by Dan Abnett
“My wound isn’t causing the fever,” said Mabbon quietly. “It’s them.”
Gaunt looked at him.
“It’s the work of the ones who have been sent to silence me,” said Mabbon. The spaces between his words were getting longer. “They’ve got warpcraft into my blood. Into your man’s blood too, I think.”
“How?” Gaunt asked.
“They have a witch with them,” Mabbon wheezed, “a strong one. She is upon my soul, and she’s calling out to me in my dreams, commanding me to die. I can hear her. She’ll have been in your friend’s dreams too, urging him to kill.”
“How do we fight this witch?” Gaunt asked. “Do you know?”
“You must let him rest,” Kolding insisted.
“Do you know how to fight the witch?” Gaunt demanded.
Mabbon Etogaur’s eyes closed, and then flicked back open.
“She’s wickedly strong,” he breathed, “but I know a trick or two. I was an etogaur in the Pact. Give me that rite knife.”
“Now wait a minute!” Kolding exclaimed.
“Listen to me,” Mabbon hissed. “She’s in my blood. She’s upon my soul. That means this game is close to being over. They know where we are. All the while she’s in my blood, they’ll be able to find us. I need to break that tie, and then we must move to another place.”
“How do we break the tie?” Gaunt asked.
“I cannot believe you’re even listening to this,” Kolding exclaimed. “The man’s feverish. He’s delusional. What’s more, he—”
“How do we break the tie?” Gaunt snapped.
Mabbon held out his hand. “I have to bleed her out of me, and then I have to bleed her out of your friend.”
“I’m not going to be part of any barbaric ritual,” Kolding said, but he handed Gaunt a small medicine basin.
Gaunt took the stainless steel bow! from the doctor and walked back to the prisoner. He’d carried Maggs’ bound body through from the other side of the curtain and laid him down beside the etogaur. Maggs was still unconscious, and twitching deliriously in the embrace of a dream that Gaunt had no desire to share.
Gaunt put the basin down and, after a final, thoughtful pause, handed Mabbon the rite knife, handle first.
“Keep the basin ready,” said Mabbon, his breath rasping in and out. “We mustn’t spill a drop, or leave any they can use.”
Gaunt nodded.
“Hurry up,” he said. “I don’t like this at all.”
Gaunt held the basin close. Mabbon opened one of Maggs’ bound hands, held it firmly, and sliced the rite knife’s blade across the palm. Maggs shook.
“It won’t take much,” said Mabbon. “The witch, she’s monstrously powerful, but to bind into our blood, she has to make a link, you see? For us to be tied to her, she has to be tied to us.”
He squeezed Maggs’ hand, and the blood welled and ran.
A fit came upon her. It came without warning. Eyl was so shocked by it that he recoiled.
His sister screamed. She had her hands in the sterilising baths, elbow-deep in red liquid, and as she screamed, the right-hand jar shattered. Over six litres of blood product vomited out of the exploded cylinder and gushed across the theatre bench.
Ulrike staggered backwards, pulling her hand out of the intact bath. Blood splashed out across the tiled floor in long, drizzled sprays from her hands. She cried out again, a squeal of rage and pain.
She turned to Eyl.
“Sister? What is it, sister?”
She was breathing so hard that the front of her veil was sucking in and out. Droplets of blood had caught in the lace net and glittered like cabo-chon rubies. She raised her right hand and opened the palm towards him. The whole hand and arm was dripping with blood, but he could see the wound across her palm. He supposed she had been cut by broken glass from the exploding bath.
“Your knife!” she wailed.
“Wmat?”
“He’s got your knife, and he’s bleeding me out of them!”
“The pheguth? You mean the pheguth?” Eyl demanded.
She screamed at him again, but this time it was a petulant scream of frustration and anger. She sank to the floor.
“It hurts!” she complained. “He’s hurt me. He’s cutting the tie!”
Eyl knelt down beside her, and held her tight, rocking her. She sobbed. Her clutching hands made bloody imprints on the tan leather of his coat sleeves.
