[Gaunt's Ghosts 09] - His Last Command

by Dan Abnett

  He saw two figures amongst them. Two commissars, directing the steady flow of the regroup. One had a sword raised aloft.

  “Ghosts of Tanith! Men of Belladon!” Gaunt shouted. “Close the line! Deny the enemy!”

  “First-and-Only!” the men were shouting.

  “Domor! Get some men onto those rocks,” Gaunt yelled as he strode forward through the men. Eszrah came with him, reynbow raised. The men seemed as astonished at the sight of Gaunt as they were by the towering warrior at his heels.

  “Yes, sir!” Domor barked. Despite the enclosing horror, there was a renewed vitality in the troops. “Gaunt’s with us!” Domor shouted. “Gaunt’s with us! Chiria, Nehn! Get men into those rocks! Raglon, section to the left, rapid fire!”

  “We can do this,” Gaunt said to Domor. “We can’t win, but we can hold them back.”

  “Yes, sir,” Domor said. He couldn’t quite accept the sight of the man in front of him. Even with his augmetic eyes, Gaunt didn’t seem real. “Sir, are you a ghost?” he asked.

  Gaunt smiled. “Always have been.”

  Ludd ran up. “Sections are holding to the right, sir.”

  “Go to them, Ludd. Keep them together and keep them strong.”

  “How, commissar?”

  “Improvise. Sing them a song, tell them you’re my clone-son, whatever works.” Ludd nodded, and rushed away. Wounded stragglers from the rear of the breakaway stumbled past. The Tanith and Verghastite amongst them blinked when they saw Gaunt. Some stopped, and despite their injuries, came to him.

  “Keep moving,” Gaunt called out. “Get onto the track and get away from here. We’ll drink to this day together, later on.”

  Gaunt saw Brostin amongst them, Brostin and the sad bundle he carried. He went over to the bulky flame-trooper immediately. Brostin sank down to his knees, tired, hurt and barely able to go on. He clutched Feygor’s limp body tightly in his hefty arms.

  “Let him go,” Gaunt said. “Let him lie on the ground.”

  “Sir…”

  Eszrah knelt down and examined Feygor. He looked at Gaunt and shook his head.

  “He’s gone, Brostin,” said Gaunt. “I’m too late for him, but not the rest of you.”

  Brostin gently laid Feygor’s body on the wet grass. Rain streamed off his beard like tears.

  “Get moving, Brostin. I’ll catch you up.”

  Gaunt straightened up and turned back to face the fight. Eszrah touched his arm lightly and pointed. An officer was approaching.

  “Commissar Gaunt?”

  “Colonel Wilder?”

  They stood facing each other in the rain. Gaunt put his sword in his left hand and held out his right.

  “My compliments, colonel. The lord general has ordered me back to the line to assist with the rearguard.”

  Wilder shook his hand. “We don’t seem to need much help dying right now,” Wilder said.

  “You’ve executed a fine breakaway action, Wilder,” Gaunt said. “A great number of lives have been spared by—”

  “It’s not over,” Wilder said bluntly. “You have no idea of the weight of hostiles at our heels.”

  “Nevertheless, I believe we should still call the day done. Move the men onto the trackway and get them out to—”

  “You’re not listening!” Wilder snapped. “There is a nightmare coming and we must check it for as long as we can. I intend to get a force up onto that hill, at least a company strong. From there, they should be able to hold the scrubland long enough to allow the rest to get away.”

  Gaunt regarded the hill. “It would be possible, I suppose…”

  “Look, Gaunt. I know you just want to get your men out.”

  “My men? They’re not my men, Wilder. They’re yours. The Eighty-First First. And a fine regiment too. Give me command of a company, and I’ll hold that hill for you. I’ll buy you enough time to get the rest of your men clear.”

  Wilder smiled and shook his head. “I’ll not order a man to die while I run for home. Nor do I expect you to do a job I wouldn’t do myself. My regiment, you said. My men. My job.”

  “Wilder—”

  “I believe I outrank you, commissar. You don’t hold a command rank. I will hold the hill with A Company. My orders to you are to take field command of the remainder of the regiment, and conduct them to a place of safety while I cover your backs.”

  “Throne’s sake, Wilder, don’t be so awkward! This isn’t some contest to see which of us is the bigger man, this—”

  “Actually, it almost is. This way, we both win and we both lose.”

  “Colonel, I’m not—”

  “Are you disobeying direct orders, Gaunt? I’d heard you’d come back from that place with an unruly streak to you. A touch of taint, they say. A lack of proper discipline. No place for that in the Imperial Guard. I’ve given you your orders. Are you going to follow them?”

  Gaunt glared at Wilder. “Yes, sir,” he said, and saluted.

  “Excellent. Carry on.” Wilder saluted back and turned away.

  “The Emperor protects,” Gaunt said.

  Wilder snorted. “Some of us he does.”

  The angle of fire from the top of Hill 56 was as good as Wilder had hoped. He formed A Company up, and began laying fusillades down across the scrub, where the enemy formations were now in sight, toiling forward through the scorched and smoking land.

