THE WARMASTER

by Dan Abnett

  ‘Anything, Gol,’ Gaunt replied. ‘Just make sure your squads are ready to deal with any kind of contact. Anything they might reasonably be expected to counter.’

  Kolea nodded.

  ‘And make it generally known to all that in the event of action, munition conservation is essential.’

  The officers took note.

  ‘Ludd?’ said Gaunt.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ Commissar Ludd answered.

  ‘See to it that our friends are informed,’ Gaunt told the company’s youngest commissar.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Ludd.

  ‘Hark?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ Hark replied.

  ‘I’ll leave it to you to bring Rawne and B Company up to speed.’

  Hark nodded.

  ‘Well,’ said Gaunt, ‘that’s all. Thanks for your attention. Get to it.’

  On the way out, he caught Baskevyl’s arm.

  ‘If you see Criid, send her my way will you?’

  ‘Of course,’ Bask said.

  Gaunt wandered back to his stateroom along Lower Spinal Sixty. He had a stop to make along the way.

  He paused to look into one of the company decks, the hold spaces of the ship that served as accommodation for the retinue. This was home for the souls that had signed the accompany bond to travel with the regiment: the wives, the children, the families, and the tinkers and traders that made up the Tanith First’s vital support network. Salvation’s Reach had been a perilous venture, but every one of the regiment’s extended family had signed the bond to come along. They had decided they would rather risk their lives and die with the Ghosts than stay behind on Menazoid Sigma and perhaps never catch up with them again.

  Gaunt thought that showed more courage and faith than any soldier had. Guard life was made better by the constant strength of family, but it was a hard existence. He’d had to consider carefully before approving the issue of the bond.

  He watched the children play, the women work, the lines of washing drifting overhead from the chamber’s rafters. Their faith had seen them safely past the dangers of the Reach, but there were always new dangers. The implications of the drive problem troubled him, and the aborted resupply on Aigor 991 played on his mind. Major Kolea had encountered some form of the Ruinous Powers that seemed to be hunting for them. It had claimed to be the voice of Anarch Sek, and it had demanded the return of something called ‘the eagle stones’. It had murdered several members of the landing party. Gol Kolea had done well to abort the resupply, but Gaunt had a lingering feeling that Gol hadn’t told him everything about the encounter. Perhaps it had just been the terror of the experience that had made Gol seem unforthcoming.

  No one had a solid idea what ‘the eagle stones’ might be, but if Sek’s power had touched them at Aigor 991, then the Archenemy was closer on their heels than Gaunt liked to imagine. Against the odds, they had survived the Reach mission. Was an unforeseen and greater threat lying in wait for them all? Could he safeguard the families a second time? It was not the dispassionate concern of a commander. Gaunt had always been alone, but now he had family aboard too. His son…

  He shook the thought off. One problem at a time.

  Ayatani Zwiel was up on a bench, preaching the love of the God-Emperor to the family congregation. The old chaplain saw Gaunt in the doorway, and paused his sermon, climbing down from his perch with the aid of steadying hands.

  ‘You look grim, Ibram,’ he said as he hobbled up to face Gaunt.

  ‘You noticed, ayatani.’

  Zwiel shrugged.

  ‘No, you always look grim. I was making a general observation. Why? Is there new trouble to keep us awake at night?’

  Gaunt glanced aside to make sure no one could overhear.

  ‘There’s a drive fault,’ he said. ‘It may be nothing, but if we are forced to break shift to deal with it… Well, it could cause alarm and distress among the retinue. As a favour to me, stay here and keep watch. If the worst happens, try to calm fears. They’ll listen to you. Tell them we’ll be safe soon and that there’s no reason to panic.’

  Zwiel nodded. Since the loss at Salvation’s Reach, his spirits had been lower. The old firecracker spark had grown dimmer.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ he said. ‘I’ll get them singing hymns. Hymns are good. And warm too, on a cold night.’

  ‘Do you mean hymns?’

  ‘Possibly not,’ Zwiel replied, thinking about it.

  Something cannoned into Gaunt’s legs.

  ‘Papa Gaunt! Papa Gaunt!’

  Gaunt looked down. It was Yoncy, Tona Criid’s little girl. She clutched his knees and grinned up at him.

  ‘Hello, Yoncy,’ Gaunt said. He scooped her up in his arms, and she gleefully took off his cap and put it on. She was so small and light.

