THE WARMASTER

by Dan Abnett

  ‘Change of plan,’ he said. ‘B Company with me. We’re going after Mkdask. Vivvo, lead the rest to the left and cover Criid’s arse at the Penthes Street junction. Don’t just stand there, move!’

  Rawne strode into the narrow street, B Company assembling around him.

  ‘Double time, straight silver,’ he instructed. ‘If you thought street fighting in an old mill quarter was tight fun, get ready to have your minds blown.’

  He looked at Zhukova.

  ‘Lead us back to Mkoll.’

  She nodded.

  ‘How many men did he have with him when you left him?’ Rawne asked.

  ‘Men?’ she asked. ‘Major, he was on his own.’

  Here’s where it starts to get interesting, Mkoll thought.

  The first few to reach him were forward scouts. He picked them off with his knife, one by one, as they came through the dank guts of the rusted boats. But the main force was on their heels, and it had become necessary to ditch the subtle approach.

  He crouched below a metal railing thick with lichen and wet weed, and used a row of heavy tool chests for cover. He started pushing shots at anything that stirred on the deck of the agriboat and its neighbours. He saw Sons of Sek attempting to haul themselves through rotted hatches, and blew them back inside. Head shots, throat shots. He heard shouting and cursing from the hulls below him. Las-fire started to kick back in his direction. It shattered the chipped windows of the drive house, dented the corroded metal of the engine house wall and spanked off the metal tool chests.

  Mkoll crawled clear. He ran along a jingling companionway bridge, ducked into fresh cover, and leaned over to fire multiple shots down the throat of a through-deck hatch. He heard bodies fall as they were blown off rusty ladders.

  He got up again, swung over the rail and jumped onto an inspection-way that ran the length of the agriboat. A figure in yellow combat gear was clambering up through one of the ladder-ways ahead. He fired from the hip, knocking the man sideways. The Son of Sek fell six metres into the bottom of an empty catch hold.

  Mkoll swerved, and cut laterally across the boat. A man rose through a deck hatch in front of him, and Mkoll landed a hard kick in his masked face as he jumped over man and hatch together. The Son jerked backwards, his head bouncing off the back of the hatch ring, and he fell, senseless, knocking men off the ladder beneath him.

  Las-fire ripped across the boat, a few shots, then a flurry. Sons of Sek had climbed on top of the engine housing, and were firing at him from cover.

  He ducked, and crawled into the shelter of a hoist mounting. He changed clips fast. From his position, he could see the road line and the barricade. Ghosts were moving up from Pasha’s position. He estimated they would be in the hulks in six or seven minutes. Were they just responding to the gunfire flashes or had Zhukova got through? Did the Ghosts even know what they were about to meet head on?

  More shots poured at him. He got down, took aim, and dropped two Sons of Sek off the roof of the engine house. He checked his musette bag. Four grenades. He took them out and started to crawl.

  He reached a hatch, listened and heard movement below. He tossed a grenade in, and then kicked the open hatch shut to maximise concussion. The dull blast thumped through the deck under him. He crossed, head low, almost on his hands and knees, and reached a vent chute that aired the lower decks. He set a long fuse to the next grenade and rolled it down the chute. He was at the next hatch when he heard the deadened bang of the blast. Thin smoke was issuing from the vent grilles in the deck behind him.

  He slung a grenade into the next hatch and kicked the cover down, repeating the drill. The hatch flapped like a chattering mouth with the force of the blast from beneath.

  How long now? Five minutes? Could he keep them busy for five more minutes? He remembered being a dead man, waking up dead, a ghost, on the Armaduke after the accident, with no memory and no sense of self, just an urge to protect and defend. A one man war. Time for that again. Time for that same single-minded fury and drive. Whatever it took, the Emperor protects.

  What had that thing said to him? The man-but-not-man, in the machine space of the ship? ‘Ver voi mortek!’ You are death.

  Mkoll had picked up the language on Gereon. It had been essential to survival.

  Gunfire chopped at him. He felt a las-bolt crease his leg, a searing pain. Sons of Sek were rushing him from a service hatch.

  He shot the first two, point-blank, then swung the butt of his gun up to greet the face of the third, poleaxing him so hard the Archenemy soldier’s feet left the ground and he almost somersaulted. The fourth got a bayonet stab in the forehead. Mkoll hadn’t fixed his war blade, but he lunged the rifle with a perfect bayonet-stab thrust and the muzzle cracked the enemy’s skull.

