“What’s the matter?” Mkoll said.
“Cover me,” Gaunt said, walking in. He had drawn his laspistol and sheathed his sword. Mkoll glanced at Beltayn, and Beltayn shrugged.
Gaunt walked to the small table oddly set in the centre of the room, and reached out to the book lying there It was old. So very old it was falling apart and dissolving into dust.
He opened the cover and read the title page, knowing, with a sick feeling, what he would find there. It was another first edition of On The Use of Armies by Marchese.
He reached out towards it and the cover fell open, as if flipped by a strong wind. The pages fluttered and turned.
Gaunt stared down at the open book, and began to read:
When I speak of a body in this way, I mean the body as a figure for an armed force. To the leader, that force becomes his body…
He took a step back. He had been mindful of the things that had been shown to him, yet now they seemed to repeat with unsubtle reinforcement. Had he missed so much? Was he not being careful?
The closed door nearby rattled in its frame, as if shaken by a strong wind.
“Time’s short, sir,” Mkoll cried out to him from the doorway.
Gaunt beckoned the two of them in to join him.
“What is this?” Beltayn asked.
“Sir?” said Mkoll.
“Do me this one service, my friends. Come with me and prove I’m not insane.”
Gaunt opened the door.
ELEVEN
THE CHAPEL AT NOWHERE
“Two dangers, one truly evil, one misunderstood.”
—Elinor Zaker, of the Herodian Commandery
It was a chapel, old and rundown, buried in the green twilight of the wood. Trailing ivy and fleece-flower clung to its walls. Bright green lichens gnawed the chafstone. Bemused, afraid, Mkoll and Beltayn followed Gaunt around the partially collapsed wall, in through the old gate, and up the path to the door. The scent was back, that flower scent. It was so strong it made Gaunt feel like sneezing. It was islumbine.
Gaunt pushed open the door and stepped into the cold gloom of the chapel. The interior was plain, but well-kept. At the end of the rows of hardwood pews, a taper burned at the Imperial altar. Gaunt walked down the aisle towards the graven image of the Emperor. In the stained glass of the lancet windows, he saw the image of Saint Sabbat amongst the worthies. Mkoll and Beltayn hung back.
“How could this be here?” Mkoll asked.
Beltayn didn’t answer. He knew what this was and the thought of it made him too terrified to speak.
“Well,” murmured a voice from the darkness. “There you are at last.”
She was as she had been the last time: very old, and blind. A strip of black silk was wound around her head across her eyes. Her silver hair had been plaited tightly against the back of her skull. Age had hunched her, but standing erect she would have towered over Gaunt.
There was no mistaking her red and black robes.
“Sister Elinor,” Gaunt said. “We meet again.”
“We do, Ibram.”
“This seems like the Chapel of the Holy light Abundant, Veniq,” he said.
“It is.”
“Which I thought was on Aexe Cardinal, a great distance from here.”
“It was once,” said Elinor Zaker. “It hasn’t been for a long time, not even when you last visited it. It exists only as a memory now, a memory where I can dwell.”
Beltayn groaned quietly. Mkoll blinked fast.
“Someone is disheartened to hear that,” she said, cocking her head. “You are not alone?”
“There are three of us this time. Myself, Beltayn and my chief scout.”
She sat down on one of the pews, feeling her way with one hand, leaning on her staff with the other. “So… this is Herodor already?” she said. “Has it really drawn so late?”
“Yes,” said Gaunt, “And dangers press. Can you guide us?”
She settled herself against the stiff back of the pew. “The divine powers allow me only to advise. But things have become more perilous since I last spoke to you. Forces and elements that the tarot did not foresee have entered the mechanism. To counterbalance this, I have been permitted to speak to you again.”
“You’ve been trying to make contact. I apologise for ignoring the signs. I’ve been busy.” He paused. “Permitted by who?”
She turned her head towards him. It was the fluid neck-swivel of a human who had been habituated to helmet-display target sensors. Just like at their first meeting, Gaunt felt as if she was aiming at him.
