by Dan Abnett
“Uhm, yes, sir. Ten units,” said Leyr.
“Just enough to hold us here,” said Curth.
“We really have to bring this operation to a successful close,” said the old doctor, Dorden.
Gaunt nodded.
“Of course we do,” he said. “I want this operation finished by nightfall. Ten, then. Ten. What are we looking at? Regular Gaurist forces or what? Ten units of what?”
“Blood, sir,” replied Leyr.
“Blood Pact?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, that’s a tough dance on anybody’s card,” Gaunt said. “May I take a look?”
He hurried up through the mud behind Leyr. The mud was deep, and it kept slowing him down, sucking at his boots, so that he advanced like a man wading through a dream. His heels, deep in the mire, kept knocking against skulls and helmets and the turrets of long-lost armour pieces.
Bonin, Mkoll and Maggs were waiting for them at the turn of the track. They hunkered down together behind a swirl of razorwire.
“How are you holding up, sir?” Maggs asked him.
“Don’t ask him questions, Maggs,” Mkoll hissed. “We’re not here to ask him questions.”
“Sorry,” said Maggs.
“I’m fine, since you asked, Maggs,” said Gaunt. “Why did you ask?”
Maggs looked awkward.
“It’s been a long tour,” Bonin said. “You look tired, sir.”
“Do I?” Gaunt responded.
“Just… Just want to make sure you’re all right,” nodded Maggs.
“Don’t I look all right?” Gaunt asked.
“You have tears,” Maggs began. He pointed to his own cheek. “Tears that look like blood,” he added.
“Oh, that keeps happening,” Gaunt tutted, wiping his face. “It’s this iron star. Don’t you feel it too?”
The scouts nodded.
“So, come on,” Gaunt said. “I’ve come all the way up here to see. Show me.”
V
“Ten units of blood,” said Mkoll, passing the scope to Gaunt. “There, in the trees, to the left of the bridge.”
Gaunt peered through the scope. His eyes hurt. The trees weren’t trees at all. They were angular stalks of chrome metal with thin, rod-like branches. The branches supported luminous white blossom, flower heads that glowed like lamp-packs. The trees were standing in a long thicket on a bank of mud that wallowed down into the river below the bridge. There were bloated bodies drifting in the stagnant water of the river. For a moment, Gaunt was afraid that he might be able to name every single one of the dead.
“To the left,” Mkoll advised.
Gaunt adjusted his sight. He saw the Blood Pact. Ten units, all right. He could make out crimson spiked helmets, black-iron grotesk masks, and infantry uniforms dyed maroon with blood. They were clambering up the riverbanks, milling like fire-ants, constructing siege platforms along the stinking river to support mortars. He could hear the scrape and hum of their tools.
“Ten units, all right,” said Gaunt. “Mkoll?”
“Yes, sir?”
“What’s this bridge called again? I forget.”
Mkoll hesitated. “It’s the… the… somewhere-or-other-bridge, sir.”
Gaunt laughed. “You don’t know either, do you, chief?”
Mkoll laughed back. “So many worlds, so many objectives, sir. What can I tell you? Let me check my maps.”
“You do that,” said Gaunt. “My eyes hurt.”
“That’ll be the iron star,” said Leyr.
“We have to seal this artery right now,” said Curth.
“Seal it?” asked Gaunt.
“Yes,” she said. “This artery here.”
“You mean the river?” asked Gaunt.
“Uhm… what?”
“You mean the river?” asked Gaunt.
“Of course,” she said. “It’s vital we tie it off and seal it.”
Gaunt nodded. “Well, we’ve got ten units to handle, but I agree. Mkoll?”
“Oh, we can manage it, sir,” Mkoll assured him.
Gaunt nodded. He looked at Curth and frowned.
“I thought I left you with the command team, medic,” he said.
She pulled down her surgical mask and smiled at him. “You did, Ibram, but you know me,” she said. “If we’re about to get casualties, I need to be up front.”
“Good. Good thinking,” he murmured.
