THE WARMASTER

by Dan Abnett

Logs crackled and spat in the grate. Bulledin reached for the crystal decanter, and refilled his glass and Gaunt’s.

  ‘Our beloved warmaster,’ said Van Voytz, ‘may he live eternally, is a very removed soul. Few of us see him these days.’

  ‘He abides alone here, in the east wing,’ said Tzara. ‘He was ever a man of tactics and strategy–’

  ‘Brilliant strategy,’ put in Lugo.

  ‘I do not dispute it, Lugo,’ said Tzara. ‘How one man can assemble and contain the data of this entire crusade in his mind and make coherent sense of it is a marvel.’

  ‘It was always his chief talent,’ said Gaunt. ‘To see the Archenemy’s intent five or ten moves ahead. To orchestrate the vast machineries of war.’

  ‘An obsession, I think,’ said Blackwood. ‘Isn’t there some obsessive quality to a mind that can negotiate such feats of processing?’

  ‘It is an obsession that consumes him,’ said Cybon. ‘He withdraws more and more each day into a solitary world of contemplation, ordering scribes and rubricators to fetch him the latest scraps of data constantly. He scrutinises every last shred with fearful precision, looking for that clue, that opening, that nuance.’

  ‘You speak as if he’s ill,’ said Gaunt.

  ‘These last years, Bram,’ said Van Voytz, ‘the machinations of the foe have increasingly made less and less sense.’

  ‘I have heard speculation that they are driven by a madman,’ said Gaunt.

  ‘You do not think that bastard Sek mad?’ asked Lugo.

  ‘Of course,’ said Gaunt. ‘But deviously so. There was a cold logic, a strategic brilliance that could not be denied. Sek is an unholy monster, but like Nadzybar before him, he is undoubtedly an able commander of war. As good, dare I say, as any we have.’

  ‘I’ll summon the ordos, shall I?’ sniggered Bulledin.

  ‘I mean to say, sir,’ said Gaunt, ‘at least, he was. His record was undeniable. Of course, my knowledge is ten years out of date.’

  Light laughter ran around the table.

  ‘If Sek is insane,’ said Blackwood quietly, ‘if he has fallen into a despairing insanity and lost that touch which, I grant you, he did possess… then what do you suppose happens to a man who studies Sek’s plans in obsessive detail, day after night after day, searching for a pattern, for the sense of it?’

  ‘Are you saying…?’ Gaunt began.

  Van Voytz sipped his amasec.

  ‘If you look into madness, Bram, you see only madness, and you run mad yourself seeking a truth in it, for truth there is none.’

  ‘Maybe I should summon the ordos,’ said Gaunt stiffly.

  ‘Macaroth’s great weapon is his mind,’ said Cybon, his voice almost a whisper like steel drawn from a scabbard. ‘I deny it not. The man is a wonder. But his mind has been turned against him by too many years of gazing on insanity.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘This is the matter you wished to discuss?’ asked Gaunt.

  ‘We are the inner circle, Bram,’ said Van Voytz, his good humour gone. ‘The six of us here. Seven, if you sit with us. Among us, some of the most senior commanders of the crusade. A warmaster is only as good as the lords militant who surround him, lords who follow his orders, but who also check his decisions. We keep him true.’

  ‘He shuts us out,’ said Bulledin. ‘Not just us, but all thirty who were present tonight, and other revered lords too. He takes no advice. He takes no counsel. He takes almost no audience.’

  ‘We keep him true,’ said Bulledin, ‘but he will not let us.’

  ‘The Sabbat Crusade is in crisis, Gaunt,’ said Cybon. ‘We do not speak out of disloyalty to Macaroth. We speak out of loyalty to the Throne, and to the hope of triumph in this long campaign.’

  ‘You plot, then?’ asked Gaunt.

  ‘Your word,’ said Blackwood. ‘A dangerous word.’

  ‘I don’t like what I’m hearing,’ said Gaunt. ‘Are you contemplating a move against the warmaster? To force his hand and oblige him to change his policy? Or are you planning to depose him?’

  ‘Macaroth does not listen to us,’ said Van Voytz. ‘We have tried to advise, and he will not take our recommendations. His rule is absolute, far more than Slaydo’s ever was. Bram, this happens. It’s not unprecedented. Great men, the greatest, even, they burn out. They reach their limits. Macaroth has been warmaster for twenty-six years. He’s done.’

