by Dan Abnett
Beltayn grinned. “You don’t care?”
“It irks me. It bothers me that no one can talk to me without the thought of who I am in their heads. On the other hand, I’ll die of fatigue if I keep fighting it, so I’ll live with it.”
“All right, then,” said Beltayn. “So, apart from that, why do you think Meryn asked you to be his adj?”
“Because he knows I’m smart. Because he knows I can make him look good. Because I can read a map a feth of a lot better than he can,” Dalin replied.
“Read a map, eh?” Beltayn thought about that. “You’re good with charts?” he asked. “Follow me.”
VIII
Merrt slumped down amongst the other members of his section. All four sections had been ordered back from the gatehouse into the base chamber. The sections that had been running the relay flopped down in exhausted heaps. Some had to move aside as the wounded were carried through by stretcher parties. From the upper levels of the fortress house, they could hear the crack and thump of continuing gunfire from the casemates.
Merrt sat and stared furiously at his rifle. The wretched bastard thing had jammed twice during the fire fight. It was cursed, and it was jinxing him. He desperately wanted to get rid of it, but he knew he couldn’t. He still had a lot to prove to the senior ranks, to men like Hark. Merrt was on unofficial probation, and he was determined not to screw things up. He’d promised Hark as much. If the likes of Hark, or Gaunt, or Rawne discovered he was carrying a weapon tainted by the Archenemy’s touch, if he admitted it, and they found out he’d known about the rifle’s dubious lineage all along, that would be it. He’d be lucky if he made a penal regiment.
And Rhen Merrt was not a lucky man.
He didn’t know what to do. He was afraid of the gun, and was convinced it was enjoying his fear. Don’t be stupid, it’s just a gun.
He rubbed at the half-faded yellow Munitorum stencil on the butt. He hadn’t really paid the stencil much attention before. It was just a Munitorum serial code, half worn out.
Except it wasn’t. It said “DEATH”.
Merrt blinked. He felt a cold anxiety fill his dry throat like a rod of ice. “DEATH”. It actually said “DEATH”. It-No, it was just a Munitorum code. 034TH. Half flaked away, the numerals appeared to read “DEATH”.
Merrt closed his eyes and rested his head back against the cold wall. You stupid idiot. “DEATH”. You idiot, scaring yourself. You’ve got to shake this off.
You’ve got to forget this nonsense about the gun being cursed. It’s just a gun. It’s just a piece of junk. Merrt heard voices and looked up.
“Good work, boys,” Captain Daur was telling them, walking down the line of them. “Good work. That was tight, but you did well. I’ve just been told the rest of the water drop has been delivered. Drinks on me.”
Merrt ignored the insufferably good-looking Daur and placed his untrustworthy rifle on the floor beside him. He looked down at it warily, sidelong, as if it was a poisonous snake.
We’ll see, 034TH, we’ll see. I’m going to beat your jinx and break your will. I’m going to master you and prove myself. Or you’re going to be the death of me.
IX
“Sir, this is Major Berenson,” said Criid, “and this is Tactical Officer Karples.”
“Welcome to the fun,” Gaunt said. He shook hands with Berenson and took a quick salute from the aide. “Let’s talk in my office. Thank you, Criid, that will be all.”
Criid nodded and watched the three men walk out of the base chamber into one of the connecting hallways. Nearby, she saw Kolea staring at them too.
“Uncanny, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Sorry, Tona, what is?”
“That Berenson. Dead spit for Caff, don’t you think?”
Kolea raised his eyebrows. “Gak, that’s what it is! I couldn’t put my finger on why he spooked me so much.”
“Dead spit. Could be a brother.”
Kolea looked at her. “You all right?”
“I’m always all right,” she replied. “So where’s this water, then?”
“We’re working on it,” Kolea said.
“I wasn’t expecting a personnel transfer,” Gaunt said as he led Berenson and the tactical aide into his office. In one corner of the room, Beltayn was working on a pile of maps spread out on a small table. Dalin, Rerval, Fapes and Bonin were huddled in with him.
