by Dan Abnett
The gunnery sergeant was missing. Gaunt’s crushed and bent lho-stick still sizzled on the ground.
“Ludd—”
The cargo-8’s engine roared into life. It pulled out of the rank and started to turn wide across the hardstand towards the street exit.
“Hold these men here, Ludd!” Gaunt yelled, running after the transport. “Wave your sidearm or something!”
Ludd drew his laspistol again. “Everyone face down on the dust. You too, boy.”
Gaunt ran across the pan. The truck was kicking up dirt and exhaust plumes as it turned around the end of the next bank of parked transports, and headed towards the road.
Gaunt drew one of his brand new bolt pistols, shiny and clean, virgin and unfired, and ran out into the path of the cargo-8. He could see the gunnery sergeant at the wheel, driving madly.
Legs braced, Gaunt stood his ground and raised the bolt pistol.
“Pull up! Now!” he yelled.
The truck skidded to a halt ten metres short of him. The turbine engine continued to rev hard. Exhaust pumped from the stack like the angry breath of a dragon. Gaunt realised how small and flesh-made and vulnerable he was compared to eighteen tonnes of fat-wheeled transport.
“Engine off. Get out.”
The exhausts belched again, another rev.
“You haven’t quite crossed the line yet, gunnery sergeant. But you will soon,” Gaunt yelled, squeezing back the hammers of his aimed weapon. “Shut down, get out, and come quietly, and we’ll deal with this like men. Keep going and I promise you, you’ll be dead.”
The engines revved again. The cargo-8 jerked forward a pace or two.
Gaunt sniffed and lowered the bolt pistol to his side. “Go on, then. You can run me down just like that. But then what? Where are you going to run to? There’s nowhere to go except here, and here’s where you stop.”
The engine revved one last time, then died with a mutter. Arms raised, the gunnery sergeant clambered down from the cab and lay on his face.
Gaunt walked over to him.
“Wise choice. What’s your name?”
“Pekald.”
“We’ll be chatting later, Sergeant Pekald.”
Horns were blaring now. Post security personnel were rushing in across the hardpan.
“My arrest,” Gaunt told one of the approaching troopers as he walked away from the spread-eagled Pekald. “My name is Gaunt. Secure them all in the stockade pending my interview. And mine only. Understood?”
“Yes, sir!” said the trooper.
Eszrah was waiting for them as they came back to the habi-tent. The Nihtgane tilted his head questioningly.
“Nothing for you to worry about,” Gaunt told him, and Eszrah stood aside. Inside the tent, Ironmeadow was waiting for them. He was sitting bolt upright in one of the camp chairs, taut and terrified.
“Hello, Ironmeadow,” Gaunt said as he came in and stripped off his cap and coat. “Been waiting long?”
“Your man…” Ironmeadow murmured nervously. “Your man there, Eszrah Night. He…”
“He what?” Gaunt picked up one of the water canteens and took a deep drink.
“He had this crossbow thing, and he waved it at me, and he made me sit down, and—”
“That’s common pleasantry where Eszrah comes from, captain. I’m sure you weren’t put out.”
“No, sir. Just a little frightened.”
“Frightened? Of Eszrah?” Gaunt said. “Good. How’s the transport coming?”
Ironmeadow cleared his throat. “I’ve got a cargo-4 and a driver ready at your convenience, commissar.”
“That’s fine work, captain, I appreciate your efforts.”
“I…” Ironmeadow coughed delicately. “I understand there was an altercation—”
“It’s done. Forget it, captain. Just another chore for the Commissariat.”
“I see. So everything’s all right for today?”
“It is,” said Gaunt, sitting back on his cot. “Get yourself off duty, Ironmeadow. We’ll start again tomorrow. A tour of the stockade, I think.”
“Yes, sir. Well, goodnight.”
“Sleep tight,” said Ludd, removing his jacket and his webbing belt.
“Oh, commissar,” said Ironmeadow, swinging back in through the flaps of the habi-tent. “I got an answer for that question you posed.”
Gaunt sat up. “Indeed.”
Ironmeadow fished a dataslate out of his coat pocket and handed it to Gaunt. “The tacticae prepped this for you. It’s all there. We’re not annihilating the step-cities from orbit because the Ecclesiarchy says there is a possibility they are sacred places.”