  ‘I’m Papa Gaunt!’ she declared fiercely to Zwiel, glaring out from under the brim of the oversized cap. She threw a stern salute.

  ‘Well, young lady,’ said Zwiel, ‘what you’ve just done is an abuse of uniform code, and Papa Gaunt will have you shot for it.’

  ‘He will not!’ Yoncy cried, defiantly.

  ‘Not this time,’ said Gaunt.

  One of the women hurried over.

  ‘There you are, child,’ she exclaimed. ‘I wondered where you’d run off to!’

  She took Yoncy out of Gaunt’s arms.

  ‘I’m ever so sorry she bothered you, sir,’ she said. ‘I was supposed to be watching her.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Gaunt. ‘She was no bother.’

  ‘Papa Gaunt’s going to shoot me, Juniper!’ Yoncy laughed.

  ‘Is he now?’ the woman said.

  ‘Papa Zwiel said so,’ Yoncy told her.

  ‘I’m really not,’ Gaunt told the woman.

  ‘Uniform infraction,’ said Zwiel, mock stern, and scooped the cap off the child’s head. ‘A firing squad at the very least!’

  ‘I think we can let this one go with a reprimand,’ said Gaunt as Zwiel handed him his cap.

  ‘You best consider yourself lucky this time, child,’ Juniper said to the girl in her arms. She did a clumsy little bow and hurried off. Yoncy waved to them as she was carried away.

  ‘She calls everyone “papa”,’ Zwiel said. ‘It used to be “uncle”, but now “papa” is the favourite.’

  ‘A legacy of her curious upbringing, I suppose,’ said Gaunt. ‘She seems happy enough.’

  ‘Does she…’ Zwiel began. ‘Does she seem small to you?’

  ‘Small?’

  ‘I was thinking it the other day,’ said the chaplain. ‘Just a child in pigtails, as she’s always been. But Dalin is a grown man now, and there can’t be too many years between them. She acts very young too.’

  ‘Is that a defence, do you think?’ Gaunt asked. ‘Her life has never been safe. Maybe she plays on her childlike qualities to make sure we protect her.’

  ‘You think it’s an act?’

  ‘Not a conscious one, no. But while she’s an innocent child, everyone is her father or her uncle or her aunt. It’s how she copes. How she feels safe.’

  ‘Well, I imagine she’ll sprout soon enough. Girls develop later. Overnight, she’ll be a petulant teenager.’

  ‘And we will protect her just the same,’ said Gaunt. He reset his cap.

  ‘Our children always need our protection,’ said Zwiel, ‘no matter how much they grow up. How is your offspring?’

  ‘I’m still coming to terms with the fact,’ said Gaunt. ‘I have to go, father. I’ll keep you advised.’

  ‘And I’ll stand ready,’ said Zwiel.

  Gaunt left the company deck and resumed his journey aft.

  He suddenly heard music. It was jaunty music. It was cheerful. It rolled and echoed along the dismal connecting tunnel.

  He approached the entrance to a side hold. The Belladon Colours band had assembled there, and were mid-practice. It was clearly an informal session. Most of them were not in full uniform code, and they were spread across the big, galvanised chamber of th
e holdspace, sitting or even sprawling on packing material, blasting out their music. Those not playing had got up and were dancing a sprightly formation polka in the mid-deck. Most of the dancers had discarded boots and jackets.

  High above, the company’s mascot, the ceremonial psyber eagle, flew from roof girder to roof girder, squawking from both beaks.

  The music died away unevenly as the bandsmen noticed Gaunt in the hatchway.

  ‘It’s cheerful in here,’ Gaunt remarked.

  Captain Jakub Wilder wandered over.

  ‘It’s the Belladon way, sir,’ he said. ‘We celebrate the living and the dead. It’s the best way to shake off a hard tour.’

  Gaunt pursed his lips.

  Commissar Vaynom Blenner had got himself up off a roll of packing material to join them.

  ‘My idea, Ibram,’ he said, hurriedly. ‘Just a little loosening of the old collar, you know?’

  Gaunt looked at his old friend. Blenner seemed remarkably relaxed.

  ‘I’m sure we can all use some downtime,’ he said.

