[Gaunt's Ghosts 06] - Straight Silver

by Dan Abnett - (ebook by Undead)

  The forest beckoned.

  Corbec could see the renewed spirit in the faces of the men around the camp. He sat back on the fender of a half-track, and made a last few adjustments to squad lists he was drawing up. Each ten-man detail needed a good mix of scouts and fireteam, and Hark had requested Corbec spread the scout-trainees evenly.

  Corbec sucked on the big cigar smouldering between his teeth. A gift from Gaunt. He’d been going to save it for a special occasion, but the smoke was doing a fine job of screening out the odour of the Ins Arbor latrines.

  Gaunt’s real gift had been this mission. Half of the First taken out of the Naeme meatgrinder and given something useful to do. That was what had lifted morale, despite the grim facilities of the staging town. Anything was better than the line, and the prospect of forest work was better than anything. Tanith were smiling. Verghastites, who had no special affinity with woodland, were smiling too, simply lifted by the mood and the last minute reprieve from trench postings.

  He called Varl over and sent him to round up the troops for the first details.

  The forest beckoned.

  Brostin kept going on about it. Thuggish, brutal, tattooed, one of the most barbarian of all the enlisted Tanith, he would not shut up about the wonder of it all.

  “Smell that!” he said. He paused, cocking his head, wistful. “Not the leaves. The smell of wet earth beneath trees. Hmm-mm.”

  “All I smell is your gakking p-tanks, Tanith,” Cuu said Idly.

  “You’ve got no soul, Cuu. No soul at all.”

  “So they say, sure as sure.”

  “Here’s an idea,” said Feygor, his voice a quiet hiss through his throat-box. “Why don’t the two of you shut up?”

  Brostin shrugged and smiled, and picked up his sloshing fuel tanks again. Cuu melted away into the bracken.

  Feygor raised his right hand and swept the fingers round twice in a paddling motion. The members of nineteen detail fanned forward through the underbrush.

  It was late afternoon. The sun was a yellow dapple to the west behind the leaf cover. The glades of the forest were misty hollows pillared by black trunks. Wild birds called aloud through the wood spaces, and the air smelled of damp bark, wood-poppy and beythorn.

  Nineteen detail had been out now for three hours, having left the company command at Ins Arbor with the other details after Corbec’s briefing. On the hike up through the villages, the details had separated, one by one, each striking off towards their own designated patrol. Nineteen had been ordered to sweep the Bascuol Valley as far as the pass road down to Frergarten. Two, maybe three days, out and back. They’d made decent time, moving in country. A gentle stroll into the woods.

  “I thought Brostin was born and raised in the slums of Tanith Magna,” whispered Caffran.

  Gutes shrugged. “Me too. I guess even the city-boys amongst us get sentimental once in a while.”

  Caffran nodded. He didn’t begrudge Brosrin’s enthusiasm. These were dark pine woods, the nearest thing to Tanith they’d experienced since the loss. The spark of recognition he himself had felt at the landing zones was magnified here. Forest. Trees. Aexe Cardinal felt enough like home to please him.

  The Verghastites in the detail were less settled. Muril and Jajjo, children of the hive, were jumping at shadows, moving their weapons to cover every last mysterious creak and crack the forest made.

  “Cool it down,” Caffran whispered to Muril as she snapped round, her lasrifle aimed.

  “Easy for you to say, tree-boy,” she said. “This is spooky.”

  Feygor raised his hand to signal a stop and turned back to face his scout-team.

  “Feth!” he said, “I’ve heard quieter beer-dances! Could we act professionally? Could we?”

  They nodded.

  “And tell me…” Feygor added, “isn’t this better than slogging it at the front?”

  “Yes, Mister Feygor,” they all agreed. “Good. Excellent. Now come on.” Feygor turned and walked smack into Mkvenner.

  “Feth me backwards! Ven! Damn!”

  Mkvenner looked at Feygor dourly. He had no love for Rawne’s adjutant. A speck of feth, if you pressed him for an opinion, and few dared.

  “Way’s clear,” Mkvenner said. “Through to the big oak at the dip. Want me to spread forward?”

  “Yeah, why don’t you do that?” Feygor said, recovering his composure. “And take one of the fething wannabes. That’s the idea of this, isn’t it?”

