s party. His name was Viktor Hark, and he had said nothing since the start of the meal. Nothing, in fact, since he had stepped off the aircraft. Hark was a few years younger than Gaunt, with a short, squat stature that suggested a brute muscular strength generously upholstered in the bulk of good living. His hair was thick and black and his heavy cheeks and chin were cleanly shaven. His silence and refusal to make any kind of eye contact was annoying Gaunt. Hark had already finished his shellfish and was mopping up the cooking juices from the dish with chunks of soda bread torn from a loaf in the basket on the table.

  “You’re blaming me for the loss of the Citadel?” Gaunt asked gently.

  Lugo widened his eyes in mock query and replied through his mouthful, “You were the commanding officer in this theatre, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then who else would I blame? You were charged with the liberation of the Doctrinopolis, and the recapture, intact of the holy Citadel. You failed. The Citadel is lost, and furthermore, your failure has led directly to the impending loss of the entire shrineworld. You’ll lose your command, naturally. I think you’ll be lucky to remain in the Emperor’s service.”

  “The Citadel was lost because of the speed with which it was retaken,” Gaunt said, choosing every word carefully. “My strategy here was slow and methodical. I intended to take the holy city in such a way as to leave it as intact as possible. I didn’t want to send the tanks into the Old Town.”

  “Are you,” Lugo paused, washing his oily fingers in a bowl of petal-scented water and drying them carefully on his napkin, “are you possibly trying to suggest that I am in some way to blame for this?”

  “You made demands, lord general. Though I had achieved my objectives ahead of the planned schedule, you insisted I was running behind. You also insisted I ditch my prepared strategy and accelerate the assault. I would have had the Citadel scouted and checked in advance, and such care may have resulted in the safe discovery and avoidance of the enemy trap. We’ll never know now. You made demands of me, sir. And now we are where we are.”

  “I should have you shot for that suggestion, Gaunt,” said Lugo briskly. “What do you think, Hark? Should I have him shot?”

  Hark shrugged wordlessly.

  “This is your failure, Gaunt,” said Lugo. “History will see it as such, I will make sure of that. The Warmaster is already demanding severe reprimand for the officer or officers responsible for this disaster. And, as I pointed out just now, you’re hardly a favourite of Macaroth’s. Too much of old Slaydo about you.”

  Gaunt said nothing.

  “You should have been stripped of your rank already, but I’m a fair man. And Hark here suggested you might perform with renewed dedication if given a task that offered something in the way of redemption.”

  “How kind of him.”

  “I thought so. You’re a capable enough soldier. Your time as a commanding officer is over, but I’m offering you a chance to temper your disgrace with a mission that would add a decent footnote to your career. It would send a good message to the troops, too, I think. To show that even in the light of calamitous error, a true soldier of the Imperium can make a worthy contribution to the crusade.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to lead an honour guard. As I have explained, the evacuation is taking with it all of the priesthood, the what do you call them…?”

  “Ayatani,” said Hark, his first spoken word.

  “Quite so. All of the ayatani, and all the precious relics of this world. Most precious of all are the remains of the saint herself, interred at the Shrinehold in the mountains. You will form a detail, travel to the Shrinehold, and return here with the saint’s bones, conducted with all honour and respect, in time for the evacuation transports.”

  Gaunt nodded slowly. He realised he had no choice anyway. “The Shrinehold is remote. The hinterlands and rainwoods outside the city are riddled with Infardi soldiers who’ve fled this place.”

  “Then you may have trouble on the way. In which case, you’ll be moving in force. Your Tanith regiment, in full strength. I’ve arranged for a Pardus tank company to travel with you as escort. And Hark here will accompany you, of course.”

  Gaunt turned to look at the hefty commissar. “Why?”

  Hark looked back, meeting Gaunt’s eyes for the first time. “For the purposes of discipline, naturally. You’re broken, Gaunt. Your command judgment is suspect. This mission must not be allowed to fail and the lord general needs assurance that the Tanith First is kept in line.”

  “I am capable of discharging those duties.”

  “Good. I’ll be there to see you do.”

  “This is not—”

  Hark raised his glass. “Your command status has always been thought of as strange, Gaunt. A colonel is a colonel and a commissar is a commissar. Many have wondered how you could perform both those duties effectively when the primary rationale of a commissar is to keep a check on the unit’s commander. For a while. Crusade command has been considering appointing a commissar to the Tanith First to operate in conjunction with you. Events here have made it a necessity.”

