[Gaunt's Ghosts 09] - His Last Command

by Dan Abnett

  Somewhere, some god or similar higher being, possibly one seated upon a golden throne, was having a good laugh at Lucien Wilder’s expense. Ordinarily, Baskevyl believed, his friend and superior officer had a refined appreciation of good irony, but the special irony of this particular situation was simply making Wilder curse and swear.

  They had come so very close.

  Wilder darted across the dry gulch and ducked in behind the broken chunks of quartz where Baskevyl and a fireteam were in cover.

  “Can you believe that arse?” Wilder spluttered.

  “Which particular one now?” Baskevyl asked. “Are we still on Van Voytz?”

  “No!” Wilder growled. “DeBray! Bloody shithead DeBray!”

  “Because?”

  “He’s only ordered B and C munition trains to pull out! Both of them! That leaves us—”

  Wilder broke off as a stream of tracer rounds ripped across their position. Some hit the tops of the quartz boulders, pummelling powdered rock into the stale air.

  Wilder looked up and yelled “Will somebody please kill that stubber for me?”

  Two crew-served weapons nearby immediately kicked off, blasting away.

  “DeBray’s ordered B and C trains out of the zone already,” Wilder continued. “Which leaves us with what’s left of A. And according to the chief armourer with A, that’s mostly tank shells and mines, anyway.”

  “Not good news,” Baskevyl agreed.

  “How does DeBray expect to maintain a successful breakaway?”

  Three heavy detonations, in rapid succession, went off close by, and shook them violently. Dirt rained down.

  “Dammit,” Wilder said, “I need to be able to see better. Come with me.”

  Wilder and Baskevyl left cover, heads down, and ran around the back of a low ridge where a good portion of Callide’s company was dug in. They kept going into slopes of larch and coster on the north side of the ridge. There were Eighty-First First troopers down amongst the trees, N Company. Wilder could hear Captain Arcuda shouting orders.

  Baskevyl and Wilder ducked down, and Wilder got out his scope. Stray shots were hitting the tops of the dead trees around them, clattering and rattling like scurrying woodland animals.

  “Where’s Kolea?” Wilder asked.

  Baskevyl pointed. “To the west there, in support of Obel’s mob. Varaine’s Company is trying to cover the open stretch there, but it keeps getting pounded by the gun platforms they’ve got over by the… over on the approach there.”

  Wilder swung his scope round, and caught sight of the ugly, multi-barrelled cannon platforms thumping away in the middle-distance, wreathed in white smoke. He knew full well that Baskevyl had said “on the approach” because he didn’t want to use the phrase “over by the gate”. Baskevyl didn’t want to remind Wilder of the irony.

  The gun platforms were indeed “over by the gate”. Throne, they had come so very close.

  The battle on and around Hill 56 and Ridge 19 had been curtailed in the small hours by the arrival of the promised reinforcements: huge levels of field reinforcement, with more on the way. DeBray himself had come forward with the advance. Word was that Van Voytz had finally committed the entire reserve into the Mons. Through the end of the night, and into the morning, the reinvigorated Imperial wave had surged forward, making large gains in the fifth compartment. In places, enemy resistance seemed to melt away completely. By midmorning, the towering gate into the sixth compartment had been clearly in view. By midday, the Imperial forces had arrived within a half kilometre of it.

  DeBray had offered the Eighty-First First, along with the Kolstecs and the armour groups, the opportunity to stand relieved and retire. They had, after all, been holding the line since the start of the offensive. What remained of the Rothbergers left the field, exhausted and ground down. But for the rest of them, their blood was up. The arrival of the mass reinforcement had bolstered their spirits, and Wilder had certainly not been about to walk his men away from a fight and let somebody else get the glory of finishing it. Fofobris of the Kolstec had been of the same opinion, as had Major Garrogan of the Hauberkan armour. DeBray had graciously allowed them to continue, and together, the three units had made the best of the forward push. There had even developed a sense of friendly rivalry as to which of them would get the honour of taking the gate as a prize.

  Then that special god had started laughing. The general order had been relayed forward. Van Voytz had commanded a complete and immediate staged retreat, to be accomplished no later than midnight. He had ordered the Imperial Guard to abandon Sparshad Mons. DeBray had immediately begun the systematic withdrawal of the fifth compartment strengths, starting with the backline reinforcement columns that hadn’t even seen action yet.