VI
The bridge, the something-or-other-bridge, was a dirty, iron monster. It looked as if it had been wrought from metal extracted from the iron star’s heart, and left to cool. It stretched out across the stagnant river on its pilings, ominous and forbidding. The bridge was so long, and the dead river so broad, they couldn’t see the far side. Gaunt wondered if he’d ever get across. It seemed like such a long way, and he was very tired. It felt as if time was running out.
“Is it true, sir? Is time against us?”
Gaunt turned. Kolea, Varl, Domor and Criid had advanced to join him. He was pleased to see them, four of his best officers, four of his best Ghosts.
“What was your question?” he asked.
“Time, sir,” said Gol Kolea. “They say time is against us.”
“Ten units of Blood Pact, right on the river here,” Gaunt replied. “We’ve got to get this artery secure and get across the bridge by nightfall.”
Kolea nodded. Varl and Criid exchanged uneasy looks.
“How are your eyes, sir?” asked Domor.
Gaunt looked at him. “Sore. They hurt. Thanks for asking.”
“Shoggy” Domor gestured to the bulbous augmetic eyes that had earned him his nickname and smiled.
“I know how it is with eyes,” he said.
“Of course you do, Shoggy,” Gaunt replied. “It’s just this iron star. It hurts my head.”
“Nobody likes it,” said Varl.
“Sorry to say, we just have to get on and make the best of this,” said Gaunt. “So, this artery? This river? How do we seal it? Suggestions?”
“We could burn it,” said Kolea. “Cauterise it.”
Gaunt nodded. “Bring up the flamers. Hurry back to your companies and prepare to lead them forwards.”
The four of them hesitated.
“What are you waiting for?” Gaunt asked.
“We wanted to stay with you,” said Domor.
“We wanted to stay by your side,” said Varl.
“That’s very loyal,” Gaunt replied. “Get your Ghosts ready, and I’ll join you on the bridge. Come on, look lively! Do you want to live forever?”
Reluctantly, they backed away. Criid stared at him.
“We don’t want you to die,” she said.
“That’s enough of that, Criid,” Curth called out.
VII
Gaunt stood on the rise above the dead river. The iron star throbbed. His eyes hurt.
He looked at the chrome trees and their luminous blossom. He heard the scrape and hum of the Blood Pact work teams, finishing their defences. He turned.
The black figures were still gathering out across the mire. There were half a dozen of them now: silent, faceless, watching.
“You’ve gone quiet,” said Curth.
“What?” he asked.
“You’ve gone quiet,” she repeated. “Ibram? Say something.”
He sighed.
“It’s those fething figures,” he said. “Those black figures. They’ve been watching us for a while.”
“What figures?” Dorden asked.
“Can’t you see them?” he asked. “There. Out there. Watching us. There was only one to begin with, but there are more now.”
“Ibram?” said Curth softly. “There’s no one there.”
“Yes, there is. I can see them. Stay here.”
“Ibram?” Curth said. “Ibram, where are you going?”
“Stay here, Ibram,” Dorden urged.
“Stay with us,” said Curth.
“Just a moment,” he replied. “I’ll be
right back. Just give me a moment.”
“Ibram, you can’t go wandering off on your own,” said Curth. “It’s not safe.”
“Just give me a moment.”
He started to walk, sliding, slipping in the mire, his boots digging deep. He tried to keep sight of the black figures. Behind him, the voices calling out to him faded away.
It was further than he thought. Twice, he tripped over buried helmets and tank hatches, and fell. On both occasions, he lay in the mud for a while, not entirely sure he ever wanted to get up again. He was tired. His eyes hurt.
He staggered on, knee-deep in the wet, red mud. It smelled of rot and death. No surprise there. Battlefield mire often reeked of the blood and viscera that had soaked into it. Over the years, he’d become accustomed to the smell, but this was particularly strong, like an open gut wound or fresh arterial spill.
The black figures didn’t seem to be coming any closer, no matter how hard he toiled towards them. They remained distant, watching.
“Who are you?” he yelled, but his voice was hoarse and the black figures declined to answer.