“Do you need the room, sir?” Bonin asked.
“Please,” said Gaunt.
The group gathered up their charts, locators and wax pencils and left the office. Dalin cast an oddly lingering look at Berenson as he went out.
Gaunt led Berenson and the tactical officer over to his desk and offered them seats. Berenson and the tactical sat down on two mismatched wooden chairs. Gaunt perched on the edge of his desk.
“We can probably offer you some caffeine in a while, once we’ve found something to brew it with.”
“That’s fine, sir,” said Berenson. He took off his cap and brushed the dust off the crown. Gaunt suddenly understood Dalin’s lingering fascination. The man bore a startling similarity to Caffran.
“As I said, I wasn’t expecting a personnel transfer.”
“Last minute thing,” Berenson explained. His voice bore the traces of a clipped accent. “Elikon command was concerned about appraising you over the vox.”
“We’ve had penetration of code,” the tactical aide said bluntly.
“It was agreed I should follow the supply drop in and bring you up to speed in person,” Berenson continued.
“I appreciate that. We feel rather cut off out here.”
“I can see why” said Berenson with a half-smile. He looked around. “This is a curious hole, this Hinzerhaus. I must say, it has the most peculiar atmosphere. Not entirely pleasant. Sort of… menacing.”
“Its a bad place on a bad rock,” said Gaunt. “I presume you were briefed by Van Voytz.”
Berenson nodded. “He’s fully aware of the plight he’s placed you in, sir. Fully aware. He sends his regrets. In fact, he was most particular about that. The tactical summaries left something to be desired.”
“The enemy dispositions are hard to read,” the tactical officer put in, uncomfortably. “We are revising.”
“Karples thinks we’re getting at his department for doing a bad job,” Berenson smiled. “I keep telling him it really wasn’t Tactical’s fault. The enemy surprised us all. They were disguising massive troop deployments along the Kehulg Basin.”
“Show me,” said Gaunt.
Karples got up and produced a hololithic projector from his bag. He set it on the desk and aimed the caster lens at the back wall of the office. The device hummed, and projected a hazy three-dimensional graphic into the air. Karples walked into it and began to point towards certain features.
“The main elements of our opposition were identified by early orbit sweeps and sat-scatter as accumulated here in the Jaagen Lowlands, and here in the lower provinces. Elikon was chosen as the optimum beach head for landing and dispersal. Fierce fighting at armour brigade level has been taking place here, and along here, and into the Lowlands. There was some concern that enemy elements might swing east and attempt a penetration through the Banzie Altids, which is why the Lord General deployed you to this site.”
Gaunt nodded. “But that’s not how it’s playing out, is it? We’ve seen that much for ourselves.”
Karples looked back at Gaunt, his pinched, rodent face layered in streamers and patches of coloured light from the display.
“No, it’s not, colonel-commissar. Undetected by the sat-scatter drones, the enemy had massed considerable forces here, here and here before we made planetfall, the Kehulg Basin in particular. These forces have swept around out of cover and achieved a pincer around the Elikon front.”
“That’s seriously bad news, sir,” Berenson put in. “The fighting along that stretch of the line is wicked. Be thankful you’re out here.”
“I’m not that thankful,” said Gaunt. “The enemy’
s here too.”
Karples nodded. “Far more advanced than we first suspected. We now believe they have been planning this for months. Successive, surprise strikes along our eastern flank were the actual basis of their strategy. Hinzerhaus is the furthest projection of their swing attack, but crucial. They are not attempting to counter-strike here, sir. This is the path of their main offensive.”
“Imagine how pleased that makes me feel,” Gaunt said, sitting down in his chair.
“Clearly, we’ve disposed and positioned ourselves badly,” Berenson said. “I’m here to tell you this isn’t going to be your problem for much longer.”
“Really?”