He heard his men at the theatre door. Her screams had drawn them downstairs in concern.
“Magir?” Karhunan called out, unwilling to cross the threshold.
“It’s all right!” Eyl shouted back. “It’s all right. Leave us. Go back upstairs, and get the men ready to move.”
Eyl felt her wince again in his arms. She opened her left palm and held it out for him to see.
He watched as an invisible edge sliced the palm open.
Mabbon grunted out a breath and clenched his left hand over the basin. His blood spattered out of his fist and collected with the measure they’d already taken from Maggs.
“Are we done?” Gaunt asked.
Mabbon nodded.
“Doctor?” Gaunt called.
Kolding was just finishing the compression dressing on Maggs’ palm. He got up and came over.
Gaunt handed him the basin. “Get a lid sealed on that, then bind the prisoner’s hand.”
Kolding took the basin. He looked scornful and disapproving.
“Quickly, please,” Gaunt said. He wasn’t in the mood for the man’s disdain. Gaunt had crossed a few lines in his life, always out of necessity. Some heathen blood-magic ritual felt like one of the worst.
It had better damn-well work.
There was a noise from the refurb’s outer entrance.
Gaunt signalled to Kolding to keep quiet, drew his pistol and hurried towards the entrance.
It was Criid, squeezing back in through the boarded window from the street. Her hair was wet with snow, and she’d obviously been running hard.
“You’re back sooner than I expected,” said Gaunt, holstering his pistol.
She shook her head.
“They’re close,” she said. “We have to move.”
“No argument,” Gaunt replied. He bent to pick up his cap. It had been on his lap when he’d been sitting watch, and heard the gunshots.
“Get any food?” he asked.
“There wasn’t time.”
She followed him into the chamber where Kolding was tending Maggs and the prisoner.
“What the feth happened here?” she asked.
“They got to Maggs somehow,” Gaunt said.
“What?”
Gaunt stepped through the work curtain he’d half-torn down, and began to retrieve his coat and the items that had scattered from his pocket. Criid followed him.
“It doesn’t really matter,” said Gaunt. “The simple truth is, they know exactly where we are, so we need to switch locations. Gather your things and help the doctor.”
“We need to run,” said Criid.
“Maggs is sick, and the prisoner is sick and wounded,” said Gaunt. “The purpose of this entire exercise is keeping him alive, and moving him any distance is going to be contrary to that aim. We’ve moved him too much already. I have to trust the doctor on this.”
“So where do we go?” she asked.
Gaunt stopped to pick up his pen and his copybook.
“I have an idea,” he replied.
TWENTY-TWO
Contact
“Will it work?” asked Ludd, dubiously.
Trooper Brostin looked insulted.
“Of course it’ll work,” he insisted. “I cooked it up, didn’t I? Just like you asked. I know this stuff.”
“He does know this stuff,” said Beltayn.
“See?” said Brostin.
Ludd took the small paper twist from Brostin’s permanently grimy paw. It was about four centimetres long, and no thicker than a pencil. The end had been folded down and seal
ed with what looked like treacle.
“This isn’t going to be in any way…” he began.
“What?” asked Brostin.
“Excessive?” Ludd replied.
The wounded look returned to Brostin’s face.
“I did it just like you asked,” he said.
“All right, all right,” said Ludd. “It’s just that I know your stuff too, Brostin, and for you there’s no such thing as too big.”
Brostin grinned and shook his shaggy head.
“This is small. It’s cute. It’ll be pretty.”
“All right,” said Hark. The small huddle of troopers turned to look at him. “You all know what to do. Let’s get on with it.”
Ludd took a deep, calming breath, and walked into the company vox office. It was late afternoon, and it was already twilight outside. Driving snow tapped against the grubby windows.
The room was gloomy and over-warm. The electric filament heater units on the wall were kicking out a dull blast of dry heat, regulated by Aarlem’s automated thermostats. It was stuffy.