  More in the doorway. He leaned back and fired, full auto, sweeping. Las-rounds speckled the metalwork either side of the hatch, took the hatch off its hinges and ripped through the Sons of Sek in the doorway.

  One man war. Last stand. Time was running out, running out too fast for him to stop it.

  He saw more yellow-clad warriors coming at him, coming from all sides. They were pouring out of every hatch of the agriboat in their dozens, hundreds.

  ‘Ger tar Mortek!’ Mkoll yelled. ‘Ger tar Mortek!’

  I am death. I am death.

  Some of them faltered, stunned by his words, the unexpected threat of their own barbarian tongue.

  He cut them down.

  Time was running out. His ammo was running out.

  He was almost done, but they were still coming, more and more of them rushing him from all sides.

  ‘I am death!’ Mkoll screamed, and proved it until his shots ran dry, and his hands and warknife ran wet with blood.

  TWENTY-FIVE: EXECUTOR

  If anything, the level of activity in the war room was more furious than before. Marshal Blackwood had arrived, some thirty minutes earlier, relieved Cybon of command, and taken his place at the main strategium. The massive hololithic plates quivered with rapidly updating data streams. Van Voytz, Cybon and nine other lords militant were supporting Blackwood’s command and supervising the mass of personnel.

  Gaunt stood in the doorway for a moment, surveying the commotion. Hundreds of men and women filled the main floor below him, and the upper galleries too – hundreds of men and women processing information, making decisions and determining the lives of millions more across the surface of Urdesh and its nearspace holdings.

  Even from a distance, Gaunt could read the general trend of the incident boards. Their glowing plates prioritised the main crisis zones. Ghereppan in the south was a massive focus. Zarakppan was in disarray. Eltath itself was clearly on the brink. Sub-graphics showed the seat of the fighting was in the south west, along the bay, and in the fringes of the Northern Dynastic Claves.

  The Ghosts were in that mess somewhere. That’s where he’d sent them.

  He drew a breath, and walked down the steps to the main floor.

  Van Voytz saw him through the crowd, handed a data-slate back to a waiting tactician and came storming over.

  ‘The hell have you been, Gaunt?’ he snapped.

  ‘Achieving what you wanted, sir,’ Gaunt replied.

  ‘What does that mean? The hell you have! We should have moved two hours ago! This situation is beyond untenable and–’

  ‘I believe you wanted a viable warmaster,’ said Gaunt.

  ‘I wanted this done cleanly and quickly,’ replied Van Voytz, ‘and I’m having sincere doubts about your suitability. For Throne’s sake, you don’t play games with something this vital–’

  ‘You don’t,’ replied Gaunt calmly. ‘I agree. And I agree about my suitability too. But I’ve got you what you wanted. Just not in the form you expected, perhaps.’

  Van Voytz began yelling at him again, loud enough to still the activity in the immediate area. Militarum personnel turned to look in concern. Cybon and Blackwood also turned, hearing the raised voice.

  Gaunt ignored V
an Voytz’s tirade. He moved aside and looked back at the main staircase.

  Warmaster Macaroth walked slowly down the stairs, chin up. He hadn’t bothered to shave, but he had dressed in his formal uniform, the red sash across the chest of his dark blue jacket, the crest of his office fixed over his heart. Sancto and the other Scions flanked him as a makeshift honour guard, and Beltayn, Daur and Bonin followed in his wake.

  The chamber fell silent. Voices dropped away. There was a suspended hush, and every eye was on Macaroth. The only sounds were the constant chirrup and clatter of the war room’s systems.

  ‘Attention,’ said Gaunt.

  The several hundred personnel present shot to attention. The twelve lords militant made the sign of the aquila and bowed their heads.

  Macaroth strolled past Gaunt and Van Voytz, and walked up to the main strategium. Tactical officers scooted out of his path. He picked up a data-wand, and flipped through several strategic views, making the light show blink and re-form.

  ‘This is a pretty mess,’ he said, at last.

  ‘Warmaster, we have containment measures–’ Blackwood began.

