[Gaunt's Ghosts 11] - Only in Death

by Dan Abnett

  “All right, hauntings,” said Kolea. “They’ve been happening since the day we got here, but they’re getting worse. And just because the sun’s come up, it doesn’t mean we’re safe.”

  II

  Zweil put down his psalter, licked his thumb and forefinger, and snuffed out the votive candle.

  “You want me to do what?” he asked.

  Hark sat facing him in the small room that Zweil had taken as his sanctuary.

  “You heard me, father.”

  “An exorcism? I’m an ayatani priest, not a wizard, you idiot.”

  Hark breathed deeply. “All right, setting to one side the fact you just called me an idiot—you really shouldn’t do that, father, on account of the fact that I have a gun—I know what I’m asking is extreme. But you’ve seen what’s going on.”

  Zweil nodded. His gnarled, liver-spotted hands reached up and removed the ceremonial stole from around his neck, folded it and put it away in his satchel. “I’ve seen,” he said. “I’ve seen what I always see. Men in a dire circumstance. Men afraid. Men dying. Men afraid of dying. Tension, stress, battle fatigue…”

  “It’s more than that.”

  “Piffle. This place is ghastly, the fighting’s been miserable and we’ve lost a great deal. Worst of it is, everyone feels like we’re penned in. Trapped, like we’re in a cage. Like this house is our cage.”

  “Father…”

  Zweil glanced at Hark. “There are no malign spirits here, Viktor. Just frightened soldiers in extremity. The human mind does all the rest. Last night, Dorden—a man as sound and sober as Dorden, Viktor—thought he saw blood running down a wall. It wasn’t blood. It was dust.”

  Hark drew his hand across his mouth and then, hesitantly, told the old priest what he and Criid had witnessed the previous night.

  Zweil was silent for a long time after Hark had finished.

  “Well, was that my imagination, father?” Hark asked.

  “There will be some rational explanation,” Zweil replied.

  Hark shook his head and rose to his feet. To do so, he had to lean heavily on his crutch. “Let’s say you’re right, father, and it’s all in our heads. Surely a blessing of prohibition from you would help psychologically if nothing else?”

  “I don’t do parlour tricks,” said Zweil. “I won’t have the Imperial creed diminished by empty theatrics.”

  Hark turned and limped towards the chamber door. “Your scepticism disappoints me, father ayatani. It’s especially disappointing to hear it coming from a man who saw the Saint with his own eyes, and believed.”

  “That was different,” said Zweil.

  “Only because you wanted to believe then,” said Hark. “You really don’t want to believe in this, do you?”

  III

  Baskevyl’s hands had been shaking as he’d opened the book for the first time. Now, as he closed it again, he felt like a fething idiot. His service pistol, which he had drawn and laid on the table beside the book just before opening it, only emphasised that idiocy. What exactly had he been expecting? That something was going to leap out of the pages at him? Had he actually been thinking he might have to shoot the book?

  Idiot, idiot, idiot…

  The book was nothing, an alien thing, as incomprehensible as some of the other texts Beltayn had pulled off the shelves to examine, a disappointment.

  There had been pages of tightly packed text, which he couldn’t read, and illustrated plates that seemed to be a mix of obscure diagrams, primitive zodiacs and charts. As he leafed through the pages, Baskevyl had turned the book the other way up several times, uncertain which end was the front and which the back. Neither way seemed convincing.

  Baskevyl had borrowed Rawne’s office for an hour while the commander walked his dawn tour of the house. Outside the door, the place was waking up. Men trudged past. Baskevyl heard glum, early morning voices, the voices of those who had woken up after far too little sleep mixing with the voices of those who had seen the small hours in, red-eyed, on watch. He smelled meal-cans warming on the cooking grate in the base chamber and caffeine steaming in metal jugs.

  He got up and stretched. Maybe some food…

  There was a knock at the door and Fapes came in. Hurriedly, foolishly, Baskevyl covered the book and the pistol with his jacket.

  “Thought you might like a cup, sir,” said the adjutant, holding out a tin mug of caffeine.

  “I’ll have to report you to the Black Ships, Fapes,” Baskevyl smiled.

