by Dan Abnett
“Are you in one piece?” Gaunt asked as the Ghost yanked his blade out of the corpse.
“I’m all right, sir,” the Ghost replied. Gaunt realised that it was Beltayn, his adjutant.
“Good to see you, Bel. How’re you holding up?”
“This is a pretty bad fix, sir, isn’t it?” said Beltayn. His face was ash-white.
“I’ll be fine, Bel.”
“I think, sir…”
“What?”
“Something’s awry.”
Gaunt laughed and gestured at the smoke, flames and corpses around them. “You figured that out all by yourself, did you?”
Beltayn shook his head.
“I mean, I’ve heard things on the vox,” he said. “We’ve broken their spirit here, but it sounds like they’ve got reinforcements moving in on our flank.”
“More Blood Pact?”
“No, sir. From the vox-bursts, it sounds like the Sons of Sek.”
Gaunt felt a chill. The Blood Pact were daemons enough. Their cohorts had been raised by the Archon with the specific intention of matching the Imperial Guard in the Sabbat Worlds theatre. Anakwanar Sek was the Archon’s most fearsome lieutenant commander. Inspired by the example of the Blood Pact, Sek had developed his own elite force. Gaunt had seen the Sons at work on… where was it… Gereon, that was it, Gereon. The Sons of Sek had appeared to be even more formidable than the Blood Pact. The Sons had an appetite for atrocity. The Ghosts had yet to enjoy the dubious pleasure of meeting them in full combat.
“Where’s Rawne?” asked Gaunt.
“I don’t know, sir,” Beltayn replied.
“Baskevyl, then? Daur? Kolea?”
“I can’t get them on the vox.”
“Get me Corbec, at least!”
Beltayn looked at him oddly.
“What?” asked Gaunt.
“Colonel Corbec, sir… he’s been dead these last five years.”
Gaunt paused. “Of course he has. Of course he has…”
“Sir?”
“Bel, we have to get this bridge secured before nightfall.” Beltayn looked up at the smoke cover overhead. “And when will that be, do you think?”
“I don’t know. We just have to get the bridge secured.”
“I don’t even know where the bridge is anymore,” said Beltayn.
“It’s over that way,” Gaunt replied, gesturing over his left shoulder. “It’s close. Bel, I need you to run back and rally the main force. I need you to find Rawne or Kolea and get them ready. Let them know we’re about to be flanked by the Sons. Tell them I’m gathering up the forward elements and heading for the bridge.”
“Is that wise, sir?” asked Beltayn.
“The bridge is our objective, Beltayn. We need to secure it. Tell Rawne I’m forming up every Ghost I can find and leading them towards the bridge approach. He’s got to cover our arses from a flank attack. Come on, Bel. It’s not rocket science!”
Beltayn nodded. He took up his las and turned to go. Then he paused, and offered Gaunt his hand.
“Bel?”
“In case we don’t meet again, sir,” said Beltayn. “I want you to know that it’s been an honour to serve.”
Gaunt took Beltayn’s hand. “It’s been an honour to serve with you, Dughan. But we will meet again.”
“We’d better,” said Beltayn, and ran off. Gaunt watched until his adjutant had vanished into the shrouding smoke. He turned, and continued to advance.
Blood Pact bodies littered the mud, some already sinking into its fathomless embrace. Gaunt thought he’d find Ghost platoons ahead, but there was no sign of them. They’d pushed in beside him. Where the feth had they vanished to?
He reloaded his bolt pistol as he trudged forwards. He could smell the river. The spinning, twisting smoke was eclipsing the sky. All sounds and signs of fighting had abated.
His eyes started to hurt again. He couldn’t see far in the damned smoke.
Then he saw Nessa.
XVIII
Nessa Bourah was one of his finest snipers. She’d served through the Vervunhive siege as part of the people’s resistance, and joined the Ghosts at liberation.
Nessa had taken up a shooting pitch in a muddy foxhole on the river bank, and was scoping for a target. Saturation bombing during the battle of Vervunhive had rendered her profoundly deaf. Without a spotter, she was entirely unaware of the Blood Pact trooper closing in behind her, machete raised.