  ‘Warmasters may be replaced,’ said Cybon. ‘Too often, they fall before it becomes necessary, but it is the very purpose of the lords militant to watch their master and check his thinking. If a warmaster begins to falter, then his lords militant are failing in their solemn duty if they do not remedy that weakness.’

  ‘We are the inner circle,’ said Van Voytz. ‘This is not a conclusion we have come to easily or quickly.’

  ‘And not because he has overlooked or slighted so many of you during his mastery?’ asked Gaunt.

  Tzara looked at Van Voytz.

  ‘You said he was bold,’ she said.

  ‘I said he speaks plainly,’ Van Voytz replied. ‘I’ve always admired that.’

  He looked at Gaunt.

  ‘Has he slighted each one of us?’ Van Voytz asked rhetorically. ‘Yes. In some cases, many times. Have we seen past and borne those slights? Every time, for we have, ultimately, always come to see the greater sense of his intentions. This is not personal malice, Gaunt.’

  ‘And you all think this way?’ asked Gaunt. ‘Not just the six of you? All thirty tonight?’

  ‘Not all,’ said Cybon. ‘Some, like Grizmund, are new-made and still grateful to Macaroth. Some, like Urienz, had their careers forged by Macaroth and would never speak out against him. Some, like Kelso, are just too old and doctrinaire. But all feel it. All see it. And most would side with us if we made an intervention.’

  ‘But you are the inner circle?’ said Gaunt.

  Tzara lifted her glass.

  ‘We are the ones with no agenda except victory,’ she said. ‘The ones with nothing to forfeit from his favour. We are the ones with the balls to act rather than struggle on in silence.’

  ‘And how will you act?’ asked Gaunt. He took a sip of his drink to steady his temper.

  ‘In coordination,’ said Cybon, ‘we can raise a declamation of confidence. This can be circulated through staff and countersigned. We all have allies. A majority will carry it. We are more than confident we have the numbers. Then we present it to him, and make our decision known to him.’

  ‘A formal and confidential request has already been sent to the Sector Lord of Khulan, the Masters of the Fleet and the High lords of Terra for their support in the disposition of the warmaster,’ said Blackwood.

  ‘This is no ward room coup, Gaunt,’ said Bulledin. ‘We have begun the process formally, and with due respect to the approved procedure. We are doing this by the book.’

  Gaunt looked at the crest on the tablecloth in front of him.

  ‘This makes more sense now,’ he said grimly. ‘Another vote to carry the numbers. A militant commander in your pocket. You know I owe personal loyalty to at least three of you. You count on me being your man. It makes this rather hollow.’

  ‘It’s deserved, Bram,’ said Van Voytz. ‘Fully deserved.’

  Gaunt looked at him.

  ‘Tell me, Barthol, before this was pressed into my unsuspecting hand tonight, did you have the numbers? Or am I the one vote that sways the difference?’

  ‘We had the numbers, Gaunt,’ snapped Cybon. ‘We’ve had them for years. Your support would simply add to the strength of our voice, not force a majority.’

  ‘That crest, militant commander, was given to you for your service,’ said Lugo. ‘As Barthol says, it is fully deserved. But the timing…’

  ‘The timing, sir?’ asked Gaunt.

  ‘It was necessary to elevate you as soon as possible,’ said Lugo.

  ‘The process of deposition is under way,’ said Bulledin. ‘There was just one factor we did not have
in place.’

  ‘And what’s that, sir?’ asked Gaunt.

  ‘Succession,’ said Cybon.

  ‘No man of rank less than militant commander could ever be elected directly to the post of warmaster,’ said Van Voytz.

  ‘Are you…’ Gaunt started to say. ‘Are you insane?’

  ‘We cannot simply depose Macaroth in time of war,’ said Van Voytz. ‘We cannot break the line of command. Deposition needs to go hand in hand with succession. To see this through successfully, we need to have the replacement standing ready. A candidate acceptable to all.’

  ‘We all have baggage,’ said Blackwood. ‘It can’t be any of us.’

  ‘Besides, that would smack too much of personal ambition,’ said Tzara.

  ‘But you,’ said Lugo, ‘the People’s Hero, the slayer of Asphodel, Saviour of the Beati, returned in glory, ten years missing, no litany of feuds and staff squabbles dogging your heels. And no history of ambition in the matter. Your hands are spotlessly clean. Why, you were unaware of the entire initiative until tonight.’