There were six large vox-caster units set up in the office; three were active and in use. Signal strength indicators flickered and glowed, and Ludd could hear the background murmur of a thousand voices, as dry and parched as the heat.
The Ghosts’ regular vox-operators had been turfed out when the Inquisition arrived. Three Inquisitorial vox specialists were on station, each manning one of the active casters. They were attentive and diligent men in sober black suits, their ears cushioned in large headphones. They were carefully monitoring all traffic in and out of Aarlem Fortress. Portable memory recorders had been plugged into the three casters to assist with any later transcription work, and the operators were making regular, abbreviated notes on the data tablets that rested beside their right hands.
Their supervisor was a haughty-looking ordo agent called Sirkle. He too was dressed in black, though part of his attire was body armour. He was pacing behind the operators, hands clasped behind his back, occasionally pausing to lean over and read one of the noted comments.
When Ludd walked in, Sirkle glanced at him dubiously Ludd had only seen Inquisitor Rime at a distance during his visit, but he was struck by the marked facial similarity between Rime and his henchman.
“Can I help you?” Sirkle asked.
“Sorry to intrude,” said Ludd with what he hoped was a relaxed grin. “I was just wondering if there was any news.”
“News?”
“Of the colonel-commissar,” said Ludd.
“Why do you want to know?”
Ludd laughed. “You’re kidding? The men want to know, friend. The Ghosts are a very loyal bunch. Feelings are running quite high in the barracks. They want to know what’s going on.”
“This facility is the subject of an investigation by the holy ordos. There are strict—”
“I understand that, friend,” said Ludd. “I was just hoping, you know, off the record, just between us…”
Sirkle stared at him.
“You must know what it’s like to feel loyalty to a senior commander.”
Sirkle paused thoughtfully.
“There’s nothing yet,” he said. “No trace of Gaunt’s whereabouts at this time, although the signs are that he did exit Section alive.”
Ludd nodded. “All right. Thanks. Thanks for that, I appreciate it.”
There was a tap at the outer door, and Beltayn entered, carrying a tray.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” he said to Sirkle. “Commissar Hark suggested I brought some caffeine in.”
“I’m sure that would be very welcome,” said Ludd. He stepped back as Beltayn moved in so that Sirkle and his operators could help themselves to the mugs on the tray.
The tiny window of opportunity opened. Ludd had his back to the half-open door into the inner office. He took Brostin’s paper slip out of the palm of his glove, keeping his hands behind his back. Then he leant backwards quickly, reached around the office door, and dropped the slip into the grille of the nearest wall heater.
“Well, we’ll leave you to your work,” Ludd said, heading towards the outer door. “Thanks again,” he added, looking at Sirkle.
The ordo agent nodded back, sipping his caffeine.
“Sir?” said Beltayn, looking at Ludd.
“What?”
“Something’s awry,” said Beltayn, and pointed towards the inner office door.
“Oh feth!” Ludd cried.
Through the half open door, they could all see fierce bright flames licking up out of the wall heater. Sparks were boiling out across the inner office carpet, igniting smaller fires, and a thick, acrid smoke was already pouring into the main vox office area.
Beltayn hit the fire alarm and bells began to jangle.
“What the hell is this?” Sirkle demanded.
They all began coughing as the smoke hit their throats.
“Feth!” Ludd cried. “Bel, grab an extinguisher from the hall! Feth it all. This is the third time this week!”
He looked at Sirkle. “Dust gets caught in these old heaters and catches fire. You’d better move out while we get this under control.”
“It’s a bad one this time, sir,” Beltayn coughed as he ran back in with a cylinder extinguisher.
The foul smoke was stinging their eyes and scorching their throats, and the height of the flames in the adjoining room was alarming.
Sirkle got his operators up and out of the room quickly, all of them covering their mouths, and hacking out coughs as they went.
Beltayn looked at Ludd, and Ludd looked back. Beltayn tossed the extinguisher to the young commissar, then sat down at the nearest active caster station. Both of them pulled folded, moistened squares of vizzy cloth out of their pockets, and bit down on them, breathing through their mouths to take the burn out of the smoke.