Gaunt raised his bolt pistol, sighted it, and blew the Blood Pacter’s head off. Nessa jumped in surprise as the body crashed down beside her. She turned and raised her long-las.
It’s me, Gaunt signed.
Nessa lowered her rifle.
“You took me by surprise,” she said, in her delicious, slightly nasal accent.
“Not as much as he would have,” Gaunt suggested.
She touched his chin, and turned his face towards her.
“So I can see,” she demanded. “So I can see your mouth!”
Sorry, he signed.
He got down in the foxhole beside her, making sure she could see his face.
“Where are the others? he asked.
Nessa shook her head. “I haven’t seen anyone. It’s quiet.”
“Something’s wrong,” he said.
“What?”
Something’s wrong, he signed. He’d made a point of learning the art after Vervunhive. Nessa wasn’t the only deaf trooper in his regiment. Many of them, like Nessa, had eschewed augmetics, favouring the strength of silence in war.
“We should be very quiet,” she agreed.
If we should be quiet, why aren’t you signing to me? he signed.
“I’m deaf. I can read your signing,” she said. “How would you read mine?”
“I don’t understand,” he said.
Nessa reached out a hand and ran her finger along his cheek, circling his right eye.
“I did like your eyes so very much,” she said. “They were so strong. I suppose they can be replaced.”
“Replaced? What are you talking about?”
“They took your eyes, sir. Out in the wastelands of Jago, they took your eyes.”
“What are you talking about?”
She shrank back. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought you knew.”
“Knew what? No one’s taken my eyes. I can see you. Nessa, I can see you!”
“Just like I can hear you,” she replied. “It’s funny, that, isn’t it?”
“Nessa—”
“I’m sorry. I’m glad you can see me. I really am.”
“I don’t understand,” he said. His eyes had started to hurt again. The iron star was burning down through the smoke.
You’re blind and I’m deaf, she signed. What a great partnership. I just wish I could stay here with you.
“Nessa?” he cried. “Nessa?”
Gaunt was alone in the foxhole. Nessa had gone. Her long-las and ammo belt lay beside him, as if she’d just been there. He could still smell her.
“I’m not blind,” he told nobody. “I’m not blind. I can see this. I can see the river. I can see the bridge.”
XIX
The bridge seemed as far away as ever. As the smoke slowly cleared and dusk settled, Gaunt watched the bridge from the foxhole cover. He studied it through Nessa’s scope. Where had she gone? She’d been right there. She’d been right—
He saw movement down by the bridge. He adjusted the scope and, by the evil light of the iron star, saw the black figures gathering at the mouth of the bridge. There were a dozen of them. They were watching him.
He took up the long-las, checked its load, and wondered about his aim. Could he hit one of them at this range? Nessa could, Larks too, but Gaunt was not a trained marksman. Maybe he could place a shot amongst them and scare them off.
They were beginning to annoy him. What did they want? Did they want him? Had they come for him? He wasn’t having that.
He lowered the rifle. There was no point wasting ammo. He
was going to need it. He could hear drums, drums beating the skewed, alien tempos of the Sons of Sek.
There was going to be a great deal more bloodshed before the night was out. He wondered if he had the strength to face it. He was so tired. His eyes hurt.
What had Nessa meant? Who took my eyes?
His body ached. Sleep seemed like such a perfect release. Just for a minute, perhaps? A few minutes’ sleep.
He closed his eyes.
XX
There was a long, squealing tone, a warning note.
“Flatline!” Dorden cried.
“Paddles!” Curth yelled, tears in her eyes.
“It’s no good—”
“Paddles! Seventy mil adrenolec shunt! Another ten units!”
The note whined on.
“Ana, it’s a flatline. There’s no purpose in prolonging—”
“Give me the fething paddles now!” she ordered.
XXI
He did not dream. There was only darkness. It was a lonely place. He couldn’t even sense the iron star anymore. There was just a sound, a persistent whining note. It cut through his empty, dreamless darkness, droning, squealing, monotonous.