VIII
“Where has he gone?” Curth asked. “Ibram? Ibram, come back!”
“He’s not responding,” said Dorden. “We’ve got to bring him back.”
“Ten units!” Curth yelled. “Now!”
“I don’t think he can hear us,” said Dorden. “He’s too far away.”
“Someone’s got to bring him back,” said Curth. “Someone’s got to reach him and bring him back!” She pulled down her mask and looked around. “Larkin? Over here. On the double!”
IX
He couldn’t see the black figures anymore. They’d somehow vanished into the mist. He had gone too far and lost his bearings. No-man’s land stretched away in all directions.
Well, that was stupid, he told himself. I have no idea where I am anymore. I’m lost out here.
The iron star was the only constant. He looked up at it, ignoring the pain in his eyes. Perhaps he could take a bearing off it and find his way back. He couldn’t even hear Curth and Dorden anymore.
He was so tired. He sat down in the mud and wiped his eyes. His hands became wet with blood. So stupid to have wandered so far.
He thought about lying down and taking a nap. His head would be clearer after a nap. Just a quick nap. Just a moment to rest his eyes.
He looked up. The black figures stood around him, silent and grim. Mist fumed around them, battlefield vapour. The figures gazed down at him from under their hoods.
He rose to his feet, aching, unsteady.
“Who are you?” he asked.
None of them replied.
“Who the feth are you and why are you watching me?” he demanded.
The figures remained silent.
He lunged forward and pulled at the nearest figure’s cowl, trying to see its face.
“Who are you?” he yelled.
There was a loud crack, and the figure’s head exploded in a clap of light. Gaunt turned.
“What are you doing all the way out here, sir?” Larkin asked, lowering his long-las.
“I…” Gaunt began.
He turned back. The figures had vanished again.
“Did you see them?” he asked Larkin.
Larkin was quietly reloading his piece.
“Ominous black figures, gathering around a battlefield and waiting for slaughter to begin, you mean, sir?” he asked.
“Yes. Yes!”
“I see ’em all the time,” said Larkin, slapping his next hot-shot load in place, “but I’m not the most reliable witness, am I?”
“You’ve got the best eye I’ve ever known, Larks,” replied Gaunt.
“Maybe. Through a scope, maybe. But my brain, it’s wired funny. I see all sorts of feth. I’m surprised at you, though.”
“What do you mean?” asked Gaunt.
“You? Jumping at shadows? Going off by yourself into feth knows where?” Larkin grinned. “You were always the level-headed one. More even than Mkoll or Daur or Rawne. You always kept it together.”
“I still am, Larks,” said Gaunt. “But I saw them. The black figures. You saw them too. You put a round through one of their skulls!”
Larkin shook his head. “I fired a warning shot to get your attention. You were floundering around out here in the mud, yelling at no one like a total idiot.”
“Was I?”
Larkin nodded. “It wasn’t a good look. It didn’t inspire much confidence. Pardon me for saying so, sir.”
Gaunt sat down in the mud again, heavily.
“I’m just so tired, Larks,” he said. “You know? So tired. We’ve been on the line too long. I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”
“Longer than the rest of us, I trust,” smiled Larkin, “or we’re all fethed.”
Gaunt looked up at his loyal master marksman. “Larkin,” he said. “I see things. I keep seeing things. Worse than that, there are things I don’t see. I know they’re there, but I don’t see them.”
“Your eyes, is it?” asked Larkin.
“Yes. They hurt.”
“That’s no surprise, seeing as what they did to you.”
“What? What does that mean?” asked Gaunt.
“Nothing. Forget I said it,” said Larkin.
“Who did what to me?” Gaunt asked.
Larkin shook his head. “You’ve seen a lot, that’s all I’m saying, sir. In your career, you’ve seen a lot of stuff, more than many men could stand seeing in a lifetime. You’ve seen destruction. You’ve seen death. You’ve seen friends and comrades perish right in front of you.”
“I have. I really have,” said Gaunt.