  ‘I was going to suggest a formal,’ Blenner said. ‘Get some decent food and wine out of stores. Everyone invited. The band can play. Dancing, eh? We can cast aside this mood. The First deserves it, Ibram.’

  ‘It does,’ Gaunt agreed.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But now’s not the time,’ Gaunt said. ‘We need to come to secondary order.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since now, Vaynom,’ Gaunt said.

  Blenner swallowed.

  ‘Secondary order?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. “Prepare to fight”. Is that a problem?’

  ‘No. No, no. Not at all.’

  ‘My troopers are ready,’ Wilder said.

  ‘Good. Expect hazard within a twelve-hour threshold,’ Gaunt said. ‘If fighting starts, conserve your ammunition.’ He turned and left the hold.

  ‘Let’s… let’s finish up here,’ Blenner said to Wilder. He needed a cup of water.

  There was a pack of pills in his jacket pocket and he suddenly felt the urge to take one.

  Gaunt paused outside the infirmary and hesitated before entering. He knew he had a good reason for the visit, and that it wasn’t the real reason. The real reason Gaunt kept visiting the infirmary was that he was trying to get used to the place without Dorden.

  He took off his cap and entered. Internal screen walls and shutter partitions had been rolled back to extend the space and accommodate the regimental wounded after the battle of Salvation’s Reach. It was still pretty full. Several of the casualties, like the sniper Nessa Bourah, attempted to sit up and salute when they saw him.

  He raised a hand.

  ‘Stand easy, everyone, please,’ he said.

  He moved down the rows of steel-framed cots, pausing to speak to as many of the wounded as he could. He signed How are you? to Nessa, and she grinned back and replied with her voice.

  ‘Ready to fight,’ she said. Like many Vervunhivers, she’d lost her hearing during the Zoican War, and the sign language they had developed had proved vital to both their scratch company operations against the Zoicans and, later, to the stealth manoeuvres of the Tanith First. Chief Scout Mkoll had long ago adopted Vervunhive scratch-signing as the regiment’s non-verbal code.

  Recently, though, in personal circumstances, Nessa had been trying to use her voice more again. The words came out with that slightly nasal, rounded-out quality of a speaker who can only feel the breath of their words, but they touched Gaunt immensely.

  ‘I know you are,’ he replied, without signing.

  She read his lips and answered with another smile.

  Gaunt stopped at Major Pasha’s bedside and talked for a while, assuring the senior officer of the regiment’s new intake that her companies were in good order.

  ‘Spetnin and Zhukova have things well in hand,’ he said, ‘and they are meshing well with the established commanders. Spetnin is a good fellow.’

  ‘Not Zhukova, then?’ Pasha asked.

  Gaunt hesitated.

  ‘She’s an excellent officer.’

  Pasha sat up and leant forwards, beckoning Gaunt close with a conspiratorial gesture made with hands that had choked more than one Zoican throat in their day.

  ‘She is an excellent officer, sir,’ Pasha agreed. ‘But she is ambitious and she is beautiful. Not beautiful like her.’

  Pasha nodded her chin towards Nessa, who had gone back to her reading.

  ‘No?’ asked Gaunt.

  ‘The dear, deaf girl does not know she is beautiful. Ornella does. That is why your dear deaf girl is a marksman trooper, and Ornella Zhukova is a captain.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Gaunt asked.

  ‘I’m saying, Zhukova’s a brilliant troop leader. Just treat her like any other cocksure ambitious male. Don’t be fooled by her lips and breasts.’

  Gaunt laughed. He liked Major Yve Petrushkevskaya immensely. She was a tall, strong, haggard veteran. He hadn’t known her long, and it couldn’t be said that they’d served together. Pasha had been miserably wounded in a hull-breaching accident before the Salvation’s Reach fight had begun in earnest.

  But Gaunt was sure she brought something to the Ghosts that was yet to be properly valued. A powerful, presiding, maternal force. A different wisdom.

  ‘In truth, sir,’ she said, settling back on her pillow, ‘I feel… ashamed.’

  ‘Ashamed?’ he asked in surprise.

  ‘Taken down before I could fire a shot in anger,’ she replied, her mouth forming an almost comical inverted ‘U’ of a frown. ‘Not a distinguished start to my service under your command.’

  ‘You’ve got nothing to prove, major,’ he said.

  She tutted at him.