He woke with a start, slammed awake as if by some vast shock. The whining note quit, and was replaced by the thump of the enemy drums.
He was still in the foxhole. The world was cast in twilight. Who the feth cares anymore was just minutes away from nightfall.
Something had woken him. Some kind of contact had brought him back from the darkness of his sleep.
“This’ll never do,” a voice said.
He sat up. “Who’s there?”
“Going to sleep on the job? You’d have given us double RIP duties if you’d caught us doing that,” another voice chuckled.
“Who’s there?” Gaunt demanded, reaching for his bolt pistol. “I can’t see you! Who’s there?”
“Of course you can’t see us,” said a third voice. It was very flat and artificial, and carried no emphasis or emotion. It sounded sarcastic. “You can’t see anything.”
“But it’s all right, sir,” said a fourth voice, a young voice. “We can see you.”
“So you’re safe,” said the first voice. It was a rich, genial, reassuring voice. “For now, anyway.”
“Gotta get moving, mind,” said the flat sarcastic voice. “Can’t stay here forever.”
“And we can only look after you for a little while,” said the second, chuckling voice.
Gaunt rose to his feet, swinging the bolt pistol around blindly. “Show yourselves!”
“Well, if it makes it easier for you,” sighed the first voice.
Gaunt blinked. Four men were suddenly visible, crouching around the foxhole, staring in at him. They were Ghosts, in black Ghost kit, their weapons loose but ready in their hands.
“Better?” asked their bearded leader.
“Corbec?” Gaunt whispered.
“Hello, ’bram,” said Colm Corbec with a grin. “Been a while. Looks like you’ve been through the fething wars.”
“Colm, it’s good to see you,” said Gaunt, lowering his pistol. “I thought I was alone out here. What are our strengths? How many other Ghost platoons made it this far?”
Corbec smiled and shook his head. He glanced at his companions. “Just the five of us. We’ll have to make do, won’t we, lads?”
The other three nodded.
“It’s good to see you,” Gaunt repeated.
“You’re not seeing us,” said the owner of the monotone voice. “You’re not seeing anything. They took out your eyes.”
“Hush your drone, Feygor,” said Corbec.
“He doesn’t understand.” Feygor shrugged.
“But it is good to see you again, sir,” said the biggest of the four Ghosts with a chuckle. “Maybe we should toast to old times with a sip of sacra?”
“We need clear heads just now, Bragg,” said Corbec. “We’ve got to get to the bridge.”
“Well, it was just a thought,” said Try Again Bragg.
“There’s no point us trying to get to the bridge,” said Gaunt. “There are only five of us. What good would that do?”
“It’s what matters,” said the youngest Ghost. “It’s why we’re here.”
“I don’t understand, Caff,” said Gaunt.
“Let’s just get over the bridge, sir,” said Caffran. “Then you’ll understand everything.”
XXII
They left the safety of the foxhole and began to track their way down towards the bridge. The river was a dead thing, full of corpses. The ruins of the Blood Pact platforms smouldered in the evening haze. Gaunt could still hear the drums of the Sons of Sek, pounding like an irregular heartbeat.
Caffran took point, sweeping ahead with his lasrifle. The boy was good, sharp, a potential scout. Gaunt tried to remember why he hadn’t promoted Caffran to Mkoll’s unit. It was a clear oversight. Gaunt must have had a good reason not to send the boy on.
Corbec and Feygor flanked Gaunt, weapons ready. Corbec was humming an old Tanith wood-song. The sound of it made Gaunt feel much more comfortable. Just like the old days. Corbec would hum along to Milo’s pipes. Why didn’t that happen anymore? Where had Corbec been, these last few combat tours?
Gaunt remembered Beltayn saying something about Corbec. He couldn’t quite recall what it was.
Feygor was quiet. Everything he said sounded like a petulant sarcastic jibe thanks to his artificial larynx. He kept his comments to himself.
Try brought up the rear, lugging his twin autocannons.
“Just like old times, huh?” he said.