“Let’s get you back to the line, shall we?” Larkin said, offering Gaunt his hand.
“You can see the way?” asked Gaunt.
“Of course, I’m Tanith. I may not be a scout, but I’ve got the Tanith instinct. Follow me. Let’s get you out of here before the black figures come back.”
Gaunt frowned. “I thought you said there weren’t any black figures?”
Larkin shrugged. “Just because I see ’em all the time, doesn’t mean they’re real. Come on.”
X
They trudged back towards the Ghost lines under the iron star.
“I’m tired, Larks,” Gaunt said, after a while. “Let me rest for a moment.”
“Not here,” Larkin replied, “it’s not safe. Keep going. You can rest when we reach the lines.”
“I’ve got to stop,” said Gaunt, “just for a moment. Let me stop for a moment and close my eyes.”
XI
“I brought him back as far as I could,” said Larkin sadly. “He doesn’t want to come any further.”
“He’s got to,” replied Curth. “He’s just got to.”
“He’s not listening to me anymore,” said Larkin. “He’s just stopped.”
XII
Sometimes, when he was able to steal an hour to sleep, stretched out in a habitent, or curled up on a rotting bunk in a dug-out, he dreamed of a world called Jago. The dreams were powerful, and full of miserable and lingering pain.
Given that he had stopped remembering, or even caring to remember, the names of the places he and the Ghosts had toiled through, loyal and weary, weary and loyal, he wondered why Jago in particular had remained in his memory and his dreams.
It had been a dry, dusty, wind-blown place. The dust had seeped into everything, and the wind had made a sound like air singing through the openings of skulls whose tops had been sawn off. Dry and dead, that was Jago. Dry and dead, and not oozing with mud and humid like… like who the feth cares anymore.
He had other dreams, sometimes. An old man called Boniface sometimes quizzed him about theology and philosophy in an old library. The old man, scarred and mutilated beyond belief, sat in a brass chair. In the dream, Gaunt would ask Boniface about his father, and the old man would refuse to reply.
Another dream involved someone called Uncle Dercius. Uncle
Dercius would arrive unexpectedly. Gaunt would be playing with a carved wooden frigate on the sundecks, and would look up in glee as Uncle Dercius walked in. Uncle Dercius had a strange look on his face. He had a gift for Ibram. It was a signet ring.
In a different dream, someone called Colm Corbec was waiting for him in a woodland glade. Tall, bulky, bearded, Corbec was dressed in Tanith black, and smiled when Gaunt approached. Gaunt could smell the resin sap of nalwood. He knew Corbec was the greatest friend he’d ever had, and the greatest friend he’d ever lost.
Another dream, ebbing from some memory of a hive city, was filled by Merity Chass, of the noble House Chass. She was young and beautiful, and became even more beautiful when her dress slid away. Her voice was as soft as her skin. She said…
XIII
“For Throne’s sake, wake up!”
Gaunt started. Astonishingly, he had actually been dozing off. That had never happened before, not in three decades of soldiering, I must be getting weary. Loyal but weary.
“Don’t fret, Rawne,” Gaunt told his number two. “I’m right here. Just resting my eyes.”
“It’s Curth, Ibram.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.”
“You were a long way away from me then.”
“I’m just tired, Curth. Just napping for a moment.”
“Try to stay with us. We’ve got to close this artery and cross the bridge.”
“Before nightfall.”
“Exactly,” she replied.
“Let’s get this done, then,” he said. “I want to talk to the flamers.”
XIV
The flame troopers gathered around him. Brostin, Dremmond, Lubba, Lyse, Nitorri and the rest. They stank of promethium fuel, their stock in trade.
“Where the Throne are your flamers?” Gaunt asked.
“We left them outside,” said Lubba.
“Outside?” Gaunt asked.
“Lubba meant back on the track over there, sir,” Dremmond said quickly. He nudged Lubba with a heavy, grubby arm. “Idiot.”
“Our tanks are being topped up just now,” said Brostin, with a broad grin. “We’re all ready to go. You give the word.”