by Dan Abnett
Something unholy.
FOUR
MAGNIFICAT
“I know what I saw then. And I know what I see now.”
—Zweil, ayatani
From the streets of the Guild Slope in mid-city, a nimbus of russet-pink and yellow could be seen suffusing the darkness over the north-west skirts of the metropolitan area. Individual sparks of light flickered in that blanket glow like grounded lightning. Dull booms and roars, pent in by the acoustic lid formed by the city shield, rolled back to their ears, and smoke, similarly trapped by the shield, collected into a wispy roof like low cloud. According to the now frenetic reports of Civitas tac logis, over a thousand hostiles, with supporting armour, were assaulting the city.
And the city was falling. Partly under the fury of the attack, and partly beneath the weight of an inexplicable sense of defeat and loss that had settled over the population during the hours of the night.
Viktor Hark could not account for it, but he could feel it. An ache, a feeling of disillusion, a sapping misery. Perhaps it was the unexpected speed and ferocity of the chaos onslaught. Perhaps it was a general realisation of how fragile the Imperial position really was.
Even in his worst-case contemplations of disaster, Gaunt had never expected things to go so badly wrong so rapidly. Hark knew that as a certainty. He’d spent considerable time with Gaunt, risk-assessing the woeful defensive opportunities afforded by the Civitas Beati, the far from adequate numerical strengths at their disposal, the complete lack of preparation time. It was a bleak picture, and Gaunt had made no secret of his fear that once the archenemy’s main force arrived, the fight for Herodor would be as good as done.
But that main force had still to reach Herodor, and yet the city already seemed close to collapsing in one night.
“Tac logis was still referring to the invaders as heretic dissidents.” Hark sighed when he heard this and tugged the micro-bead from his ear. He didn’t want to listen anymore.
The streets were dogged, by people and by lamentation. That was it. This was not the sound of terror and alarm rising from the crowds. This was the sound of woe.
Hark was riding in a heavy-fendered troop transporter near the front of a reinforcement column. There were twelve transporters, all identical grey, long-bodied Munitorum vehicles, and they were only making any headway through the crowds at all because of the three Chimera heavies from the lord general’s life company that were leading them through. The sight of tracked armour made the distressed crowds part sharply.
Colonel Kaldenbach, Lugo’s field commander, had command of the column, and the Tanith and Herodian PDF squads in the troop carriers answered to him. Hark knew Kaldenbach fairly well from his time on the lord general’s staff, an uncompromising but gifted officer who had crowned a good career in the Ardelean Colonials with elevation to Lugo’s personal life company.
The column turned west off Principal II, under the broad aqueducts that serviced the agriponic district, and rolled into the wide plaza of Astronomer’s Circle in the shadow of the great volcanic plug on which sat the Astronomer’s Platform, that bastion of Herodian science and learning. It was up there, in the ancient observatories that had been operating permanently for over two thousand years, that Cazalon had devised and written his treatise on non-baryonic matter and Hazmun Zeng, three centuries later, had doggedly completed his Theory of Gravitation in the face of fierce Inquisitorial displeasure. Hark had been told that it was possible to visit Zeng’s workshop study, which had been preserved, by order of the first officiary, exactly as the great man had left it. The idea appealed to Hark immensely. To climb the steps rough-hewn in the side of the rock plug up into that quiet little island of observatories, macroscope towers, sidereal calculators and libraries high above the murmur of the city and spend a few quiet moments in the dusty room where Zeng had made such a staggering contribution to Imperial science, filling notebooks with mirror-script to fool the watching eyes of the Inquisition.
But war, as ever, anchored Hark to the ground. In twenty years, he had travelled to and served on over forty worlds, many of them rich with cultural treasures and sites of significance. He had never enjoyed the indulgence of visiting any of them. There was always fighting to be done, or battle orders to review and, when that was over, a troop-ship waiting to convey him to the next theatre.
The column drew up in the Circle and the units disembarked. Kaldenbach, sturdy in his long green coat and cap, marched the line of assembly, issuing orders. There were fifty troopers from Lugo’s life company in the support force, all of them dad in heavy green fatigues and camo-helms. A major called Pento from the Regiment Civitas Beati was in charge of the Herodian portion, two platoons of Civitas Beati elite and five of regular Herodian PDF. Sergeant Varl drew up the Ghost element of five platoons: his own, Haller’s, Arcuda’s, Raglon’s and Ewler’s.