  Wilder wasn’t entirely sure what was going through the lord general’s mind. Very little, was his best guess. He simply was at a loss to fathom why, after all this time and effort and sacrifice, the Crusade was going to give up on Sparshad Mons.

  On top of everything else, one did not simply fall back from a fighting line. A proper breakaway was called for. Certain units had to stay in position until the bitter end, covering the main retreat and holding back the enemy, or they would be inviting a massacre. Standard Guard tactics dictated that any such rearguard action should fall to the units in the most advanced position. For the Eighty-First First, the Kolstec and the Hauberkan, the glory of victory was no longer a prospect. What faced them now was a gruelling, backwards fight, as they covered the main retreat until such a time as they could themselves break off and run.

  Simply run. The end of this ludicrous expedition would see them running for their lives. If he got out alive, Wilder swore he would find Van Voytz and—

  “Stalk-tanks!” Baskevyl said. Five of them had just emerged from the gate itself, advancing down the rough incline in support of the Blood Pact units along the lower ridge. Fierce gunfire licked up and down the incline. Wilder heard rockets banging.

  “Who’s down in the rockline there?” he asked.

  Baskevyl peered. “E Company,” he said.

  Meryn’s lot, thought Wilder. “I hope they have some live tread fethers left, because those stalks are going to be on them in about ten minutes.”

  More loose shots snickered through the dead trees. Pieces of dry branch fluttered down. Away to the east, AT70’s were booming away as they tried to prise Garrogan’s treads off a shelving escarpment.

  “Colonel!” Wilder turned, and saw his vox-man, Keshlan, running towards him down the wooded slope.

  Small-arms fire pattered through the trees, and Keshlan fell with a sharp cry.

  “Dammit! Keshlan!” Wilder was up and running. More shots pinged down, shattering bark and twigs. Some bastard somewhere had a damn good angle.

  “Cover fire!” Baskevyl yelled down to Arcuda, and N Company began to lay las across the enemy positions.

  Wilder reached the vox-officer.

  “I’m all right, sir,” Keshlan said. His face was white with shock.

  “Where’d they get you?”

  “Just caught my body armour, sir. Shoulder plate’s pretty smacked up, but I’m all right.”

  Wilder examined him. A hard round had torn clean through Keshlan’s shoulder plating and broken the skin. A few centimetres to the right and Keshlan would have taken it in the throat.

  “Teach you to go running about,” he said. “They are armed, you know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You needed me?”

  Keshlan picked himself up. “Yes, sir. Signal from the marshal, sir. The Hedrogan Light is just pulling out behind us now, and we are to expect the last of the Sarpoy to follow them in the next forty minutes.”

  “There’ll be no one left to talk to at this rate,” Wilder said. He could see the young man was frightened, and he wanted to keep him steady. But no, it wasn’t fear. Something else.

  “What is it, Keshlan?”

  “Signal from I Company. Captain Raydrel was shot dead about f
ifteen minutes ago, and both his adjutant and Sergeant Favre were killed trying to rescue him.”

  “Holy Throne…” Wilder breathed hard. Favre, and the adjutant, Vullery, were fine men and old comrades. Raydrel had been a friend, one of the best officers in Wilder’s command. Who’s… who’s heading up I Company now?”

  “Uh, Sergeant Haston, sir.”

  “Patch me to him.”

  Keshlan started setting his vox. Baskevyl scurried up.

  “Raydrel’s dead,” Wilder said simply.

  Baskevyl looked away, then at the ground. “We all will be at this rate,” he said. The hand Van Voytz has dealt us. Breakaway’s going to be nigh on impossible. Throne, if I could plug that gate, just for an hour.”

  “Right. Or magically transport us all to a safe world full of wine and flowers. I need practical bloody solutions right now, Bask, not—” Wilder paused. “All right, that wasn’t me talking just then. And it wasn’t you listening.”

  “Don’t apologise, Luc. I know how you feel. I want to kill something just at the moment.”

  “Well, as luck would have it,” Wilder grinned, “we happen to be in the middle of a frigging battle. Take it out on the damn Blood Pact.”