Berenson smiled. So like Caff, Gaunt thought. “The Cadogus Fifty-Second has deployed in total strength configuration. Twenty thousand men, plus armour and artillery, along with battlefield psykers. As luck would have it, we were delayed in transit, otherwise we’d have been placed along the Jaagen zone. Thank the Throne we weren’t. It gives our side tactical flexibility. My regiment is operational and moving rapidly into the field east of Elikon, with the intention of meeting the enemy offensive head on. Show him, Karples.”
“Here, also here, here and here,” the tactical aide said, pointing at the 3-D light.
“The main business is likely to be at Banzie Pass,” said Berenson, “but we can’t ignore Hinzerhaus and its environs. Five companies of mechanised infantry will be arriving in the next three days. Full support. We’ll take over from you then. We’ll greet them and hit them hard. All your… Ghosts, I believe they’re called… all your Ghosts have to do is hold this position until then and keep the enemy contained and occupied.”
Gaunt nodded.
“And I’m here to help you with that,” said Berenson brightly.
“I hope you can shoot, then,” said Gaunt.
Day ten. Sunrise at four plus fifty-three, white out conditions, or so I’m told by A.C. Bored out of my skull here in the field station. WE Wish I could move. Back hurts.
Face down on a gurney. This is how I will see out the rest of my career. L. comes in to visit me, once in a while. I can tell he’s not happy. I imagine the men are being less than cooperative. Poor bastard.
There was a water drop yesterday but it seems no one can now locate the damn water. I am so parched, it’s killing me. My throat hurts worse than my back, and A.C. tells me I do not want to see my back.
Bad night. I had the dream suffered the voices in my head the pipes slept badly and woke up a lot. Kept hearing the pipes playing in my head waking, troubled. There’s something going on. G. came to see me, but he wasn’t saying much.
Shoggy Domor died during the night. Twice. D. brought him back both times with cardiac paddles. I am scared for Shoggy. He needs proper care in a Guard hospital. Out here, in this cellar, he doesn’t stand a chance.
Have begun to hate Hinzerhaus. Am increasingly convinced it is trying to kill us all.
—field journal, V.H. fifth month, 778.
TEN
Five Thirty-Seven
I
It was early, very early. The house was cold and the lights seemed especially dim. Outside, the wind murmured.
The old dam in the black lace dress, she of the maggoty, meat-wound face, was walking about again. Maggs could hear her footsteps, and feel the chill of her.
Throne, how she wanted them dead, all of them. That was her business. When he closed his eyes, he could see her face, a face that wasn’t a face any more.
Maggs had been sent to sit the small hours watch in a gunbox on upper west fifteen. At first, the six-man team had taken turns watching the shutters while the others rested, but there was nothing to see outside except dust, so they’d given up on that. They’d closed the shutters and rigged tripwires so they’d know if anyone was trying to prise them open from the outside.
Footsteps rolled along the quiet hallway behind them. Slow, shuffling steps. Maggs looked up, raising his gun.
“What’s the matter?” Gansky asked him.
“Nothing,” said Maggs. He couldn’t hear the footsteps any more. He got up and checked the tripwires.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Five twenty-two,” said Lizarre, checking his chron sleepily.
Maggs walked down the hallway and looked around. Nothing, not a sign of anyone.
That was all right, though. He really, really didn’t want to come face to face with her.
II
Baskevyl woke and rolled over with a groan. The floor beneath his bedroll was hard and unforgiving.
He remembered where he was.
Baskevyl sat up. He knew something had woken him: a noise. He wasn’t sure if the noise had been in his dream or real.
He got up and left the billet chamber. A few Ghosts grumbled in their sleep as he picked his way out. There were sixty other men in the chamber, and he knew they needed all the rest they could get.
Out in the hall, he leaned against a brown satin wall and took out his water bottle. The water that had been taken in through the gate during the previous day’s abortive drop had been carefully rationed out. It had tasted wonderful, but there was very little left in his bottle now. Another ration was going to be issued at breakfast. Estimates varied, but the reckoning was that, at strict ration levels, the water they had would last four days. No one had managed to find the bulk of the drop, or the elusive courtyard where it lay. Gaunt had already sent a request for supplementary supply drops to Elikon, a message that had not been answered.
