by Dan Abnett
Gaunt pulled a note-pad from the pocket of his storm-coat and consulted several pages that Colonel Zoren had written. Carefully, with uncertainty, he composed a message in the Vitrian battlefield language, using the code-words Zoren had told him. Then he had Rafflan send it.
“Speaking in tongues, sir?” the vox-officer laughed, ironically using the Tanith’s own war-dialect that Gaunt had made sure he had learned early on. Many of the regiments used their own languages or codes for internal messages. On the battlefield, secrecy was imperative in vox-commands. And Dravere couldn’t know Gaunt had a working knowledge of Jantine combat-cant.
Gaunt called up Sergeant Blane. “Take the seventh platoon and function as a rearguard,” he told Blane directly.
“You’re expecting a hindquarters strike, then?” asked Blane, puzzled. “Mkoll’s scouts have covered the hill line. The enemy won’t be sneaking round on us.”
“Not the given enemy,” Gaunt said. “I want you watching for the Jantine who are following us up. Our code word will be ‘Ghostmaker’. Given from me to you, or you back to me, it will indicate the Jantine have made a move. I don’t want to be fighting our own… but it may come to that. When you hear the word, do not shrink from the deed. If you signal me, I will send everything back to support you. As far as I am concerned, the Jantine are as much our foe as the things that dwell up here.”
“Understood,” Blane said, looking darkly at his commander. Corbec had briefed the senior men well after Gaunt’s unlocking of the crystal. They knew what was at stake, and were keeping the thought both paramount and away from their men, who had enough to concern them. Gaunt had a particular respect for the gruff, workmanlike Blane. He was as gifted and loyal an officer as Corbec, Mkoll or Lerod, but he was also dependable and solid. Almost despite himself, Gaunt found himself offering Blane his hand.
They shook. Blane realised the weight of the duty, the potentially terrible demands.
“Emperor go with you, sir,” he said, as he broke the grip and turned to retreat down the bracken slope.
“And may He watch over you,” Gaunt returned.
Nearby, Milo saw the quiet exchange. He shook spit from the chanters of his Tanith pipes and prepared to play again. This is it, he thought. The commissar expects the worst.
Sergeant Mkoll’s scouts were returning from the higher ground. Gaunt joined them to hear their report.
“I think it’s best if you see it yourself,” Mkoll said simply and gestured back at the heights.
Gaunt spread the fire-teams of three platoons along the width of the valley slope and then moved forward with Mkoll’s scout unit. By now, all of the Ghosts had rubbed the absorbent fabric of their stealth cloaks with handfuls of ochre bracken and dusted them so that they blended into the ground cover. Gaunt smiled as Mkoll scolded the commissar’s less than Tanith-like abilities, and scrupulously damped down the colour of Gaunt’s cloak with a scrub of ashy bracken. Gaunt removed his cap and edged forward, trying to hang the cloak around him as deftly as the Tanith scout. Behind them, there were two thousand Ghosts on the bracken thick mountainside, but their commanding officer could see none of them.
He reached the rise, and borrowed Mkoll’s scope as they bellied down in the fern and the dust.
He hardly needed the scope. The rise they were ascending dropped away and a cliff face rose vertical ahead of them, looking like it was ten thousand metres tall. The milky-blue granite face was carved into steps like a ziggurat, a vast steepled formation of weather-worn storeys, rows of archways and slumped blocks. Gaunt knew that this was his first look at Shrine Target Primaris. Other than that, he had no idea what it was. A burial place, a temple, a dead hive? It simply smacked of evil, of the darkness. A vile corruption seeped up from every pore of the rockface, every dark alcove and pillared recess.
“I don’t like the look of it,” Mkoll said flatly.
Gaunt smiled grimly and consulted his own data-slate. “Neither do I. We don’t want to approach it directly. We need to sweep around to the left and follow the valley line.” Gaunt scoped down to the left. The carved granite structure extended away beyond the curve of the vale and several of the stalking lines of towers marched up the bracken slopes to meet it, as if they were feelers spread out from the immense shrine itself. Beyond and higher, he could now see towers of blue granite in the clouds: spires, steeples and buttresses. This was just the outskirts of an ancient necropolis, a city long dead that had been raised by inhuman hands before the start of recorded time.