  “So I’m told,” said Mkvenner. He glanced back at the spread out members of the detail. “Trooper Jajjo! Front to me!”

  Jajjo tumbled forward to join the lean, scary Tanith scout. Jajjo was one of the few Verghasts to show potential as a scout.

  “Ahead and low, fan south. Calls are standard,” Mkvenner said to the eager Jajjo. “Go!”

  Mkvenner and Jajjo forked away ahead of the detail. Feygor kept his eyes on them. He could still see Jajjo’s creeping, hunched shape after two minutes. Mkvenner had vanished almost immediately.

  Rerval made a vox-check to make sure they were still in range. He looked up and saw Muril with a grim expression on her face.

  “What’s up, Verghast?” he said.

  “Nothing. Nothing…” she answered. Rerval shrugged. He knew what was bothering her. Muril and Jajjo had both signed up for scout training, and this tour in the woods was meant to be their proving ground. So far, only Jajjo had benefited from Mkvenner’s expertise and tutoring.

  It’s a female thing, Rerval thought. Just like Rawne, though I’d never have expected that kind of prejudice from Ven.

  “Let’s pick it up!” Feygor called back down the line. “Moving on!”

  They advanced, spread out, through the dim forest space: Feygor, Gutes, Brostin, Muril, Caffran, Cuu.

  Cuu paused to look back at the tenth and final member of the detail.

  “You with us?”

  “Sure,” said Hlaine Larkin. “Sure as sure.”

  Feygor was pretty pleased with himself. He’d made the cut into what had become known as the “lucky half of the First”, and now here he was with command of a foot patrol. Minimal effort, a little walk-and-look job, and open ended. And if they found somewhere nice, maybe an old farm or something, then a two-day patrol might turn itself into three or four days of R and R.

  He’d have preferred to pick his own detail. Nineteen was a mixed bag, but Brostin, Rerval and Gutes were okay, Cuu had his moments, and Caff was all right in his way. Larks was a nut, but what else was new? He could shoot. Maybe he’d bag them something for supper. Feygor acknowledged to himself that he had no idea what sort of wildlife lived out here, but he was pretty sure there would be something with a mouth at one end, an arse at the other, and decent eating in between.

  The Verghasts he could do without. Jajjo was a stiff, and in Feygor’s opinion, no Verghast was ever going to cut it as a scout. It wasn’t in the genes. The girl was better. Decorative. Maybe he’d get really lucky and bag another kind of game out here in the wild woods.

  The real pain was Ven. Sure, Feygor respected the scout, everyone did. But everyone was afraid of Mkvenner too. He was straight as a die. Feygor knew he’d have to plan very carefully if they were going to have any fun without Ven getting in the way.

  Of course, there was meant to be a job to do, too. The Montorq Forest covered upwards of three thousand square kilometres and ran down from the Toyre, bearding the west-em flanks of the Kottmark Massif, a wall of mountains that split the eastern provinces of Aexegary from Kottmark. Most of the Montorq terrain was steep, thick woodland slopes, pretty much impassible unless you were on foot or had time to scout out a decent track.

  The Shadik Republic lay to the north. The nominal border was about eighty kilometres away, beyond the headwaters of the Toyre. During the long years of the war, Shadik had pressed Aexegary and Kottmark along all viable routes, gradually establishing the pattern of the front line. Seen on a tactical map, the forest uplands were the one break in that line. West of the
m lay the Seronne Line, the Naeme Sectors and Meiseq, tight as a drum. North and east, the so-called Ostlund Shield Line that blocked the Shadik thrusts into Kottmark. Shadik had never touched Montorq. It had been spared the war because of geography. Just a few hours’ walking in the skirts of the forest showed how hard the going would be. Only a fool would try and push an army through the forest. Feygor had heard the Republican commanders called a lot of things, but fool wasn’t one of them.

  However, times change. The Alliance had become concerned with the idea that Shadik was about to change tactics in an attempt to throw the deadlock. Instead of directly assaulting Frergarten, the Alliance’s great eastern bastion, they might push elite infantry with light support down through the Montorq, and encircle Frergarten, achieving by stealth where three previous assaults had failed. They could take Frergarten, Ins Arbor, snap the Seronne Line and be marching into the Eastern Provinces in under six weeks.