The glow of the wall lights slowly faded. They seemed to take a long time to come back. Baskevyl watched them with fascination. The fade and return got slower at night, as if the house was breathing more slowly because it was asleep.
Something wasn’t asleep. He heard a noise and knew it was the same noise that had woken him. He listened and heard, very far away, a scraping sound: a soft, wet, slithering sound coming from the depths of the earth.
It was still down there, the daemon-worm. It was still down there, and it was snuffling around, trying to get his scent.
III
“Are we—” the link began to ask, and then the words were lost in a squall of loud vox-noise.
Beltayn adjusted his dials, the phones clamped to his sweaty head. “Say again, source?”
Static. A drifting buzz.
Beltayn tried again, patiently. “Elikon, Elikon, this is Nalwood, this is Nalwood. Requesting response to earlier transmission regarding future water drops, over?”
More static. When the dust blew up at night, it chopped the legs out of the vox link.
Beltayn sat back and took off his headphones. It was five twenty-three. He’d promised Gaunt he’d rise early and check the vox.
The grand base chamber was empty and quiet around him. He could just hear the footsteps of a sentry moving about on one of the landings above. Soft, shuffling footsteps. The poor bastard is tired, Beltayn thought. We’re all tired.
He kept looking at his water bottle. Half of his last night’s precious ration was still in it. He was pacing himself.
“Adj?”
Beltayn looked around and saw Dalin wandering in, yawning. Dalin was holding a bundle of charts in his hands.
“What are you doing up?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” said Dalin, sitting down beside Beltayn. “Been thinking about the maps all night.”
“Oh, don’t,” said Beltayn. The frustration of the previous night’s efforts had almost driven Beltayn to snapping point. With Dalin, Bonin and a few of the other most accomplished adjutants and pathfinders, he’d gathered up all the maps of Hinzerhaus issued to the regiment and gone over them line by line, looking for the fabled courtyard. That’s what they had begun calling it. The fabled courtyard. The true nonsense of the maps had quickly become apparent. None of them matched. Some looked like plans of entirely different fortress complexes. Beltayn wondered what the feth Tactical had thought they were playing at. How could they issue a dozen different schematics of the same
objective? Hadn’t they noticed?
Beltayn’s team had worked on it for hours, sometimes walking the halls only to end up wandering aimlessly around in futile circles. Mkoll had joined them, trying to employ that ineffable Tanith woodcraft to the task. They knew where the fabled courtyard should be. They knew where it had to be, given the sight of it the scouts had got from the ridge two days before. But they just couldn’t find the fabled fething courtyard, or any sign of a hall or spur that might lead to it.
Sleep had caved them in at last and they’d given up. “The water’s not going anywhere,” Mkoll had said, stoically. “Let’s get some rest.”
Beltayn had been particularly disarmed by Mkoll’s manner. He had realised the chief scout simply hated being useless, and since when had Mkoll not been able to find anything? It was as if the house was deliberately hiding the courtyard from them.
That, of course, was utter nonsense, because to believe that, you’d have to believe the house was somehow… alive.
Dalin spread some of the maps out on the deck beside Beltayn’s vox-caster. “I had an idea,” he said. “What if they’re all right?”
“What? You need some sleep, lad.”
“No, no, listen. What if they’re all correct? I mean, what if they all have some parts correct, as much as they all show stuff that’s wrong too. We should look at the bits that agree, and that agree with the actual layout of this place.”
“We tried that,” said Beltayn, “Remember?” He wasn’t in the mood for this. The boy was trying hard to impress, and Beltayn had to give him credit for that, at least, but Dalin was wasting his time.
“Hear me out,” Dalin insisted. “This was keeping me awake. No matter how wildly different the charts are, they have certain features in common. Gaunt’s map shows the base chamber and the halls along here, so does Rawne’s. Hark’s has got them too, but not the lower hall or these galleries here. Kolea’s got galleries all over the place that aren’t marked on any other charts. All of them show the well, and six of them show the power room, although—”