  ‘Slaydo almost did it after Balhaut,’ said Cybon. ‘You know that.’

  ‘You are our candidate, Bram,’ said Van Voytz. ‘We do not need your support. We merely need you to be ready when we declare you warmaster.’

  SEVENTEEN: EAGLES

  The regiment’s psyber-eagle was roosting on a fence overlooking the billet yard, one head tucked asleep, the other wary and watching the dawn fiercely.

  The sky was pink and the angles of the shadows long and hard. Zhukova wandered into the yard, greeting the sentries at the billet doors.

  ‘Up early,’ said Daur.

  ‘So are you,’ she replied with a smile.

  ‘If I sleep for too long, the scar gets sore,’ he replied, patting the side of his belly with a grimace. ‘A little stroll stretches it out and eases the cramp.’

  ‘Elodie not mind you leaving her bed now you’re only just in it?’ asked Zhukova.

  ‘I’ll be back directly,’ said Daur with a grin. ‘Anyway, she’s been up half the night. Criid’s little girl, Yoncy. Tona had to shave her head. Lice, you know. Poor kid’s beside herself at the loss of her pigtails. They’ve been taking it in turns to sit with her and calm her down.’

  ‘I thought I heard sobbing,’ said Zhukova.

  ‘Oh, that,’ laughed Daur. ‘That’s just all the hearts you’ve broken. The men of T Company, crying in their sleep.’

  Zhukova snorted.

  ‘I was going for a run,’ she said.

  ‘Check with the scouts. They’re watching the area. After yesterday.’

  She nodded, and then paused.

  ‘What’s this now?’ she asked.

  An armoured transport, unmarked, was rolling down the track towards the yard.

  ‘Is that Gaunt back at last?’ she asked.

  Daur shrugged.

  ‘No idea,’ he said.

  Fazekiel, Baskevyl and Domor emerged from the billet units behind them. Each of them was in a clean number one uniform.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Daur.

  ‘Exciting day,’ said Bask. ‘We’re summoned to the ordos.’

  ‘What? Why?’ asked Zhukova.

  ‘Because someone,’ said Domor, looking daggers at Baskevyl, ‘was daft enough to feth around with the fething special cargo, that’s why.’

  ‘It’s routine,’ said Fazekiel. She finished pinning up her hair, and put her cap on, peak first. ‘The ordos took charge of the trinkets we picked up, and they want to interview everyone who came in contact with them.’

  ‘Trinkets, she says,’ moaned Domor.

  ‘Luna’s right, it’s just routine,’ said Bask. He dead-panned straight at Zhukova and Daur. ‘When we don’t come back, dear friends, remember our names.’

  Zhukova and Daur laughed.

  The transport drew up in the centre of the yard, and a rear hatch opened. Inquisitor Laksheema’s little aide stepped down.

  ‘Fazekiel? Domor? Baskevyl?’ she called out, reading off her data-slate.

  ‘Keep it down, you’ll wake the dead,’ Baskevyl called back.

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ said Onabel. She waited, sour-faced, as the trio walked over to her and climbed aboard. Baskevyl shot Daur and Zhukova a cheeky wave as the hatch closed.

  ‘Well,’ said Daur, ‘fun for them.’

  ‘They can keep that kind of fun,’ said Zhukova.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Felyx. ‘Is it my father?’

  He was squirmed down in his bunk under a heap of blankets, just his face poking out. At the window, Dalin yawned as he looked out into the yard below.

  ‘No, some transport,’ he said. ‘Baskevyl heading off with Shoggy and the commissar.’

  ‘Ludd?’

  ‘No, not Ludd,’ said Dalin. He yawned again as the transport drove away. ‘Fazekiel. We should get up.’

  ‘Is it time to get up?’

  ‘It will be soon. You don’t have to wait for the hour bell. Officers are impressed by punctuality. People who are ready before they need to be.’

  He went to yank the blankets off Felyx.

  ‘Don’t you fething dare,’ snapped Felyx. Dalin backed off with a surrendering gesture.

  ‘Just get up, Felyx,’ he said. ‘You need a shower. We probably both need to see Curth for a lice check too.’

  ‘Lice?’

  ‘Yes. Get up. I don’t think you even got undressed last night.’