  “No response from Sergeant Haston, sir,” Keshlan reported.

  Wilder looked at Baskevyl. “Bask, head down to Meryn and make sure his company is ready for those stalks. If you see Hark anywhere, tell him I need him at I Company immediately. We have to get them rallied.”

  “On it.”

  “Try Hark on your microbead too,” Wilder called after him. As he moved off, Baskevyl pointed back up the slope. “More bad news,” he joked.

  Wilder looked round. A group of figures was approaching, heads down.

  “It’s Major Rawne,” said Keshlan.

  “That’s all I need,” sighed Wilder.

  It was Rawne, all right. Novobazky, too, and Ferdy Kolosim, along with most of the infamous “hunting party”. Wilder scrambled up the bank to meet them.

  Throughout the previous night, Kolosim had kept Wilder appraised of the hunting party’s movements, though it had all been rather vague and brief. The last Wilder had heard, Rawne’s team had been heading for post 36 with “urgent information”.

  “What are you doing here?” Wilder asked.

  “We were sent back up the line to rejoin you this morning,” Novobazky said. “By the time we heard about the general order, we were as good as here, so we kept going.”

  “You should have turned back,” Wilder said.

  “I’d prefer to withdraw alongside my regiment,” Rawne said. Wilder studied Rawne’s face, and realised the man was completely serious. He nodded.

  “Are you going to tell me what happened?” he asked. “I see Kortenhus, Criid, Varl, Beltayn and Bonin. Where are the others?”

  “Abe Villyard didn’t make it,” said Kolosim. “Maggs and Mkoll were shipped out, injured.”

  “What the hell did you get into?” Wilder asked.

  “Gaunt was right,” said Rawne simply.

  “He was right?” Wilder said. “You mean this place isn’t… isn’t what it seems?”

  “No, it’s not,” said Ferdy Kolosim.

  Wilder felt a sudden rush of understanding, so swooping and immense, it made him feel giddy. “Is this why… Throne! Is this why Van Voytz has ordered a general withdrawal?” he asked.

  “I honestly don’t know,” said Rawne. “We weren’t told. We were questioned by the Commissariat, and then sent back to the line.”

  “Gaunt,” said Wilder. “Frigging Gaunt! Ever since he came back from the dead, he’s made my life a crap storm of problems and disappointments!”

  There was a smack, flesh on flesh. Wilder realised Rawne had swung a fist at him. The scout, Bonin, had stopped Rawne’s blow, blocking it tightly in his own hand.

  “Don’t, Eli,” Bonin hissed, squeezing.

  Rawne let his hand drop.

  “Oh, please. Go ahead,” Wilder said. “Give it your best shot. I know you’ve been itching to, from the moment we met.”

  Rawne shook his head. “That’s not true, Wilder. I have great respect for you, believe it or not. But no one bad-mouths Bram Gaunt in my hearing.”

  Wilder thought for a moment. Close by, a series of shells exploded in a rippling line, and the air shivered with overpressure. Renewed gunfire began to crackle below them.

  “Enough of this,” Wilder said. “If you’re back, you’re back. Start doing some good. Ferdy, take Kortenhus and get back to your company. We’ll need the left flank trim and tight in the next two hours, so that the FooFoo Frigwig and his beloved Kolstec can fall back.”

  “Sir!”

  “Nadey? Head along to I Company and perform your miracles. We lost Raydrel.”

  “No!”

  “Just do what you can.”

  Novobazky nodded and hurried away.

  The rest of you come with me. E Company’s in a fix. That’s Meryn’s company, Major Rawne, just so you remember, all right?”

  “I understand,” said Rawne.

  They hurried down the slope into the rocks. Ahead, the stalk-tanks had begun to spatter lasfire into the Eighty-First First’s position.

  Caffran risked a run between boulders that brought him up behind a particularly large lump of granite. Tank fire crackled past, and Caffran could smell burning stone. The clattering strides of advancing stalk-tanks echoed around the shallow incline.

  Nearby, troopers were huddled low, clipping off shots at the enemy ground troops advancing behind the tanks. Caffran could see Larkin, Osket, Kalen and Mkillian close by, obscured by their camo-capes. Several Belladons too. He wished he could remember their names.