  “Keep the rate up, A Company!” Wilder yelled. There seemed to be a near impossible number of targets crossing the valley below, hordes of red and black figures, machines that rolled or walked. The woods beyond burned like a blast furnace and threw smoke up the towering compartment wall. Stalkers had appeared in great numbers too, no doubt from their mysterious doorways. Many were bounding ahead of the enemy troops like gigantic attack dogs, hooting and roaring. Some were gigantic things.

  Down on the trackway to the west of A Company, the last of their comrades moved away, south, into the enclosing darkness.

  Genadey Novobazky strode down the A Company line, his voice firm and defiant. “On the Shores of Marik, my friends,” he declaimed, “the fathers of our fathers made a stand under the flag of Belladon. Did they break and run? Yes! But only in their minds. They ran to friendly places and loved ones, where they could be safe… and then, by the providence of the God-Emperor, they saw what those friendly places and loved ones would become if they did not stand fast, and so stand fast they did! How do you feel?”

  There was a triumphant bellow from the ranks.

  “Belladon blood is like wine on the Emperor’s lips!” Novobazky stormed. “Belladon souls have a special place at his side! If we spill our blood here today, then this is the soil He has chosen to bless and anoint! Oh, lucky land!” He took out the plasma pistol, and carefully toggled off the safety. No mistakes this time. “Stand firm and fire, my friends, stand firm and fire! If they’re going to have our precious blood, then they’ll find the cost is dearer than they can afford! Fury of Belladon! Fury! Fury!”

  Wilder grinned as he heard the surge of Novobazky’s speech. A piece of art that, he’d always thought. And never more so than now.

  “Keshlan!” The vox-officer ran to him.

  “Yes, colonel!”

  “Wilder beckoned for the vox horn. “Speaker broadcast, please, Keshlan. All the volume you’ve got.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The first of the archenemy warriors began to charge up the slopes of Hill 56, into the hail of gunfire. Hundreds fell, but there were thousands behind them to take their places. The Blood Pact horns bellowed into the night air. Blades flashed, banners swung. Feral mutants and wrought beasts led the attack.

  Crookshank Thrice-wrought was at the very front of the storming line, shrugging off the flashes of light that stung at his hide. He came up the long slope, roaring through his throat sacs. He could see and smell the meat ahead of him. The rows of little meat figures who curiously refused to flee at the sight of him.

  Bounding forward, the thrice-wrought opened hi
s mouth and engaged his teeth.

  Wilder thumbed on the vox horn and raised it to his mouth. When he spoke, his voice boomed out from Keshlan’s vox, distorted with volume.

  “Stand firm, A Company! Fury of Belladon! Hold this line and deny them!”

  His amplified voice echoed out across the bleak hillside, carrying his command away into the rain and the raging night.

  His last command.

  EPILOGUE

  00.07 hrs, 200.776.M41

  Ancreon Sextus

  The sun came out, in the middle of the night, and the step-cities died. Even from a great distance, it was impossible for observers to look directly at the bombardment without niters or glare-shades. Devastating pillars of white light came down from the top of the sky and burned deep, black holes into the world.

  It took the warships of the Imperial Navy five hours of sustained orbital bombardment to wipe the ancient and cursed stones of the monolithic cities from existence.

  In the days that followed, all that remained at the sites where the step-cities had once stood were gaping wounds in the earth, some a kilometre deep. Within these slowly cooling cavities, jewelled beauty lurked. The fury of the weapons had transformed the rock and sand, fusing it into swathes of glass that glinted and swam with colour in the bright sun.

  * * * * *

  Just after midnight, Gaunt was amongst the many hundreds of Imperial officers congregated on the hull-top landing pads of one of the command Leviathans to watch the distant doom of Sparshad Mons. Zweil stood by his side. He’d borrowed Eszrah’s glare-shades, and winced and gasped at every flash of light.

  “You did that, Ibram,” Van Voytz said, coming up to Gaunt and nodding in the direction of the fearsome lightshow. “Hope you’re proud of yourself.”

  “Proud of something, sir.”

  “I understand they’re yours again?” Van Voytz said.

  “It’s a field command only,” said Gaunt. “Just temporary.”

  “We’ll see,” said Van Voytz.

  “He said he couldn’t, but he could, you know,” Zweil said after Van Voytz had moved on.

  “What?” Gaunt asked.

  “He said he couldn’t bring things back from the dead, but it turned out he could.”

  “Who are we talking about, father?”

  “Wilder,” Zweil said.

  “Oh.”

  “You and Rawne and the others all came back when we thought you dead. And now the unit has too.”

  “I don’t—”

  “It’s yours again. Wilder gave them back to you. Not his Ghosts. Yours again. Gaunt’s Ghosts, back from the dead.”

  “You know, you talk a lot of nonsense sometimes, father,” Gaunt said.

  The hatch of the holding cell opened and Inquisitor Welt entered the chamber. Commissar Faragut got up from the table to make room for the inquisitor.

  Welt sat down beside the commissar-general. “How are we doing?” he asked.

  “I think we’re getting somewhere,” Balshin said, looking across the table at the interview subject.

  “Good, good,” said Welt. “Shall we go back over the main areas, in case there’s something we missed?”

  “Fine with me,” said Balshin. Welt looked questioningly at the interview subject.

  Sabbatine Cirk shrugged. “Just tell me what you want to know.”

  Scanning, formatting and basic

  proofing by Undead.