  Dalin looked around the third floor room. It was the one Felyx had been assigned to share with Maddalena. Using Rawne’s authority, Dalin had simply taken it over. As soon as he’d heard Rawne’s name, Meryn hadn’t even questioned it.

  Dalin kicked the bunk.

  ‘Come on, Chass. Get your lazy arse up. Get in the shower.’

  ‘Go,’ said Felyx. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’

  Dalin grabbed his washbag.

  ‘Make sure you fething are,’ he said.

  Zhukova jogged across the yard to the brazier where Mkoll and Bonin stood, sipping tin mugs of caffeine. She was shaking out her arms and flexing.

  ‘Safe for a circuit?’ she asked.

  Bonin raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Safe enough,’ said Mkoll.

  ‘Thanks, chief,’ she said.

  ‘Zhukova? Captain?’

  She had been about to start running. She looked back.

  ‘What is it, chief?’

  ‘You got time for a word?’

  She walked back to them.

  ‘I’ll check the perimeter again,’ said Bonin.

  ‘Stay lucky, Mach,’ said Mkoll as the scout walked off.

  ‘What’s this about?’ Zhukova asked.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Mkoll.

  ‘Ooh, steady.’

  Mkoll didn’t smile.

  ‘You know what your reputation was when you came to us?’ he asked.

  She scowled. ‘Let me gakking guess,’ she said.

  ‘The pretty girl,’ said Mkoll. ‘Too pretty. Far too pretty to be a good soldier. Must’ve got her rank by being pretty. The trophy officer. Looks good on Vervunhive recruitment posters.’

  ‘Feth you,’ she said.

  He shrugged.

  ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ he asked.

  ‘I fought, chief. Planetary defence force, scratch company, then militia, then Guard. I earned my bars. I earned my place.’

  ‘Not saying you didn’t. I’m saying that’s what men always think.’

  Zhukova sighed.

  ‘It’s followed me all my life. Men think what they think, and they tend to be dumb.’ She pointed to her face. ‘Didn’t ask for this. In the Vervun War, sometimes I hoped for a shrapnel wound. Get caught in a blitz cloud from one of the gakking woe machines, you know? Mess this up a bit, so people would start taking me seriously.’

  Mkoll nodded.

  ‘Just this morning,’ she said. ‘Ban Daur’s my friend. I’ve known him years. Even he made a crack. Didn’t mean t
o be hurtful. Just the usual Zhukova jokes. “Oh, she’s beautiful. Must’ve screwed her way through some officers to get that rank.” I’m sick of it. It’s not just the men. Elodie’s all right with me now, but at first she thought I was some old flame come to scoop Ban away. And Pasha, Throne love her, is always warning men about me. That I use my looks to get what I want.’

  ‘Do you?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t think you should be a captain,’ said Mkoll.

  She blinked. A flush rose in her cheeks.

  ‘I expected…’ she stammered. ‘From you, at least. Feth you. Feth you to hell.’

  ‘I don’t think you should be a captain, because it’s a waste,’ he said.

  She frowned.

  ‘You’re a good soldier, and you look the way you do,’ said Mkoll simply. ‘You’re going to get promoted. Favoured. Chosen over others. Smart. Good-looking. Articulate.’

  ‘You trying to get in my pants now, Mkoll?’

  He snorted.

  ‘I’m saying you took the obvious route. Career advancement. But I saw you work. On the Armaduke. And up on that roof yesterday. That wasn’t just good soldiering. You can lead men, Zhukova, but you are very good at individual action.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, surprised.

  ‘It made me review your service record. I gave it a lot of thought. See, I’m not just looking for good soldiers. I’m looking for specialists.’

  ‘Really?’ she asked.

  ‘Pasha’s back on her feet. Company command won’t stay yours. So it’ll come to you and Spetnin for T Company, and you’ll get it, because you look like you. And that’ll be a waste of Spetnin because, let’s be fair, he’s a fething good officer.’

  Mkoll gazed idly up at the roosting eagle watching them.

  ‘So that’s a double shame. He’ll get demoted, so we lose a good line commander. And you’ll get the command, which is fine, but doesn’t play to your true talents. You’re wasted as a captain. Anyone can be an officer.’

  ‘Well, not anyone,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know. Look at Meryn. Some people make decent officers. Some people make great officers. But almost no one makes a great scout.’

  ‘A scout?’ she asked.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘You’re offering me a place in the scout cadre?’