Shielding his face from the heat of the flames, Ludd pushed the inner office door open and began to blast the ferocious heater fire with the extinguisher.
At the caster station, Beltayn worked as fast as he was able. He quickly scanned and noted the frequency batches that the operator had been listening to; then he used a small screwdriver to remove the caster’s front inspection panel. Ludd gave the fire another couple of blasts and glanced back.
Come on! his eyes pleaded.
Beltayn ignored him. He paused the portable memory recorder then he reached into the inspection panel, selected one of the fat main cable trunks, and unscrewed it at the connector. He took the bypass — a small, metal unit — out of his pocket, screwed one end to the connector, and the other to the loose cable. A small green “active” light lit up on the side of the bypass.
Beltayn began to screw the inspection panel back into place.
Ludd finally vanquished the fire with the extinguisher. He closed the inner office door, took the wadding out of his mouth, and started to open the vox office windows to vent the smoke. Snowflakes whirled in on the cold air.
He looked over at the caster stations. Beltayn had two of the panel’s screws back in place and was starting on the third. Someone killed the fire alarm.
“Did you get it under control?” Sirkle demanded, appearing in the doorway.
“Yes,” Ludd replied. “I’ll get a work crew in to clean it up.”
Sirkle stared at Ludd and Beltayn. They were opening the last of the windows to clear the smoke.
“This happens a lot?” he asked.
“Too often,” replied Ludd. “I don’t know where the maintenance budget goes.”
“Back to your stations,” Sirkle told his operators, and they filed back in. Beltayn and Ludd glanced at one another. In Beltayn’s pocket was the small screwdriver and the fourth and final panel screw. There had been no time to fit it. He prayed no one would notice the fact that it was missing.
The operators resumed their seats.
Beltayn suddenly froze. He’d forgotten to turn the portable memory recorder back on.
He moved forward quickly, scoopin
g his tray off the side desk where he’d left it.
“Let me get you some fresh drinks,” he said, busily, “these will taste foul now.”
He picked up Sirkle’s, then leant in over each station in turn to collect the mugs. At the third station, he shielded his hand from the operator using the tray, and turned the recorder back on as he reached for the mug.
Ludd and Beltayn headed for the door. In the hallway, Beltayn flashed three fingers to Merrt as he hurried towards the mess with the tray. Merrt was one of several Ghosts who’d gathered in the hallway to see what the commotion was about.
Merrt walked to the hall’s swing doors, pushed through them and showed three fingers to Dalin, who was waiting at the far end.
Dalin nodded, and turned to run towards the temple house. Arms folded, Brostin was watching the door.
“Everything all right, lad?” Brostin asked.
Dalin nodded.
“Mister Yellow all fine and dandy?”
“He sends his regards,” said Dalin, and went into the temple.
Hark was waiting inside, standing beside Gol Kolea’s adjutant, Rerval, and a battered E Company caster unit.
“Three,” said Dalin. “It’s three. Go ahead.”
Rerval adjusted the channel setting, raised the vox-mic and began.
“Nalwood, Nalwood, this is Stronghold, this is Stronghold, please respond.”
Snoozing, his feet up on the edge of the monitor room desk, Meryn started awake as the vox lit up, and nearly fell out of his seat. He scrambled for the mic, scattering an ash tray, some pens and an empty beer glass.
“It’s live!” he shouted.
His hand was moments from the mic when Varl reached in and picked it up.
“Stronghold, Stronghold, this is Nalwood, this is Nalwood acknowledging,” Varl said calmly into the mic.
“Give me that,” Meryn hissed, trying to snatch the mic out of Varl’s hand. Varl slapped Meryn’s hands away repeatedly.
“Uh uh uh,” Varl warned, listening hard.
“Give me that!” Meryn repeated, his voice a corrosive whisper that would have eaten through lead.
“Hello, Nalwood, hello, Nalwood,” the vox crackled. “Good to hear your voice.”