  Tank fire sizzled in again in great, slamming blasts, and Caffran ducked. He glanced up again in time to see that three of the Belladons had been cut down. Their mutilated bodies lay smouldering on the burned soil. Now he really wished he could remember their names.

  He took a look out. One of the tanks was very close, waddling along on its slender, insectoid legs, pistons hissing and wheezing. Caffran hefted up his rocket tube, checked the load, and armed the rocket by removing the priming pin. He muttered a little blessing as he did so. lust to make it fly right.

  It was his last load. He looked back the way he had come and yelled, “Guheen! Where the feth are you?” Guheen had his back. And the heavy canvas holder with the last three rockets in it.

  “Little hairy!” Guheen shouted back, ducking as small-arms fire licked past.

  “Move your Tanith arse!” Caffran shouted. The tank was firing again. It sounded like masses of shingle slithering across a wet beach. It reminded Caffran of the storm landing at Oskray Island. Feth, how many years ago was that now?

  “Any time soon, Caff?” Kalen shouted. Caffran shouldered the launcher tube, snuggled it close, and placed his fingers around the trigger spoon.

  He swung out of cover and raised the snout of the tube. The tank was right there. Right on them, gun-pods traversing as it hunted for live targets. He clenched his fingers and depressed the metal spoon. The tube jumped violently against his shoulder as the rocket left it. There was a sucking rush, a fart of flame.

  The rocket rushed out, trailing white smoke across the air behind it, and smacked into the stalk-tank head on. The blast tore off the stalk’s head and thorax, burst the operator’s cocoon, and smashed the whole machine over onto its back. It lay there, burning, its long metal legs twitching at the sky.

  A cheer went up. Premature, Caffran thought. There were still four more stalk-tanks plodding towards E Company’s line, and plenty of Blood Pact with them.

  He knew he needed a better angle on the next tank. He tensed, then ran out across the open stretch towards the rocks where Larkin was huddled. A squall of gunfire chased him. He threw himself flat and crawled in beside the sniper.

  “Very dainty,” Larkin said.

  “They were shooting at me.”

  “I don’t blame them. Look at the mess you
made of their nice tank.” Larkin smacked in a fresh hot-shot clip and settled his long-las. “Speaking of tanks,” he began.

  They were getting close. Caffran didn’t need the old marksman to tell him that. What he needed was a rocket load. His launcher was smoking and empty.

  “Guheen! Any time soon!”

  Guheen shouted back something incomprehensible. Lugging the rocket bag, he started to run, and made it to the boulder that had previously given Caffran shelter.

  “You know,” Larkin began, conversationally, as if they weren’t actually in the middle of a horrendous firefight. Those kids. Nice kids. Kolea really ought to wake up and do something. They deserve to know.”

  Caffran blinked at him. “Feth, does everybody know?”

  Larkin shrugged. “Tona told me. On Gereon, there wasn’t any place for secrets.”

  “Gereon, Gereon, Gereon… I’d give real money if you lot would shut up about that place. It was just a place. Just a fething place.”

  “You weren’t there,” said Larkin. “You don’t know.”

  “I know I’m sick of hearing about it,” Caffran turned. “Guheen! I need those rockets!”

  “One moment you’re alive, the next you’re dead. In this game, I mean,” Larkin rambled on.

  “Shut up, you old bastard!”

  “And what are secrets worth then? Even secrets made with the best intentions. Your son and your daughter deserve to know about their other father, Caff. And Gol deserves to—”

  “Shut up, Larkin! Shut the feth up! We’re in trouble here!”

  Heavy-duty lasfire screeched over their heads from the lead tank.

  “Guheen! Load me!”

  Guheen looked left and right, halted as shots whipped past, and then started his run to Caffran’s side, the heavy rocket bag over his shoulder.

  He got three metres, and a hard round from the Blood Pact infantry went into the side of his head. Everything inside his skull came out in a shower on the other side. Before he’d even started to fall, two more shots had ripped into him, screwing his flailing body around, forcing it to lose all structure and semblance of humanity.

  He hit the dry ground and rolled, one hand clawing impulsively at the sky.