  ‘I wasn’t referring to the war condition, Blackwood,’ said Macaroth. ‘Well, only in part. I can see your containment measures. They are fit for purpose. I will make some adjustments, but they are fit enough. I had no doubt, Blackwood, that you and your fellow lords were perfectly able to prosecute this war. That’s how you were bred. That’s why you were chosen. Continue as you are doing.’

  Blackwood nodded.

  ‘But it is clear you doubt me, don’t you, my lords?’ Macaroth asked. His gaze flitted from Cybon, to Blackwood, to Van Voytz, to Tzara. Each lord militant in turn felt the heat of his stare.

  ‘You doubt my fitness. My ability. My resolution. My methods.’

  ‘My lord,’ said Van Voytz. ‘I hardly think this is the time or place–’

  ‘Then when exactly, Van Voytz? When would be a good time for you?’

  ‘Warmaster,’ said Cybon, stepping forwards, ‘this is not a discussion to have in front of the general staff–’

  ‘They’re not children, Cybon,’ said Macaroth. ‘They’re not innocents. They’re senior officers. There’s not a man here who hasn’t been bloodied in war and witnessed first hand the miseries of this conflict. That’s why they’re in this room. They don’t have sensitivities that need to be spared from the uglier difficulties of warfare. Such as questions of command.’

  Macaroth looked at them.

  ‘Which one of you has it? Whose pocket is it in?’

  ‘My lord?’ asked Cybon.

  ‘The declamation of confidence. Countersigned, no doubt. The instrument to remove me from my post.’

  A murmur ran through the crowd. Officers glanced at each other in dismay.

  ‘Hush now,’ said Macaroth. ‘It is perfectly legal. We’re not talking insurrection here. If a commander is unfit, he may be removed. The mechanism exists. My lords militant have been meticulous in their process. By the book. They have considered the matter carefully, as great men do, and they have made a resolution, and stand ready to enact it.’

  He looked at the data-wand in his hand thoughtfully.

  ‘My fault,’ he said quietly. ‘My oversight. I have been well aware of your disaffection for years. Some of that I put down to thwarted ambitions, or differences in strategic thinking. I knew there was dissent. I knew that many were unhappy with my focus and my style of command.’

  He looked up again.

  ‘I ignored it. I trusted in the loyalty of your stations. Whatever you thought, whatever our differences, you knew I was warmaster. That, I thought, was all that mattered.’

  Macaroth put the wand down on the glass tabletop.

  ‘Not enough, clearly. Not nearly enough. And whatever awareness I had of your discontent, it needed one man to stand up and tell me so. To my damn face. To risk everything in terms of his career and future, his alliances and political capital, and simply tell me. That, I think, is loyalty. Not to me. To the office. To the Throne. To the Imperial bloody Guard.’

  Cybon turned slowly to look at Gaunt.

  ‘You bastard,’ he rumbled. ‘You told him, you treacherous bastard–’

  ‘Treacherous, General Cybon?’ said Macaroth mildly. ‘I don’t think that’s a word I’d throw around, if I were you. And certainly not a word I’d expect you to use of the man you personally chose to replace me.’

  He walked over to Cybon and looked up at the towering warlord.

  ‘Gaunt told me, because it was his duty to do so. You put him in a situation worse than any war he’s ever faced. Conflict of interest at the highest degree. Yet he served, as every good Guardsman serves. Served with unflinching loyalty to the Astra Militarum, to the oath we all uphold. He came and he told me. He simply told me, Cybon. He told me the depth of your unhappiness. He supplied the one vital piece of intelligence missing from my overview of this crusade.’

  Van Voytz snarled and swung at Gaunt. Gaunt caught his wrist before the blow could land, and pushed back hard. Van Voytz stumbled backwards, collided with Kelso and crashed into the side of the strategium table. He steadied himself.

  ‘Is that where we’re going now?’ Gaunt asked. ‘Is it, Barthol? Open insurrection? Legal process fails, so you resort to violence?’

  ‘He just wants to break your face,’ said Cybon. ‘All of us do.’

  ‘All of you?’ asked Macaroth. ‘Everyone in this chamber? Really? My lords, officers, soldiers, now is the moment. If you would see me gone, then stand together. Now. Go on. I will accept your declamation of confidence and all your instruments of removal. Come to that, I will accept your blades in my back and your bullets in my brain. If I am unfit and you want me gone, get it over with.’