  Gaunt pushed back his chair with a loud scrape and rose.

  “Won’t you stay, Gaunt?” Lugo asked with a wry smile. “The main course is about to be served. Braised chelon haunch in amasec and ghee.”

  Gaunt nodded a curt salute, knowing that there was no point saying he had no appetite for the damned meal or the company. “My apologies, lord general. I have an honour guard to arrange.”

  SIX

  ADVANCE GUARD

  “What raised me will rest me. What brought me forth will take me back. In the high country of Hagia, I will come home to sleep.”

  —Saint Sabbat, epistles

  The honour guard left the Doctrinopolis the next morning at daybreak, crossing the holy river and travelling west out of the Pilgrim Gate onto the wide track of the Tembarong Road.

  The convoy was almost three kilometres long from nose to tail: the entire Ghost regiment, carried in a line of fifty-eight long-body trucks: twenty Pardus mainline battle tanks, fifteen munition Chimeras and four Hydra tractors, two Trojans, eight scout Salamanders and three Salamander command variants. Their dust plume could be seen for miles and the throaty rumble of their collective turbines rolled around the shallow hills of the rainwoods. A handful of motorcycle outriders buzzed around their skirts, and in their midst travelled eight supply trucks laden with provisions and spares and two heavy fuel tankers. The tankers would get them to Bhavnager, two or three days away, where local fuel supplies would replenish them.

  Gaunt rode in one of the command Salamanders near the head of the column. He had specifically chosen a vehicle away from Hark, who travelled with the Pardus commander, Kleopas, in his command vehicle, one of the Pardus regiment’s Conqueror-pattern battle tanks.

  Gaunt stood up in the light tank’s open body and steadied himself on the armour cowling against the lurching it made. The air was warm and sweet, though tinged with exhaust fumes. He had twenty-five hundred infantry in his retinue, and the force of a mid-strength armour brigade. If this was his last chance to experience command, it was at least a good one.

  His head ached. The previous night he’d retired alone to his chambers in the Universitariat and drunk himself to sleep over a stack of route maps.

  Gaunt looked up into the blue as invisible shapes shrieked over, leaving contrails behind them that slowly dissipated. For the first hour or two, they’d have air cover from the navy’s Lightnings.

  He looked back, down the length of the massive vehicle column. Through the dust wake, he could see the Doctrinopolis falling away behind them, a dimple of buildings rising up beyond the woodlands, hazed by the distance. The flickering light storm of the Citadel was still visible.

  He’d left many val
uable men back there. The Ghosts wounded in the city fight, Corbec among them. The wounded were due to be evacuated out in the next few days as part of the abandonment program. He was going to miss Corbec. He was sadly struck by the notion that his last mission with the Ghosts would be conducted without the aid of the bearded giant.

  And he wondered what would happen to the Ghosts after his removal. He couldn’t imagine them operating under a commander brought in from outside, and there was no way Corbec or Rawne would be promoted. The likelihood was the Tanith First would simply cease to be once he had gone. There was no prospect for renewal. The troopers would be transferred away into other regiments, perhaps as recon specialists, and that would be that.

  His looming demise meant the demise of his beloved Tanith regiment too.

  In one of the troop trucks, Tona Criid craned her head back to look at the distant city.

  “They’ll be fine,” said Caffran softly. Tona sat back next to him in the bucking truckbed.

  “You think?”

  “I know. The servants of the Munitorium have cared for them so far, haven’t they?”

  Tona Criid said nothing. At Vervunhive, thanks to circumstance, she had become the de facto mother of two orphaned children. They now accompanied the Tanith First war machine as part of the sizeable and extended throng of camp followers. Many of that group, the cooks and mechanics and munition crew, were travelling with them, but many had been left behind for the evacuation. Children, wives, whores, musicians, entertainers, tailors, peddlers, panders. There was no place for them on this stripped-down mission. They would leave Hagia on the transports and, God-Emperor willing, would be reunited with their friends, and comrades and clients in the First later.

  Tona took out the double-faced pendant she wore around her neck and looked wistfully at the faces of her children, preserved in holoportraits and set in plastic. Yoncy and Dalin. The babe in arms and the fretful young boy.