  It was unlikely, but it was possible. The Ghosts’ orders were to assess enemy disposition and communication routes in the Montorq area. To bring early warning, if necessary. And, Corbec had suggested during the briefing, work out the feasibility of the Alliance pulling the trick in reverse. By the autumn, maybe an Alliance force would be heading through the forest, marching north…

  Feygor didn’t care. He didn’t actually care who won, who lost. He wouldn’t give a feth if the Shadik President came along and took a dump in the high sezar’s ear. Just as long as Feygor was left alone. He was tired. It had been a long fething road from Tanith, and they’d been through plenty.

  Rawne always said that Gaunt led them like he had something to prove. Well, they’d fething well proved it enough, hadn’t they? It was some other bastard’s turn. Maybe when they were done with this feth-hole, the First would get rotated back to regimental reserve for a few months. Six, maybe. A year. Feygor had seen other companies get the call back out. The fething Vitrians, for instance. They’d gone back into crusade reserve about eighteen months earlier and as far as Feygor knew they were still there, sitting with their fething glass boots up on a table, smoking someone else’s lhos, playing at garrison. The Bluebloods too, those bastards had been pulled to the rear after Vervunhive. There was no fething justice.

  Feygor reached the next crest, a slope of loose rocks and ferns that bounded a deep dell where a thin stream splashed down its course under the dark trees. The trees, mountain ash, link-alder and some kind of spruce, creaked and moved their heads gently. A slight rise in the wind. Westerly. The scent of rain.

  On one of the rocks lay a leaf, fresh, curled into a loop with the stalk stabbed through the blade of the leaf. Feygor picked it up. One of Ven’s waymarkers. All the scouts left marks like this to show the squad behind them they’d cleared and passed ahead. You wouldn’t notice them unless you knew to look. Ven and Jajjo would be half a kilometre ahead of them by now.

  As the detail made their way up the fern trail behind him, Feygor pushed on, clambering up the tumble of rocks on the crest into a break in the trees where the sunlight could fall on him. The sky was tinged yellow, what he could see of it. Clouds chased, gathering. Rain definitely. Maybe even a summer storm.

  Feygor knew the signs. Like Brostin — and like his mentor Rawne — Feygor was a city boy. But even if you grew up in a place like Tanith Attica, you were never far from forest. Feygor had got to know woodcraft and how to read the weather as a teenager, making the early morning runs out of Attica’s mercantile district into the African woods. You’d needed the skills in his trade. Skills to find a particular clearing at a particular time, skills to get home the long way round without getting lost. Skills to avoid the arbites and the excise men. The movers and shakers in Attica’s black market didn’t go much on excuses like “I got lost” or “There was a sudden downpour and I ran late”.

  Feygor sat down and waited as the members of the detail came up over the crest. Cuu, then Caff, then Gutes and Rerval. Brostin came back in the line, so that the betraying smell of his flamer’s fuel tanks would be minimised. Muril next quiet as a feline. Feygor watched her move by, his gaze lingering once she’d gone past and afforded him a rear view.

  Larkin was right in the tail. According to Brostin, Larkin had specifically requested this detail, which seemed odd to Feygor. Everyone knew that Larkin and Cuu were not exactly best buddies. Larks usually did his level best to find occupation as far away from Lijah Cuu as possible. Indeed, Cuu had seemed puzzled by Larkin’s inclusion. Puzzled. Almost annoyed.

  But Larkin seemed strangely relaxed. That was good, in Murtan Feygor’s book. The last kind of crap he needed out here was Larks in one of his manic phases. He’d keep an eye on the sniper. He’d asked Piet Gutes to do the same.

  Feygor got up and slithered back down the crest to join Larkin as he made the top.

  “Gonna be looking for shelter soon,” Feygor said. “Wind’s up. Would be good to eat. Fancy your eye?”

  Larkin shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Don’t go far.” Feygor looked back down the trail. “Muril!”

  She turned and made her way back to them.

  “Larks is on dinner duty. Buddy him up. Don’t get lost.”

  “Okay,” she said. The order clearly pleased her. Half an hour poaching with Larkin wasn’t scout training with Ven, but it was better than nothing. Feygor knew she was itching to show her ability. Anything to get in her good books.

  “I saw some spoor down on the path,” Larkin said. “Let’s try that way.”

  The pair of them began to descend the slope the way they’d come.