“They’re what?” Ludd asked.
Ironmeadow shrugged. “There’s a lot of argument about what these structures mean and who built them. You’ll see it all there in the text, sir. Some say they are relics of the Ruinous Powers, some say they are the vestiges of a prehuman culture. But there are signs, apparently, tell-tale clues that archaeologists have identified, that this Mons and the others like it are edifices raised in the name of the God-Emperor, circa M.30.”
“In which case…” Gaunt began.
“In which case they are preserved holy sites,” Ludd said.
“In which case they must be cleansed and not obliterated,” Ironmeadow finished. “Does that answer your query, sir?”
TWELVE
11.23 hrs, 195.776.M41
Post 36, Fifth Compartment
Sparshad Mons, Ancreon Sextus
Wilder had been at the observation point on the southern edge of the post for the best part of an hour. Officers from all the regiments housed at post 36 had gathered there, training the tripod-mounted scopes out across the grasslands and the broken, rocky terrain of the compartment. Five kilometres north, a battle was raging.
Just before dawn that day, scouts had reported a concentration of enemy war machines moving south. Best guess was that they’d used the cover of darkness to move forward through the gate from the sixth compartment. DeBray had sent out the newly-arrived 8th Rothberg Mechanised to meet them, with the Hauberkan squadrons, very much on probation, to establish a picket line at their heels. The engagement had begun rapidly, and escalated quickly, with the Rothbergers’ Vanquishers assaulting the enemy treads across a series of water meadows east of the main trackway.
The din of tank-fire had been rolling back ever since, and the wan daylight across the wide compartment had become tissue-soft with smoke. Numerous clots of solid, black vapour trickled up into the sky, marking the demise of armoured vehicles, friendly and hostile. The Rothberg commander had reported the fighting as “intense, though the line is holding”. He had identified stalk-tanks, AT70 Reaver-pattern tanks, AT83 Brigands and at least two super-heavies. Many displayed the colours and emblems of the despised Blood Pact.
At the observation point, the infantry commanders waited nervously. If things went well, or if the enemy suddenly produced ground troops to support their push, units like the 81/1(r) and the Kolstec Fortieth would be rapidly moved forward to reinforce the armour. If things went badly, really badly, everything up to and including a withdrawal from post 36, and the other fifth compartment field HQs, was on the cards.
The one eventuality DeBray would not allow was withdrawal from the compartment itself. It had taken too much time and blood to force a way in through that ancient gate in the name of the Golden Throne.
Wilder was accompanied by Baskevyl and Kolea, respectively the senior Belladon and Tanith officers under his new command. Wilder liked Major Kolea immensely, and had admired his solidity and command-sense from the outset. He wondered if it was significant that the most senior ranking officer in the influx was not a Tanith at all, but a Verghastite. The Tanith, on whose bones the regiment had originally been composed, didn’t seem to resent Kolea’s position. Since the siege of Vervunhive that had brought the Tanith and Verghast together, the two breeds had bonded well. Wilder knew of other “forced mixes” where the regiments had ended up at war with themselves
, stricken with factions, feuds and in-fighting. Apart from a few rough edges and teething problems, the Tanith First—the so-called Gaunt’s Ghosts—had meshed admirably, according to the records. Now the game of “leftovers” was happening all over again, and so far it seemed to be going reasonably well.
That was until the news had arrived. After consulting Hark, Baskevyl, Kolea and a few others, Wilder had made the announcement to the Eighty-First First. It had been greeted with stunned silence. Wilder had looked out across the shocked faces of the Tanith and Verghastites, and sympathised completely. The news had done away with most of the key reasons for the mix.
As a consequence of the action on Herodor, and the classified Gereon mission, the Tanith First had found itself deprived of its key leaders. Colonel Corbec had died heroically on Herodor, and the beloved Verghastite Soric had been removed from active duty under difficult circumstances. Then the Gereon mission had apparently robbed the Ghosts of Gaunt, Major Rawne, and the scout commander Mkoll. Despite the valiant efforts of Gol Kolea and Viktor Hark, neither one of them Tanith founders, the Ghosts had been considered, by High Command, as woefully lacking in the charismatic and essential leadership that had made them strong in the first place. Gaunt, Corbec, Rawne, Mkoll: without those men, the Ghosts were a headless entity.