“Noise discipline!” Corbec hissed.
“Yeah, just like old times then,” said Bragg.
Caffran held up a hand for full stop.
They halted.
Gaunt readied his pistol and his sword. He’d wanted to bring Nessa’s long-las, but Corbec had told him Nessa might want it back and he should leave it be.
“Caff?” Gaunt called.
Movement, Caffran signed.
“Great,” said Feygor. This time, his sarcasm was intentional.
The drumming had got louder and faster, like a racing heart.
“What have we got, Caff?” asked Corbec softly, crawling forwards.
“Sons of Sek between us and the bridge,” Caffran reported. “Dozens of them.”
“What about the watchers?” asked Gaunt.
“The what?” asked Feygor.
“The watchers in black,” said Gaunt.
“Oh, them,” said Bragg. “They’re just your imagination, they are.”
“What?” asked Gaunt.
“Everyone shut up,” said Corbec. “We’re about to wade into the deep and stinky. Everyone locked? Everyone loaded?”
“Yes, sir,” the three Ghosts replied.
“Ibram?”
Gaunt nodded. “I’m ready, Colm. Who wants to live forever?”
“Well, you, I hope,” said Corbec. “For a while, at least. That’s the whole point of this.”
Gaunt looked at him.
“You’ve got to live, Ibram,” said Corbec. “You’ve just got to. That’s the way of it. You’re important, more important than you can imagine. You and the Ghosts, it’s going to be down to you. The whole Crusade depends on you. Win or lose, it’s going to be down to you in the end.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Colm,” Gaunt said.
“I know you don’t,” said Corbec, “but you will.”
“You said ‘me and the Ghosts’,” said Gaunt. “You’re Ghosts too.”
“Yes, we are,” said Bragg. “We really are.”
“Let’s do this, shall we, gents?” Corbec suggested. “On three. One, two…”
XXIII
The Sons of Sek were the hardest bastards Gaunt had ever encountered on the field of war. Chasing for the bridge, the five Ghosts ploughed into them. The fight turned to hell. It wasn’t exhilarating. The old fury didn’t re-light.
It
was a bloody, butchering slog. It was war at its darkest and most tenacious.
The Sons came at them from all sides in the twilight. Drumming was the only sound Gaunt could hear. Feygor, Caffran and Corbec slammed off shots as they came in, and Bragg followed on, blasting with his cannons. He mowed them down. The Sons of Sek were so many, he didn’t have to try again. Gaunt’s sword swung and struck. He emptied his bolt pistol four times.
He thought they would be overwhelmed. He thought they weren’t going to make it, but they were fast, and they were good, and they had surprise on their side, despite the incredible ferocity of the Sons of Sek.
They were Ghosts. They were five of the best Guardsmen the Imperium had ever produced.
They covered one another. They checked and turned with expertise. They watched the flanks, they plastered the angles, they fired in turns to stagger reloading. At any given point in the action at least three of them were shooting.
They cut through the Sons like an elite strike force, because they were an elite strike force. They were immortals. They were gods of war.
They reached the bridge.
XXIV
“On you go, then,” said Corbec.
“We all go across,” said Gaunt. He turned to look at the four Ghosts. They were standing, weapons ready, in a semi-circle behind him, facing the bridge.
“That’s not how it works,” said Feygor.
“We can’t cross the bridge,” said Caffran.
“But you’ve got to,” said Bragg.
“I’m not going to leave you here,” said Gaunt.
“That’s just how it goes,” said Corbec. “You go on alone from here. You cross the bridge. We stay on this side.”
“Why?”
“Because we have to,” said Corbec. “We can’t cross over, but you can. Now go on with you. Don’t make us wish we hadn’t made this effort. Cross the fething bridge, “bram. Cross it.”
“But—”
“Cross it!” snapped Bragg.
“You’ll see us again soon enough, sir,” said Caffran. “Unless you do end up living for ever,” said Feygor.
Gaunt turned and looked at the bridge. It was vast and empty and iron, and it seemed to stretch away as far as he could see.