  ‘Everyone always has everything to prove,’ she replied. ‘Otherwise, what is the purpose of life, sir?’

  ‘I stand corrected. But enough of this “sir”, please. You’re one of the seniors and particulars. “Sir” in front of the troops, but “Ibram” to my face like this.’

  ‘Dah,’ she replied, holding up her hands in distaste. ‘Formality is discipline.’

  ‘Gaunt, then?’ he said.

  Her mouth made the doubtful, inverted U shape again.

  ‘Maybe that.’

  He could tell she wasn’t comfortable. He’d tried to be open, but the sentimentality was not to her liking. He changed tack.

  ‘Listen, major,’ he said quietly. ‘I need to be able to count on you.’

  ‘Yes?’ she whispered, craning forwards.

  ‘We have a drive problem. A bad one. We may not get home. In fact, we could pop back into real space at any time.’

  He kept his voice low.

  ‘If we do, we could be at risk.’

  ‘Attack?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. If we’re boarded, we may have to protect ourselves section by section. Will you run the infirmary for me? Rally all able-bodied to the defence?’

  ‘Will you send a crate of rifles down here?’

  ‘Supplies are limited, but yes.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Of course. Of course, I will,’ she said. ‘Count on me.’

  ‘I already do,’ he said.

  She blinked in surprise and looked at him. He held out his hand and she shook it.

  ‘Keep it to yourself, but get ready,’ he said.

  He got off the edge of her bed and turned to go.

  ‘I will, Gaunt,’ Pasha said.

  A few cots down, Elodie was playing regicide with her husband. Ban Daur still looked very frail and weak from the injuries he’d taken. They had been married en route to the Reach.

  ‘Captain. Ma’am Dutana-Daur.’

  They looked around. Elodie started to get up.

  ‘I’m just saying hello,’ Gaunt said. ‘Don’t let me interrupt.’

  ‘It’s kind of you, sir,’ Daur said.

  ‘If I can’t stop in on one of my best,’ Gaunt said. ‘How is it, Ban?’

  ‘I’m doing
all right. I’m still bleeding inside, so they say. Some mending to do.’

  ‘You’re strong, Ban.’

  ‘I am, sir.’

  ‘And she makes you stronger,’ Gaunt said, looking at Elodie. ‘I know love when I see it, because I don’t see it very much.’

  ‘You flatter me, sir,’ said Elodie.

  ‘Ma’am,’ Gaunt began.

  ‘Elodie,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Elodie,’ he corrected. ‘As you stand by and progress with this regiment, you will quickly come to know that I never flatter anyone.’

  Towards the end of the first compartment, Gaunt encountered Doctor Kolding, who was conducting rounds. He was checking on Raglon and Cant, who were both recovering from serious injuries.

  ‘I’m looking for Curth,’ Gaunt said.

  ‘I believe she’s in the back rooms,’ Kolding said. ‘Can I help with anything?’

  ‘No, she‘ll brief you,’ Gaunt replied. He paused.

  ‘Kolding?’

  The albino turned to him.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Support her.’

  ‘I am doing so.’

  ‘The loss of Dorden is massive.’

  ‘I barely knew him and I am aware of the magnitude,’ Kolding replied. Gaunt nodded, turned and walked into the offices behind the ward.

  In the first, he found Captain Meryn, stripped to the waist, sitting forwards over the rail of a half-chair as Curth’s orderly Lesp went to work on his back with his ink and pins.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ Lesp said, getting up.

  Gaunt shook him a ‘no matter’. Lesp was well known as the company inker, a man of skill and, as an orderly, hygiene to match. Gaunt had long since stopped trying to curtail the non-codex efforts of the Tanith to decorate their skin with tattoos.

  ‘My apologies, sir,’ said Meryn curtly, reaching for his shirt. ‘It was downtime and I thought–’

  ‘There was a company officer call, just informal,’ Gaunt said.

  ‘I wasn’t aware,’ Meryn said, and seemed genuinely contrite.

  ‘It’s fine. It was informal, as I said. But get Kolea to brief you. There may be trouble coming.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Meryn.

  ‘What ink are you having?’

  Meryn paused.

  ‘Just… just names,’ he said.

  ‘Names?’ Gaunt asked.

  ‘The Book o’ Death,’ Lesp said, half smiling, then regretting it when he saw Gaunt’s expression.