  Feygor moved ahead, catching up with the rest of the detail. Brostin had stopped to take a swig from his billy. Right at the front, coming up the next rise in the shadow of the trees, Cuu had paused too. He was staring back down the dell at the departing figure of Larkin.

  Larkin knelt and checked the spoor. It was fresh. Some small animal, probably a grazer. He sat on a rock for a moment, exchanging his hot-shot ammunition clip for a low-volt pack.

  “What’s that?” Muril asked.

  “You hunted before?”

  She shook her head.

  “A hot-shot’ll mince anything smaller than a deer. We wanna eat. We don’t wanna paint the scenery with liquid animal.”

  She smiled. She sat down and put her lasrifle on the earth beside her. Larkin had got used to seeing her with a long-las. It seemed odd for her to be carrying a standard Mark III carbine.

  “Miss it?” he asked.

  “Sort of,” she admitted. “But I want to be a scout. I really want to make that grade. And that means packing in my beloved long-las for a standard Mark III. Besides, I get the hat as compensation.”

  She was referring to the soft, black wool cap she was wearing. Standard kit order for troopers was the ceramite helmet for line duties, and a choice of black beret or forage cap otherwise. Unless you were a scout, or a trainee scout like Muril. Then you got to wear the wool cap for all duties. It didn’t obstruct movement or vision like a helmet, and there was no danger of it clinking against your weapon during a crawl. The caps were the mark of the First’s elite, one of those subtle but crucial uniform differences that lent prestige. If she made scout, she’d get to wear the matt-black speciality badge on the brim. No Verghast had done that. No woman, either.

  Larkin smiled. Whatever standard kit order said about headwear, the First was extraordinarily lax about it. Many went bare-headed. Berets were common under fire. He’d once heard Corbec tell Hark that more Ghosts had used their hard-bowls as buckets than had worn them in combat. Here was this girl keen to win the right to wear a hat she’d probably never use anyway.

  Except, of course, on parade. That’s where it would matter. That’s where Sehra Muril in a scout cap would be a fething big deal.

  “What’s funny?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  He got up and practised sighting his long-las into the trees. “You don’t think I’ll make it?” she said. He shrugged. “You ma
de marksman. I know this. If any of you hivers ever make scout, it’ll be one of you girls.”

  “Mkvenner doesn’t seem keen on the idea,” she muttered. “When the colonel told me he’d put me in this detail to shadow Ven, I got really excited. I mean, Ven’s the real deal. Him or Mkoll. The very best. I thought this was it. The big step forward. But he only seems interested in Jajjo.”

  “Jajjo’s okay.”

  “Sure. But Jajjo’s getting all the attention. Who did Ven call up just now? Me? I don’t think so. Did I do something wrong? Or am I fooling myself? Or does Ven have a thing?”

  “A thing?”

  “About girls.”

  Larkin lowered his weapon and squinted over at her. “We all have a thing about girls.” Muril laughed. “But really…”

  Larkin raised his weapon again. Distantly, through the trees, he could see the members of nineteen detail skirting up the next slope under a bank of spruce.

  “It ever occur to you,” he said softly, “that Ven’s taking time with Jajjo because Jajjo’s the one who needs the work?”

  “Gak!” she said. A broad smile spread across her slender face. “That’s a way of looking at it that hadn’t occurred to me.”

  “You gotta see all the angles…” Larkin said. His voice had dropped to a hush. He let the las float in his hands, the aim fluid. He coasted the muzzle around. He wasn’t blinking. Through the sight, he saw the distant figures, crossing in and out of the leaf-cover. He waited for the scope to lock. The read-out lit up in his eye. Target-fix. Four hundred and seventy two metres. The back of Feygor’s head. Coast. Target-fix. Four seventy-nine and half. Brostin’s promethium tanks. Coast.

  “Four eighty-one. Target-fix. Lijah Cuu. Side of the skull. Adjusted for cross-wind. Tracking. What are you doing?” Muril asked.

  Larkin had stopped breathing. The long-las felt weightless. The target-fix rune was flashing steady now. His right index finger slowly tightened on the trigger. Lijah Cuu stopped and turned to speak to Gutes. The horizontal of Larkin’s cross hairs made a bar across Cuu’s eyes. The vertical almost followed the line of the trademark scar. Right there. Right now. Kill-shot.