Putting his commissar’s cap on brim first—“Gaunt-style,” the Ghosts called it — Hark felt somewhat surplus to requirements. Kaldenbach even had his own commissars, an inseparable pair of identical twins called Keetle. They were thin, bony redheads with fair skin and thyroid eyes, dressed in black, patent leather stormcoats that creaked as they strode along, singing out incendiary and fortifying mottoes in stereo. Bad form, in Hark’s book. The assembling soldiers were clearly spooked. They were on the doorstep of a savage urban fight zone and about to go in head first, and around them lay a city that seemed to have already given up.
“Soldiers of the Imperium!” yelled Keetle One.
“You see that up there?” bawled his brother, pointing up at the Astronomer’s Platform.
“The seat of Herodian learning! From there, astronomers maintain a permanent study of the enfolding majesty of the heavens, comprehending their secrets and discerning their truths!”
“But even their vigilance,” yelled Keetle Two, “is but a brief glance compared to the eternal vigilance of the holy God-Emperor!”
“Praise be the God-Emperor!”
“Praise be the God-Emperor, who watches over us all, at all times, and in all things!”
“His eyes are on you all now,” declared Keetle One. “They do not stray, they judge and consider your every action!”
“So do not disappoint him! Do not fail in this great hour of warfare!”
They rattled on for a good while like this. Hark could kindle a rousing speech like the best of them when necessary, but this seemed like overkill. Just as Gaunt sometimes allowed himself to play genial soft fiddle to Hark’s brimstone, so now Hark felt it was his time to be more sympathetic.
He started with Sergeants Arcuda and Raglon. Both were newly lifted to squad command. They were still finding their feet, and on Aexe Cardinal, Raglon’s first taste of combat leadership had been cursed by massive bad luck and heavy losses.
They tensed as he walked up, so he smiled, and that seemed so unusual to them they both sniggered.
“Ready to go?”
“Sir,” they both affirmed. He looked at their platoons, drawn up in triple lines, sparing a particular moment to study Trooper Costin in Raglon’s outfit. It had been Costin’s drunken errors that had proved so expensive to Raglon’s unit on Aexe. Gaunt should have shot him by rights, and would have done too, but for the passionate intervention of Dorden. Dorden had put his neck on the line to spare Costin, and had undermined Gaunt’s authority in the process. The once-warm friendship between the colonel-commissar and his chief medic had been seriously strained ever since. Hark had his eye on Costin, but the man seemed to have cleaned up his act in a real effort to redeem himself.
“Let me tell you something,” Hark said quietly to Raglon and Arcuda. “I know what’s in your heads right now. Fear. Fear of pain and death, fear of failure. The weight of your new responsibilities. That sick feeling you’ll feth up and let the side down. And those two are not helping your nerves with their pompous yakking.”
He thumbed sidelong at the Keetles, who were now leading the reluctant Herodians in a declaration of the
Imperial creed. Raglon and Arcuda both laughed nervously.
“Forget about them,” Hark said. “Think about this. The men out there, our friends and comrades, our fellow Ghosts, down there in the battle zone, up to their necks in the worst kind of feth. Think about them and think about this… it’s you they most want to see. Not just reinforcements. Ghosts. The fething best field troops it’s ever been my honour to know. There is nothing they are hoping for more than the sight of these five platoons storming in, guns blazing and hearts afire, to ease their heavy burden. To them, you’ll be a dream come true. Think about what it’ll mean to them, and I promise you, all your worries will seem insignificant by comparison.”
They both nodded, firm and resolved. Hark clapped them both on the shoulders. “You’ll be fine, sergeants. Spread the word amongst your men, get them set.”
Hark walked on to Haller, a Verghast vet, and Ewler, a grizzled old Tanith career soldier. They needed no soft soap, and his chat with them was a more workmanlike discussion of tactics and deployment. He answered their queries, complimented them on their squad turn-out, and told them a joke about an Ecclesiarchy convent and a curiously shaped fruit that made them laugh so loud it drew disapproving stares from the Keetles.
Finally, he strolled towards Varl. To the Ghosts, Varl was the soldier’s soldier, smart-mouthed, cock-sure, roguish but utterly cool under fire. He’d slogged up through the ranks from common dog-grunt to get squad command, earning it on sheer merit, and was loved by all. He’d lost a shoulder on Fortis Binary, and had a hefty augmetic inbuild to replace it. If there was a hot centre to any fight, Varl would most likely be in it. If there was a scam or practical joke in the barracks, Varl would be in the thick of that too. The joke about the nuns and the fruit was one of his. Hark had overheard it just thirty minutes earlier, during Varl’s platoon warm-up.