  “Sir?”

  “You’re a mind-reader.”

  Fapes grinned and brought the mug over to the desk.

  “Last night, eh, sir?” he said. “What was all that?”

  “The barrage, you mean?”

  Fapes shrugged. “That, yeah. But the rest of the stuff. I heard Wes Maggs went nuts and there are all sorts of stories doing the rounds.”

  “Stories?”

  “Rumours, I suppose, sir.”

  “You know the regiment’s stance on rumours, Fapes.”

  Fapes nodded.

  Baskevyl picked up the mug and sipped. “Still,” he said, “between you and me?”

  Fapes smiled again. “They’ve been saying this place is, you know—”

  “Haunted, Fapes?”

  “I wouldn’t like to comment, sir, but they’ve been saying it since we got here. Last night, feth, footsteps, lights, whispers. Bool swears he saw an old lady without a face.”

  “A what?”

  “Up in west six, sir. He told me himself. An old biddy in a long, black dress.”

  “With no face?”

  Exactly.

  Baskevyl took another sip. “How long has Bool been in charge of the regiment’s sacra supply, Fapes?”

  Fapes snorted, but Baskevyl could tell he was unsettled. The light-hearted approach, the easy manner, it was all Fapes’ way of handling the matter. He was looking for reassurance.

  Baskevyl was horribly afraid he wasn’t in a position to offer any.

  “Do you think,” Fapes began, “do you think there really are ghosts here, sir?”

  “Apart from us? Of course not, Fapes.”

  Fapes nodded. “If there are, sir, if there are… could they kill us?”

  Baskevyl blinked. He wanted to blurt out there’s something under the rock here, right under us, that would kill us all in a second.

  Instead, he managed a simple “No.”

  “That’s what Ludd said, sir. He said it was our imaginations getting to us.” Fapes didn’t look particularly convinced.

  “Ludd’s right, Fapes,” said Baskevyl. “One thing, though…”

  “Sir?”

  “It’s Commissar Ludd.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

  There was a slightly awkward pause.

  “Major Rawne has called a command briefing in half an hour,” Fapes said.

  “In here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’d better clear my things. Go and get a pot of this stuff and some more cups. The officers will appreciate it.”

  Fapes nodded and left the room. Sipping his caffeine, Baskevyl scooped up his jacket with his free hand. The sleeve caught on the book’s cover and knocked it open.

  Baskevyl put his cup down and pulled on his jacket. A draught slowly licked the open pages over like dry leaves. Baskevyl picked up his pistol and buckled it back into its holster.

  He stopped and reached towards the book quickly. What was that he had just seen? He flipped back through the pages, reversing the draught’s work. Where was it? Surely he hadn’t imagined it…

  He found the illustration. Baskevyl flattened the page with his hand and stared at it.

  It was a drawing of a worm. A line drawing of a worm that, like the silver emblem embossed on the book’s spine, had seized its own tail in its jaws to form a hoop with its lean, limbless body. The worm circle was surrounded by concentric rings of a certain design, and lines came in from various sides to intersect with the outer cir
cles.

  What the feth is this?

  Baskevyl turned the page and saw another illustration. It seemed to show some kind of pin or bolt in cross-section, though it could easily have been a heraldic device. Further diagrammatic drawings showed other rings and systems of lines drawn in a rectilinear web and annotated.

  He turned another page. Here was a diagram showing what appeared to be the hooded eye of a reptile.

  But it wasn’t. Baskevyl took a deep breath. He knew exactly what it was a picture of.

  IV

  Half an hour later, with the ominous boom of the distant bombardment still echoing in the background, Rawne walked into the room. Hark, Ludd, and all the company officers who had survived well enough to stand were waiting for him.

  “Commanding officer!” Ludd barked.

  Everyone saluted without hesitation. Everyone shared the grim presentiment that this might be the last time the officers of the Tanith First gathered for such a meeting.

  Rawne took the salute with a nod. Berenson was with him, and Rawne had also called in the senior adjutants.