For its own part, the Belladon Eighty-First had also suffered. Founded two years before the start of the Sabbat Crusade, the regiment had once been eight thousand strong, and had enjoyed a series of notable victories during Operation Newfound and the push into the Cabal Salient. Then had come the hellstorm of Khan III, the war against Magister Shebol Red-Hand. As a victory, it would remain pre-eminent in the regimental honours of Belladon, but the cost had been great. Nearly three-quarters of the Eighty-First had been killed, almost a thousand of them in one stroke during the desperate stand-off at the Field of the Last Imagining. The Belladon Eighty-First had defeated the notorious “Red Phalanx” elite there, destroyed the Rugose Altar, slain Pater Savant and Pater Pain, and put the Magister himself to flight, an act that led to Shebol’s eventual destruction at the hands of the Silver Guard at Partopol. But it had been a pricey trophy. Reduced to around two thousand men, the Belladon had been in danger of being redesignated as a “support or auxiliary company”. However, their command structure was remarkably intact.
Thus, as Wilder understood it, the lord general himself had approved the mix. The two partial regiments—both light, both recon oriented—complemented one another. The Ghosts would swell the Belladon’s depleted ranks, the Belladon officer corps—most especially Wilder himself—would provide the Ghosts with much needed command muscle. That was how the dry, distant decisions of staff office were made, that was how men were added to men to make the Munitorum ledgers add up.
That was how the Eighty-First Belladon and the Tanith First had become the Eighty-First First Recon, for better or for worse.
And now all of that was up in the air again. Gaunt was alive. The Ghosts had accepted the change, believing their singular leader dead. Now he wasn’t any more. Whichever way you sliced it, Wilder thought the Ghosts were going to resent the mix now. Resent the Belladon. Resent Wilder himself. It had all been for the best. Now there was another best that the Ghosts had never dared hoped for.
“You’re over-thinking it,” Gol Kolea said.
“What?” Wilder looked around.
Kolea smiled. He was a big fellow, a slab of muscle and sinew, and his mouth seemed small and lost in the weight of his face. But the smile was bright and sharp.
“You’re worrying, sir. I suggest you don’t.”
Wilder shrugged gently. His body language was slow and amiable, one of the key things that had made him such a fine leader of men. “I’m just worried about that, Gol,” he said, nodding his head at the distant thump of tank-war echoing up the compartment.
“No you’re not,” said Kolea.
“No, he’s not,” agreed Baskevyl, bending over to stare through a scope.
“What is this?” Wilder asked. “You ganging up on me?”
“You’re worried about the message, sir,” Kolea said. “The one you read to us yesterday.”
“You’re no fool, Gol Kolea,” Wilder said.
“Guess that’s why I’m still alive,” Kolea replied.
“No, that would be luck,” Baskevyl commented, still staring through the scope.
“Actually, Bask’s right,” Kolea said. “Doesn’t matter. I know you’re sweating because Gaunt’s turned up alive. You’re worried about the effect that’s going to have on the mix.”
“Wouldn’t you be?” Wilder asked him.
“I would,” Baskevyl murmured.
“I’m not asking you, Bask. Wouldn’t you be, Gol? I mean, in my place?”
“In your place? Sir, in your place, I’d have kept the name Tanith First and let the Belladon suck it up.”
“Of course you would.”
“That was a joke,” Kolea said.
“I know,” Wilder replied casually.
“I was just joking.”
“I know.”
Several officers from other outfits nearby were beginning to listen in. Kolea beckoned Wilder away to the back of the redoubt. Baskevyl joined them.
“Here’s what I think,” Kolea said frankly. This mix made sense. It made absolute sense to you and it made absolute sense to us. Have you heard any complaints?”
Wilder shook his head.
“Feth no, you haven’t. I’m not pretending it’s been easy, but the Ghosts have gone along with everything. Losing their name, mixing in. They’re experienced Guardsmen, they understand how it works. We all have to stay viable, combat-ready. In the Guard, you keep moving, or you die.”
“Or you go home,” Baskevyl said.