“The divine powers. Their name may not be uttered for it is too bright.”
“So, speak, sister,” Gaunt said. “The hour is on us. The Beati is with me, but she may yet die by the hand of the archenemy. No more riddles.”
Elinor Zaker started. “She’s with you?”
“Yes,” said Gaunt.
She smiled a little. “Oh my God-Emperor, at last…”
“There is so little time…” Gaunt urged.
“The mechanism is delicate—”
“Shut up!” Gaunt snarled. The force of his voice made Beltayn jump. Mkoll stared in fascination through narrowed eyes. He had seen — and, more importantly, accepted — visions before.
“I’ve had enough of the vagueness and the enigmatic crap!” Gaunt snapped. “Tell me! Just tell me! If you can help me win, help me win! If not, why the feth did you ever draw me into this nonsense in the first place?”
She didn’t reply.
“Sister?”
She folded her hands in her lap. “You drew yourself in when you served the Beati on Hagia. You drew yourself in when you spared Brin Milo from the flames of Tanith. You drew yourself in when you listened to Warmaster Slaydo retell the struggles of the Age of Sabbat and swore your blood oath to finish his work. You drew yourself in long before you were even born, before your ancestors were born, for you and your Ghosts are a small part of a manifest destiny so great in dimension that from here, even at this high point of it, we cannot see the beginning or the end.”
Gaunt swallowed. “I see,” he stammered.
She nodded to him. “I know you don’t. This is all you need to understand to play your part Milo, first. He is vital. Vital to what will come hereafter. But understand there will be no hereafter if you fail here.”
“Here? On Herodor?”
“On Herodor,” she echoed. “There is harm throughout, more than was originally anticipated. But still, the greatest harm is within. Within your body.”
“You use the word as DeMarchese used it. Body, meaning an armed force. My Ghosts?”
“Indeed. You’ve been studying since we last met.”
“Yes, sister,” said Gaunt.
“Well, then. For the last time. The harm is in two parts. Two dangers: one truly evil, one misunderstood. The latter holds the key. It’s important you remember that, because you commissars are terribly trigger happy. That key is more important to you now than ever before. Lastly, let your sharpest eye show you the truth. That’s it. There will be nine.”
“What did you say—?” Gaunt began.
Reality popped like a soap bubble.
Gaunt was beside Mkoll and Beltayn in a very empty, very ruined hab module.
“What in the name of feth just happened?” Mkoll asked.
Beltayn was quivering with fear and confusion.
“Nine…” Gaunt murmured. “Bel. Get on the vox. Find out where Soric is.”
In darkness, the spread of carnage through the Civitas was more visible. Whole sections of the outer skirts and slopes were ablaze, and fires clustered and spread around the north faces of hive towers one and two as well. Gaunt wasn’t entirely sure when the city shield had failed, but it was long gone now, and winds from the north blew in across the Civitas basin and fanned the firestorms.
Imperial troop units and support crews fled south up the streets of the high Guild Slope, some on foot, some in roaring carriers and trucks. The second
line had entirely broken.
Pressing hard at a trot, Gaunt’s three platoon force got as far as the atmosphere processor in Fenzy Yard, and there managed to hop a ride on a quartet of PDF troop carriers that raced them up the last third of the Guild Slope to the keep in the high town district that served as main barracks for the Regiment Civitas.
The keep was largely intact. It had been hit by some long-range shelling, but its main structure, overlooking Principal I, had survived. Inside the assembly yard, hundreds of Herodian troopers were massing, loading spare ordnance into waiting transports.
Gaunt jumped down from his ride and looked around as Mkoll and Ewler did a head count The night air was pungent with exhaust fumes, and ringing with the urgent shouts of men from all around. Gaunt looked up. The high town district was the base area of the hives, and their immense forms rose up above him, giddyingly tall and reassuringly massive. They weren’t towers, they were vertical cities, and they were of cyclopean construction. Gaunt took a deep breath. He had forgotten how massive they were They might hold, for a while at least.