  “The sounds you’ve been hearing since midnight last night,” he began, “are the sounds of the Cadogus Fifty-Second giving hell to the Archenemy in Banzie Pass.”

  There was a general chorus of satisfaction.

  “All that remains for us to do now is hold on,” Rawne said. “Hold on and hold this fething place until they get to us.”

  “How long will that be, sir?” asked Kamori.

  Rawne glanced at Berenson.

  “As soon as they can,” said Berenson. Several officers groaned.

  “How many times have we been told that over the years?” asked Obel.

  “Too many,” said Rawne. “And it’s always true.” He looked around at them all. “We keep our heads and do what we do best, and we’ll get out of this hole yet. That’s my promise to you, and you know I don’t make many promises.”

  “Doesn’t keeping that promise rather depend on the Blood Pact playing along?” asked Kamori, winning a few dark chuckles.

  “No,” said Rawne. “Maintain discipline and vigilance. Get ready to fight if you have to, and if you have to, fight like bastards. The Blood Pact can go feth itself.”

  Larkin raised a hand.

  “Is this a question about munitions, Larks?” Rawne asked.

  “Yup,” Larkin nodded, lowering his hand.

  “Then I’ve got good news. Beltayn?”

  The senior adjutant stepped forwards. “We received the confirmation signal from Elikon M.P. twenty minutes ago. Munition supply drop will be made in exactly two hours.”

  Beltayn’s announcement provoked a lot of chatter and noise.

  “Quiet down,” said Rawne.

  “How’s that going to work, sir?” asked Daur. “We land anything in the gate area, the enemy is going to be all over us in minutes. You know what happened with the water drop. I wouldn’t want to be lugging munitions in under fire.”

  “We’re not going to be using the gate area, Daur,” said Rawne. He looked over at Bonin. The new chief of scouts frowned slightly, and then slowly nodded as he understood.

  “This is that ‘right moment’ you were talking about, isn’t it?” Bonin asked.

  “It is,” said Rawne. “The transports have been instructed to set down in the gulley in front of the second gate. As far as we can tell, the enemy doesn’t know about it, and the gulley gives us decent cover. The transport can land, and we can unload it in through the second gate before the enemy realises what’s going on.”

  Bonin nodded. “That’s good,” he said.

  “It’ll still be tight,” said Kolosim.

  “Of course,” Rawne replied, “but it’s the best option and we’ll make it work. I want volunteers. Two companies, one to unload, one to cover them and defend the gulley.”

  Almost every hand was raised.

  Rawne looked around. “Thank you. Captain Meryn, your boys get defence. Captain Varaine, L Company will be unloading. Everyone else, full strength at every rampart, overlook and casemate, north and south. Kolosim, Obel? The main gate’s yours this time. Talk to Daur, he knows how to hold a fething gate. Kolea, you get command of the south face. Baskevyl, upper galleries and north. Daur, Sloman, Chiria, I want your companies mobile and fluid, ready to move at short notice to any part of the house that needs support.”

  The three of them nodded. Chiria, now holding the brevet rank of captain, had taken acting command of K Company in Domor’s absence. She was taking her duties very seriously. She was determined not to let her beloved captain down.

  “One last thing,” said Rawne. He looked over at Hark. “The stuff we found in the library.”

  “The stuff Beltayn found,” Hark corrected, shifting uncomfortably on his crutch.

  “Indeed. Credit to him. Everyone needs to understand this. Getting that stuff out and clear is as important as getting the munition supplies in. The drop will be two transports, not one. The first bird will be empty ready to extract a team carrying as many of those fething books as they can. In and out, fast scoop. Then the munitions lifter will come in and we’ll get busy. The gulley’s only big enough to take one transport at a time.”

  “That’s gonna spoil the element of surprise,” said Bonin.

  “Yeah, a little, but we work with it. The books are too important,” said Rawne. “I know this because Hark and Bask told me so.”

  “Who gets to take the ride out?” asked Meryn.

  “I’ve already chosen a team,” said Rawne, “and I’m not going to brook any arguments on it. Hark.”

  Hark frowned. “I want to stay, major.”