The honeysuckle scent in the air was becoming a stench. Vox-level chatter over the microbead in his ear told him that his men were starting to succumb to a vague, indefinable nausea.
“You want to go left?” Mkoll asked. “But that’s not in accord with the order of battle.”
“I know.”
“The lord general will be furious if we divert from the given advance.”
“I have my own orders,” Gaunt said, tapping his data-slate.
“And the Emperor love you for your loyalty!” Mkoll shook his head. “Sir, we were told to assault this… this place directly.”
“And we will, Mkoll — just not here.”
Mkoll nodded. “How far down?”
“A kilometre or two. The crystal spoke of a dome. Find it for me.”
“Gladly,” Mkoll said. “You know that if we alter our advance it will give the Jantine dogs more reason to come for us.”
“I know,” Gaunt said. More than ever he appreciated the way his senior officers had accommodated the truth of their endeavour. They knew what was at stake and what the real dangers were.
Mkoll and Corporal Baru led the advancing Ghosts along the top of the valley, just under the crest, and past the threatening, tower-haunted steppes of the graven hillside.
Scout Trooper Thark was the first to spot it. He voxed back to the command group: a dome, a massive, bulbous dome swelling from the living rock of the cliff face, impossibly carved from granite.
Gaunt moved up to see it for himself. It was like some vast stone onion, a thousand metres in diameter, sunk into the stepped rock wall around it, the surface inscribed with billions of obscure sigils and marks.
Thark was also the first to die. A storm of autocannon round whipped up the slope, exploding bracken into dust, spitting up soil and punching him into four or five bloody parts. At the cue, other weapon placements in the steppe alcoves of the facing cliff opened fire, raining las-fire, bullets and curls of plasma down at the Ghosts.
The answering fire laced a spider’s web of las-light, tracer lines and firewash between the sides of the valley.
The dying began.
FOUR
Marshal Gohl Sendak, the so-called Ravager of Genestock Gamma, had abandoned his Command Leviathan to lead his forces from the front. He rode a Leman Russ battle-tank of the Borkellid regiments, heading a fast-moving armoured phalanx that was smashing its way across the rocky-escarpments below the weathered stone structures of Shrine Target Secundus.
Laying down a ceaseless barrage, they broke through two lines of crumbling curtain walls and into the lower perimeters of the shrine structure itself. Wide, rubble-strewn slopes faced them, dotted with the lines of those infernal towers. Sendak voxed to the Oudinot infantry at his tail and urged them to follow him in. Fire as heavy as he had ever known blazed down from the archways and alcoves facing them Sendak felt a dry stinging in his nose, and snorted it away. That damn honeysuckle odour, it was beginning to get to him like it was getting to his men.
He felt a wetness heavy his moustache and wiped it. Fresh blood smeared his grey-cloth sleeve. There was more in his mouth and he spat, his ears throbbing. Looking around in the green-lit interior of the tank, he saw all the crew were suffering spontaneous nose-bleeds, or were retching and hacking blood.
There was a vibration singing in the air; low, lazy, ugly.
Sendak swung the tank’s periscope around to scan the scene outside. Something was happening to the lines of towers which f
lanked them on either side. They were glowing, fulminating with rich curls of vivid damask energy. Mist was columnating around the old stones.
“Blood of the Emperor!” Sendak growled, his teeth and lips stained red with his own dark blood.
Outside, in the space of a human heartbeat, two things happened. The lines of towers, just ragged rows of stone spines a moment before, exploded into life and became a fence, a raging energy field forty metres tall. Lashing and fizzling lines of force whipped and crackled from tower to tower like giant, supernatural barbed wire. Each tower connected blue and white brambles of curling energy with its neighbour. Any man or machine caught in the line between towers was, in two heartbeats, burned or exploded or ripped into pieces. The rest were penned between the sudden barriers, hemmed in and unable to turn or flank.