  Macaroth closed his eyes, tilted his head back and opened his arms serenely as if to welcome an embrace.

  ‘For Throne’s sake!’ Van Voytz growled. ‘We are obliged to act! The crusade is failing! We’re losing this war! We must serve the declamation and rid ourselves of this infantile leadership! We must act for the good of the Imperium, in the name of the God-Emperor, and usher in a new era of clear and forthright command!’

  Gaunt crossed to face him. He drew his power sword and lit it.

  ‘Do it, Barthol,’ he said. ‘But you go through me.’

  ‘You’re a thrice-damned idiot, Gaunt!’ Van Voytz raged, ‘You’ve ruined us all! We had a chance here. A chance to find new focus! Cybon, for Throne’s sake! We have to do this! We have to do this!’

  ‘Not like this,’ said Cybon quietly.

  ‘By legal resort, yes,’ said Blackwood. ‘Not by bloody coup. Never that way.’

  ‘Would you raise your hand against Macaroth?’ asked Kelso in dismay.

  ‘Step back, Van Voytz,’ murmured Tzara.

  ‘I have my grievances,’ said Cybon. He looked at Macaroth. ‘Throne knows, many. I am keen to discuss them. But I will not devolve to insurrection. Damn it, Van Voytz, he is the warmaster.’

  Macaroth opened his eyes, and slowly lowered his arms. He smiled.

  ‘Put down your famous sword, Lord Militant Gaunt,’ he said. ‘I see only loyal men in this room.’

  Gaunt glanced at Van Voytz, and then depowered and sheathed his sword. Blackwood took off his cap and his gloves and set them on the table.

  ‘You have my resignation, lord,’ he said. ‘My resignation for my part in orchestrating your removal. I cannot speak for the others, but I trust my colleagues will have the dignity to do the same.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want your resignation, Blackwood,’ said Macaroth. ‘I don’t want your frightened obedience either. Resolving this isn’t so simple. I have been at fault. I have been absent. I have lost my connection with staff command. I aim to remedy that. I intend to take direct control of this battle-sphere and win this cursed war.’

  He tapped his index finger on the glass plate of the strategium.

  ‘I am here now,’ he said. ‘Any man, any man present
who finds no confidence in me can stay and have that lack of confidence disabused. Any who wish to go, go now. There will be no retribution. No purge by the Officio Prefectus. Just go, and you will be reposted to other zones and other sectors. But if you’re going, get the hell out now.’

  He looked at Blackwood, Cybon and Tzara.

  ‘If you wish, stay. Serve me here. Don’t cower or meep weak platitudes of loyalty. Serve me here at this station. Bring me the insight and ability that made you lords militant in the first place. Help me as we fight for Urdesh and drive the Archenemy to ruin.’

  The room began to stir. Officers began to move back towards the table.

  Macaroth clapped his hands.

  ‘Come on!’ he yelled. ‘Move yourselves! This war won’t win itself! I need data revisions on zones three, eight and nine immediately!’

  Tacticians and data-serfs began to scurry.

  ‘Get me oversight reports on Zarakppan!’ Macaroth demanded. ‘I want a link to Urienz on the ground. And set up a vox-link with Ghereppan immediately! I need to advise the Saint of our strategic approach. Blackwood, put your damn cap back on! Where’s that zone three data?’

  The noise and mass activity resumed. At the heart of the war room’s reignited frenzy, Gaunt faced Van Voytz.

  ‘You made a mistake, Gaunt,’ said Van Voytz.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Gaunt replied. ‘History will decide.’

  ‘I trusted you.’

  ‘As I have trusted you many times. The outcome is what matters, isn’t that what you always told me?’ Gaunt looked at him. ‘It may not come in the form we expect, and it may cost us personally in painful ways, but the outcome is what matters. For the Emperor. For the Imperium. Whatever price we as individuals pay.’

  ‘Damn you. Are you really throwing Jago back in my face? That was a necessary action! Sentiment doesn’t enter into–’

  ‘So is this. You heard the warmaster. Do your job, or get out. I just heard him calling for zone nine data.’

  Van Voytz glowered at him. Gaunt turned away.

  ‘My lord warmaster,’ he called through the hubbub. ‘General Van Voytz had oversight of zone nine. I believe he has tactical advice in that regard.’