  “No arguments, I said. I need someone with clout to get those books to the attention of the proper people. Besides, and I hate to draw attention to this, Hark, you’re hurting. Dorden says you need urgent graft work. Get the books to Elikon, and they can give you the treatment you need.”

  “That’s an order, then?” asked Hark morosely.

  “Firm as any I’ve ever given,” said Rawne.

  Hark shook his head sadly. “I won’t pretend I like it.”

  “Major Berenson’s going to ride with you. I need him to link up with command and fill them in. Criid, you’re going too.”

  Tona Criid glared at him. “No way am I—”

  “Did I imagine it, or did I say the ‘no arguments’ bit out loud?” Rawne asked. “Dorden advises me you need proper treatment too so, like Hark, you’re going to be a courier.”

  “There are dozens of Ghosts in the field station who need emergency evacuation to proper medicae facilities,” said Criid bluntly “I won’t be chosen over them.”

  “Oh, Throne,” said Rawne. “I fething hate being surrounded by so many bloody heroes. You’re going, Criid. The poor bastards in the field station will get evacuated soon enough.”

  “Who else?” asked Hark.

  “Twenzet, Klydo and Swaythe. I’m not being sentimental about this. They’re all walking wounded, but they’re able-bodied enough to carry stuff. I’d rather send men with light wounds than draw troopers from the active line.”

  Hark nodded. “Makes sense. All right.”

  “Get ready. Beltayn, help Commissar Hark pack the books into kit bags. And do one last sweep of the book room to make sure we haven’t missed anything vital.”

  “Yes, sir,” Beltayn nodded.

  “Ludd?” Rawne said.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Once Hark’s gone, you’ll be more than acting commissar. You’ll be commissar, plain and simple. You up to that?”

  Ludd nodded.

  Rawne turned to the others. “Ludd’s going to have an uphill battle. Help him. Reinforce his instruction and his authority. You see any trooper, any trooper, mock or piss-take or ignore him, come down on him like an Earthshaker shell, or I’ll come down like an Earthshaker shell on you. Are we perfectly dear?”

  “Yes,” the officers said.

  Rawne smiled and half-frowned. “I belie
ve I’m in command. I’m in command, aren’t I, Bel?”

  “Last time I checked, sir,” said Beltayn.

  “So?” asked Rawne, and let it hang.

  “Yes, commander,” the officers said.

  “Better,” said Rawne. “Now get your arses moving and let’s show the fething bastard enemy how to prosecute a war.”

  V

  The officers filed out, heading off to assemble their companies. Rawne pulled Ludd to one side.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Get Maggs out of lock up. We’re going to need every man we can get. Tell him he was an idiot, and tell him if he acts up again, I’ll hunt him down and gut him like a larisel.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Something else, Ludd?”

  Nahum Ludd shrugged. “What’s a larisel, sir?”

  “Does it matter, Ludd? I think the simile speaks for itself.”

  “Yes, sir. Thanks for—”

  Rawne had turned away. “Thanks for what, Ludd?”

  “For speaking up for me, sir.”

  “Just do your fething job and don’t shame me, Ludd. Then I won’t have to gut you like a larisel either.”

  Rawne walked off down the busy hallway. He entered the base chamber. It was thronging with troops moving off to their positions. The last of the ammo was being doled out. “That’s it,” Rawne heard Ventnor shout. “What you’ve got is all there is! Only things I have left are prayers and goodwill!”

  Berenson stood on the main level. He held his left hand out to Rawne, his right still in its sling. Rawne took it.

  “I may not get the chance later,” said Berenson. “Good luck. Not that you’ll need it.”

  “Oh, we’re going to need all the luck we can get,” said Rawne.

  VI

  Baskevyl walked into the field station. He looked around, and then crossed to the bed where Shoggy Domor lay. Domor was a pale shell of his old self, thin and drawn by the pain of his wound and the traumatic surgery he had endured. The white skin of his chin and cheeks was prickled with black stubble. He looked asleep. No, he looked dead, dead and gone.

  Baskevyl hesitated.

  “You need something, major?” Curth asked as she hurried by.

  “No, thanks. Just looking in,” Baskevyl replied.