As the energy wires ignited between the previously dormant stone stacks, something else happened on the flat tops of each tower. In puffs of pinkish, coloured gas, figures appeared on each tower platform. Teleported into place by sciences too dark and heretical for a sane mind to understand, these squads of soldiers instantly deployed heavy weapons on tripods and laid down fire on the penned aggressors beneath them. The Chaos forces were dun, wasted beings in translucent shrouds and scowling masks made of bone. They manned tripod-mounted lascannons, melta-guns and other more arcane field weapons with hands bandaged in soiled strips of plastic. Amongst them were their corrupt commanders, quasi-mechanical Chaos Marines, Obliterators.
Sendak screamed orders, trying to turn his advance in the chaos. Two tanks to his right swung blindly round into the nearest energy fence and were obliterated, exploding in huge clouds of flame as their munitions went off. Another tank was riddled with fire from the tops of the two nearest towers. Sendak suddenly found the enemy had heavy weapon emplacements stretching back along the tower-lines around, between and behind his entire column.
He almost admired the tactic, but the technology was beyond him, and his eyes were so clouded and swimming with the blood-pain in his sinuses he could barely think.
He grabbed the vox-caster horn and fumbled for the command channel. “It’s worse than we feared! They are luring us in and using unholy science to bracket us and cut us to pieces! Inform all assault forces! The towers are death! The towers are death!”
A cannon round punched through the turret and exploded Sendak and his gunner. The severed vox-horn clattered across the deck, still clutched by the marshal’s severed hand.
A second later, the tank flipped over as a frag-rocket blew out its starboard track, skirt and wheelbase. As it landed,, turret-down, in the mud, it detonated from within, blowing apart the Leman Russ next to it.
Behind the decimated tanks, the Oudinot were fleeing.
But there was nowhere to flee to.
FIVE
Every opening in the stepped structure which rose above the Tanith Ghosts along the far side of the cliff around that gross, inscribed dome seemed to be spitting fire. Las-fire, bolter rounds, the heavier sparks of cannon fire, and other exotic bursts, odd bullets that buzzed like insects and flew slowly and lazily.
Corbec ran the line of the platoons which had reached the crest, his great rich voice bawling them into cover and return-fire stances. There was little natural cover up here except the natural curl of the hill brow, and odd arrangements of ancient stones which poked like rotten, discoloured teeth from the bracken.
“Dash! Down! Crawl! Look!” Corbec bellowed, repeating the training chant they had first heard on the Founding Fields of lost Tanith. “Take your sight and aim! Spraying and praying is not good enough!”
Down the crest, near Lerod’s command position, Bragg opened up with the rocket launcher, swiftly followed by Melyr and several other heavy weapons troopers. Tank-busting missiles whooped across the gully into the crumbling stone facade of the tumbled structure, blowing gouts of stone and masonry out in belches of flame.
On hands and knees, Gaunt regrouped with Corbec under the lip of the hill. The barrage of shots whistled over their heads and the honeysuckle stench was augmented by the choking scent of ignited bracken.
“We have to get across!” Gaunt yelled to Corbec over the firing of ten thousand sidearms and the scream of rockets.
“Love to oblige!” returned Corbec ruefully, gesturing at the scene. Gaunt showed him the data-slate and they compared it to the edifice beyond, gingerly keeping low for fear of the whinnying shot.
“It isn’t going to happen,” Corbec said. “We’ll never get inside against a frontal opposition like this!”
Gaunt knew he was right. He turned back to the slate. The data they had downloaded from the crystal was complex and in many places completely impenetrable. It had been written, or at least translated, from old code notations, and there was as much obscure about it as there was comprehensible. Some more of it made sense now — now Gaunt had the chance to compare the information with the actual location. One whole part seemed particularly clear.
“Hold things here,” he ordered Corbec curtly and rolled back from the lip, gaining his feet in the steep bracken and hurrying down the slope they had advanced up.
He found the tower quickly enough, one of the jagged, mouldering stone formations, a little way down the slope. He pulled bracken away from the base and uncovered the top of an old, decaying shaft he hoped — knew — would be there. He crouched at the mouth and gazed down into the inky depths of the drop beneath.