“Gaunt!” He turned at the sound of his name and saw Biagi pushing through the crowds towards him. The marshal had clearly seen his own share of the combat A hasty field dressing was taped across a wound to his hip.
Gaunt saluted. “We look to the hives now, I suppose?” he said.
“Old Hive,” said Biagi. “The lord general and the Civitas officiaries have withdrawn there. We will compose our defence around them.”
“Isn’t Old Hive the most vulnerable?” Gaunt asked. “It’s ancient, and far less robust than the other towers.”
“Old Hive is the seat of Herodian culture,” Biagi said. “It is our heart. The Holy Balneary is there, and the oldest shrines. If we concentrate anywhere, it must be there.”
The implication was grim. The other towers would be left unprotected. Their citizens would perish. It must have been a hard decision for Biagi to make.
Gaunt caught himself. No, the decision was easy. It was precisely the same one that he had made during the fall of Tanith. The whole could not be saved, and any attempt to do so would be doomed. The only course of action was to concentrate all combat efforts to save one part of it.
Biagi stared out at the rippling fireglow lighting the northern sky.
“To think I forbade your use of flamers, Gaunt. Look how my city burns.”
“Be thankful, sir, that I ignored your orders. But for my flamers, your city would have been burning far more, far sooner.”
Gaunt looked at Biagi. “I sent a signal on my way up. Concerning a trooper of mine Sergeant Soric?”
“Indeed. I’ve had him escorted down from the hives as you asked. What’s so important about him?”
“Come with me and we may find out.”
Escorted by Beltayn, and Biagi’s own signals officer Sires, Gaunt and the marshal strode into the Regiment Civitas keep. Emergency lighting was on, and the corridors were flushed with a dull green glow. Men hurried past them in teams, carrying boxes of supplies or pushing munitions on carts. The old fortress was being stripped bare of anything that might prove useful.
“Anything from Kaldenbach?” Gaunt asked.
“Brief signals. He’s caught in a pocket to the west, but he has some armour left.”
“And the Beati herself?”
“We’re having difficulty pinpointing her right now. I have implored her to retreat.”
“So have I. It’s imperative. You understand this war is entirely symbolic?”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” said Biagi.
“Don’t let it cross. Keep it centred. She’s what this is all about. Herodor has no strategic importance. By coming here, she made this world a target. This invasion has one purpose. To find her and kill her. She’s the lure. If we recognise that and use it, we might be in with a chance.”
“Does she recognise it?” Biagi said.
Gaunt glanced at him. “I’m rather afraid that’s why she came here in the first place, marshal.”
“I see,” said Biagi.
They came to a halt outside a security hatch, triple locked. Two PDF sentries stood aside for them, and beat a hasty retreat when Biagi dismissed them. The marshal fitted his authority key into the socket and the hatch whirred open. The chamber beyond was starkly lit by white phospha lamps. It was the keep’s brig.
A group of armed Ghosts waited for them inside: Meryn and his unit, serving as guard detail.
“Sir!” said Meryn sharply.
“We can handle this, sergeant. Head for the evac transports. I’ll see you in Old Hive.”
Meryn nodded. He looked angry. “You should have shot him, sir,” he said.
“I beg your pardon, Meryn?”
“He’s scum. Filth. I knew it I told Commissar Hark. The bastard should have been executed long since.”
“That’s your opinion, is it Meryn?”
“Sir, every moment he lives, he brings shame on our regiment! I don’t know why you didn’t do your job as commissar and shoot the bastard thr—”
Gaunt’s blow caught Meryn unawares and surprised everyone around them. Meryn sprawled on his back, clutching at his bloody mouth.
“Agun Soric has served the Ghosts with distinction, Meryn. He volunteered himself for detention, and he may yet prove to be something quite different from the bogey man you fear. As far as the bringing shame thing goes, you’re doing fine all by yourself.”
Gaunt looked up at the men of Meryn’s platoon. “I am a commissar. It’s my business to judge. But unlike the Keetles of this bloody cosmos, I will not be hasty in that judgment. Soric lives or dies by my word alone. Understood?”