“Shut up,” Kolea and Wilder chorused.
Baskevyl shrugged. “Just saying…”
“This mix made sense,” Kolea said. We got into it, we didn’t complain. It’s the way things work. And you know what made it easy? You. You, and the likes of Bask here.”
“Now you’re just blowing smoke up my skirt, Kolea.”
Kolea smiled. “Do I look like the sort of man who likes to make nice, Lucien?”
Wilder paused. Kolea didn’t. Big as he was, he really, really didn’t.
“No.”
“We were lost and we were hurting. You came along and we liked you. Liked Bask, liked Kolosim and Varaine. Liked Novobazky. Callide’s an arse, but there’s always one, right?”
“He’s not wrong,” Baskevyl said, “Callide is an utter arse. I’d shoot him myself if he wasn’t my brother-in-law.”
Kolea looked mortified. “Throne, I didn’t know that. Sorry, sir.”
Baskevyl looked at Wilder and they both chuckled.
“I’m lying,” Baskevyl said.
“He’s not your brother-in-law?” Kolea asked.
Baskevyl shook his head. “He is an arse, though.”
Kolea ran his big hands across his shaved head. “Throne, I had a point just then, and you with your jokes…”
“Sorry,” Baskevyl smiled.
“I think what I was going for,” Kolea rallied, “was that the Ghosts have taken to you, because of you. This is starting to work.”
“But Gaunt—” Wilder said.
Kolea showed his palms in a “forget it” gesture. “When you told us the news, you know what I thought? I thought… well, I thought how happy I was. Ibram had made it. Come through. Done the gig. Like he swore to us he would. I was happy. I still am. The Ghosts are too. Ibram’s a great man, sir, and the fact that he’s done this and come back to tell the tale, well that’s one more notch for us.”
“But he’s alive,” Wilder said.
“Yes he is. But he’s not a threat to you. You told us, the despatch was clear… Gaunt’s been returned to Commissariat duties. Reassigned. He’s not going to rock the boat.”
Wilder looked away. “The very fact that he’s alive is going to rock the boat,” he said
. “The Ghosts are going to want him back. Accept no substitutes.”
“I think they’ve moved on, sir,” Kolea said. “And even if they do want him back, High Command has been emphatic. We can’t have him back. End of story.”
Wilder nodded. “I guess. What about the others? They’re coming back. What about this Rawne guy? I hear he’s a truck-load of trouble.”
“We’ll make room,” Baskevyl said. “I’d slide Meryn out to make a place for Rawne. What do you think, Gol?”
“Not Meryn,” Kolea replied. “Meryn had become one of Rawne’s inner circle and he won’t like the idea of stepping out. I’d slide out Arcuda and give Rawne H Company. Better still, have a Belladon give up a company command. That’d send the right signals.”
Wilder thought about that and did some quick maths. “If I did that, more of the companies would have Ghost leaders than Belladon.”
“Would that be so bad?” Kolea asked. “I mean, as a gesture. A compromise?”
“It rankles,” Wilder said. “I know my boys. Is this Rawne fellow that good?”
“He’s a gakking son of a bitch,” Kolea said frankly, “but Gaunt never did anything without Rawne in the front of it.”
Wilder looked at Baskevyl. “What do you think? Kolosim? Or Raydrel?”
“Throne, neither!” Baskevyl said. “Demote Ferdy Kolosim and he’ll hunt you down like a dog. Raydrel’s also an excellent officer. We’re talking about pride, here.”
“I agree,” Kolea said. “Not Kolosim or Raydrel. Look, if it helps, I’ll step aside for Rawne.”
“No!” they both said.
Kolea grinned. “I got a warm tingling feeling right then. So… Arcuda. He’ll understand. Or maybe Obel. Or Domor, he’s very loyal.”
Wilder sighed. “This, gentlemen, is exactly what I was worried about. Not Gaunt himself. The others. Mkoll—”
“Oh, that’s easy.” Kolea said. “Form up a dedicated scout unit and give him power. You’ll love what he does.
“He’s like… I don’t know. He’s a wizard. Give him the Ghost scouts and the best of your recon men and he’ll blow your shorts off.”
“My friend here meant that in a good way,” Baskevyl said.