Gaunt tapped his microbead to open the line, and then ordered up personnel to withdraw to his position: Mkoll, Baru, Larkin, Bragg, Rawne, Dorden, Domor, Caffran.
They assembled quickly, eyeing the black shaft suspiciously.
“Our back door,” Gaunt told them. “According to the old data, this sink leads down some way and then into the catacombs beneath the shrine structure. We’ll need ropes, pins, a hammer.”
“Who’ll be going in there?” Rawne asked curtly.
“All of us… me first,” Gaunt told him.
Gaunt beaded to Corbec and instructed him to marshal the main Tanith levies and sustain fire against the facade of the structure.
He stripped off his storm-coat and cloak, and slung his chainsword over his back. Mkoll had tapped plasteel rooter pins into the stonework at the top of the shaft and played a length of cable around them and down into the darkness.
Gaunt racked the slide of his bolt pistol and holstered it again. “Let’s go,” he said, wrapping the cord around his waist and sliding into the hole.
Mkoll grabbed his arm to stop him as Trooper Vench hurried down the slope from the combat-ridge, calling out. Gaunt slid back out of the cavity and took the data-slate from Vench as he stumbled up to them.
“Message from Sergeant Blane,” Vench gasped. “There’s a Chimera coming up the low pass, sending signals that it desires to join with us.”
Gaunt frowned. It made no sense. He studied the slate’s transcript. “Sergeant Blane wants to know if he should let them through,” Vench added. “They’re identifying themselves as a detail of tactical observers from the warmaster’s counsel. They use the code-name ‘Eagleshard’.”
Gaunt froze as if he had been shot. “Sacred Feth!” he spat.
The men murmured and eyed each other. It was a pretty pass when the commissar used a Tanith oath.
“Stay here,” Gaunt told the insurgence party and unlashed the rope, heading downhill at the double. “Tell Rafflan to signal Blane!” he yelled back at Vench. “Let them through!”
SIX
The Chimera, its hull armour matt-green and showing no other markings than the Imperial crest, rumbled up the slope from Blane’s picket and slewed sidelong on a shelf of hillside, chewing bracken under its treads. Gaunt scrambled down to meet it, warier than he had ever been in his life.
The side hatch opened with a metallic clunk and three troopers leapt out, lasguns held ready. They wore combat armour in the red and black liveries of the Imperial Crusade staff, elite bodyguard troops for the officer cadre. Reflect
ive visor masks hid their faces. A taller, heftier figure in identical battle dress joined them and stood, hands on hips, surveying the scene as Gaunt approached.
The figure slid back his visor and then pulled the helmet off. Gaunt didn’t recognise him… until he factored in a few years, some added muscle and the shaven head.
“Eagleshard,” Gaunt said.
“Eagleshard,” responded the figure. “Ibram!”
Gaunt shook his old friend’s hand. “What do I call you?”
“I’m Imperial Tactician Wheyland here, but my boys are trustworthy,” the big man said, gesturing to the troopers, who now relaxed their spread. “You can call me by the name you know.”
“Fereyd…”
“So, Ibram… bring me up to speed.”
“I can do better. I can take you to the prize.”
The stone chimney was deep and narrow. Gaunt half-climbed, half-rappelled down the flue, his toes and hands seeking purchase in the mouldering stonework. He tried to imagine what this place had been at the time of its construction: perhaps a city, a living place built into and around the cliff. This flue was probably the remains of an air-duct or ventilator, dropping down to Emperor-knew-what beneath.
Gaunt’s feet found the rock floor at the base, and he straightened up, loosening the ropes so that the others could join him. It smelled of sweaty damp down here, and the tunnel he was in was low and jagged.
“Lasgun!” came a call from above. The weapon dropped down the flue and Gaunt caught it neatly, immediately igniting the lamp-pack which Dorden had webbed to the top of the barrel with surgical tape. He played the light over the dirty, low walls, his finger on the trigger. Above him came the sounds of others scrambling down the ragged chimney.