There was a nervous growl of voices. Gaunt glanced down at Meryn. “Get out of my sight and pray I’ve forgotten your insolence the next time we meet.”
Fargher and Guheen dragged their sergeant to his feet, and fourteenth platoon left the chamber.
“I thought Meryn was one of your best?” Biagi said.
“He is, in a sound, unimaginative way.”
“What did he mean, then? About this Soric?”
“I need you to be patient, Biagi. Soric came to me earlier and confessed. He’s a psyker.”
“He’s in here,” said Dorden, showing the four soldiers to the door of the fifth cell. The Tanith doctor had taken it upon himself to escort Soric personally. A robed astropath and two bullish men in long grey leather coats stood by the cell door. The grey men, clutching power-goads, were officer-handlers from the life company’s sanctioned psyker cadre. Wire-grilled augmetic damper units were sutured into their ears and eye-sockets.
“I heard what you said. To Meryn, just then,” said Dorden.
“Did you? I trust I’m starting to live up to your high standards, doctor?”
Dorden smiled sarcastically. “One thing I don’t get,” he said. “Earlier, you told me you believed the warp never revealed truth to mankind, especially not to the untrained and the unsanctioned.”
“I changed my mind,” said Gaunt. “I’m not trained or sanctioned but, as Zweil has freely pointed out, powers divine or otherwise have chosen to speak to me. Just this afternoon, in a little chapel, I—”
“What?”
“Never mind. This it?”
Dorden opened the cell hatch.
Soric was lying on the perforated metal cot, bathed in the hard light of the overhead phosphas. He had been badly beaten. Dorden had done his best to patch him up.
“Feth! What happened?”
“Meryn’s platoon happened. They gave him hell on the transit down.”
“Bastards. Ignorant bastards…”
“What the hell is this?” Biagi muttered, bending down to collect up some of the hundreds of crumpled scraps of blue paper that littered the cell floor. Gaunt looked over his shoulder. The papers in the marshal’s hands were covered in hasty, incomprehensible scrawl.
“I’d say that was torn from a standard Guard issue message pad,” Beltayn said.
<
br /> “Did you give him paper? Writing tools?” Biagi asked the handlers.
“No sir,” one of them grunted, his voice a slabby monotone processed through an augmetic voicebox. “We took all personal items from the prisoner. But they keep returning to him.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Biagi asked.
The handler crossed to Soric and searched him. Soric moaned at the touch. The handler produced a brass shell case from Soric’s thigh pocket.
“I cannot count the number of times we’ve taken this off him. Every few seconds, it disappears from our evidence bag and reappears in his pocket.” The handler opened the message shell and shook out another fold of blue paper. “And every time, there’s another note in it.”
“Have you seen this before?” Gaunt asked.
“No, sir,” said the handler.
Gaunt knelt down beside Soric. “Agun? Chief? You hear me?”
Soric’s single eye opened, squeezed to a slit by the swollen flesh of his puffy face. The eye was bloodshot.
“Colonel-commissar, sir,” he sighed.
“There’s not much time, chief. Tell me about the nine.”
“So tired… hurts so much…”
“Chief! You were desperate to tell me before! Tell me now!”
Soric nodded slowly, and, with Dorden’s help, got himself up to a half-sitting position.
“Nine are coming,” he said.
“Nine?”
“Nine,” he repeated, swallowing pain. “I’m so sorry, sir. I never meant to risk yo—”
“Save it for later, Agun. Tell me about the nine.”
“Nine The shell told me there would be nine. Because nine is the sacred number of the Beati…”
“The nine holy wounds,” said Biagi solemnly.
“The nine holy wounds,” Soric nodded. “I saw her. She was looking at me. Right at me She knew…”
“Chief! Chief! Come on, stay with me!”
Soric had faded and slumped. Gaunt looked over at Dorden. “Can’t you do something?”
“That will help us? Of course That will help him? No. Besides, if he’s what you’re afraid he is, a stimm-shot might not be a good idea.”
[Gaunt's Ghosts 07] - Sabbat Martyr Page 29