“Ready?” Hark asked.
“I was born ready, sir,” Varl replied, then paused. “That’s a lie. I was born horny. I got ready during my early teens.”
Hark laughed, but he could tell from Varl’s manner something was bothering him. “What’s up, Ceg?”
Varl looked uncomfortable. He tapped a finger to the micro-bead plug in his left ear. “I’ve been tuned to the local channel, the tac logis, monitoring the chatter,” he said quietly. “It sounds like shit in a nalnut is going on down there. And the mood on the street tonight is like we’ve already lost.”
“Yes, I feel it. I won’t lie, I think this is going to be bad.”
“It’s not just that, sir,” said Varl. “Report came in, five minutes back. Said the Tanith second officer was down.”
“Down?”
“Dead or hit real bad, they weren’t sure. And then no confirmation.”
“Do they mean Corbec or Rawne?”
Varl shrugged. “Could be either, both are in there. Then again, before the first wave of reinforcement went in, Captain Daur was the second officer on the ground.”
Corbec, Rawne or Daur dead. Any of those things would be a critical blow to the Tanith morale.
“You’ve not said anything to the men?” Hark asked.
“I’m not stupid,” Varl replied acidly, and Hark knew he’d deserved the rebuke.
“Of course not.”
“I just wish we could move Get on in there and find out,” Varl said. He looked over at Kaldenbach who, with the ubiquitous Keetles, was now addressing the lord general’s life company troopers. “I mean, we’re here. All this fannying around, what are we waiting for?”
“We’re waiting,” said Hark, “for Lugo to vox us the word to advance.” He thought for a moment. “Come with me,” he said.
They walked over to the colonel’s side. “What is it, Hark?” Kaldenbach asked.
“Shall we advance, colonel? We are deposed and ready, and the night isn’t getting any younger.”
“We await word to go,” said Kaldenbach, a pale, handsome man in his fifties with clean-cut features and wiry grey hair. Given that, from the sounds of it, tac logis was having difficulty differentiating its arse from its elbow, that word could be a long time coming in Hark’s opinion.
“Well, sir,” said Hark gently, “my troopers are famous for their scout specialisation. We should be going in already, preparing the way for your force.”
Kaldenbach frowned. “I wasn’t aware they were your troopers, Hark. Last time I checked, you were commissar, not… a ranking colonel as well.” This, an unwelcome reference to Gaunt’s unusual and unpopular dual status, was a thinly veiled dig.
“My troopers are famous for their scout specialisation, sir,” said Varl quickly, beautifully timing his interjection, “and last time I checked, I was ranking Tanith officer. I’m sure Commissar Hark will agree.”
Hark smiled and nodded.
Kaldenbach looked coldly at Varl, and the Keetles whispered darkly to each other.
“Anxious to die, sergeant?” Kaldenbach asked.
“Anxious to serve the God-Emperor… and you, sir.”
“Very well,” Kaldenbach snapped. “Move in. We will stand to until word is given. Pave the way for us, if you’re so damn good at it. And stay in constant vox-contact.”
Varl saluted and hurried away with Hark beside him. “Ghosts of Tanith!” he shouted. “Let’s get wriggling! Game’s on!”
The Ghost units massed forward to join him.
“Nicely done, Ceg,” Hark whispered.
“You set him up, sir. I was just there to finish him off.”
The Ghost force surged forward across the paved Circle, dressing their camo-cloaks, and melted into the narrow streets beyond.
Pento, the Herodian officer, watched them disappear. The last thing he or any of his men wanted to do was rush prematurely into combat.
Not, it seemed, like the off-worlders in black.
The scrivener’s office ruptured and collapsed, all eight storeys of it. Dust and fire flushed out from the avalanche of masonry, and the men of five platoon ran for cover.
Squat, robust, one-eyed and nothing like as mobile as his younger troopers, Agun Soric threw himself flat and the dust flow rushed over him like a breaker. The air was full of smouldering paper scraps, millions of pages of notation physically liberated by the explosion.
“Chief! Chief!” Vivvo’s voice rang through the billowing smoke Soric pulled himself up.
“Hold your gakking water, Vivvo. I’m not so much as half dead yet.” Even so, Soric didn’t object as Vivvo steadied him.
“We have got to find that gakking tank,” Soric said.
“Round up! Round up!” Vivvo yelled, and the scattered elements of five platoon came out of cover. The street was a mess. White rubble covered the cobbles and most of the buildings on the west side of the road were ablaze. Soric hobbled forward, sending hand signals to fan his beleaguered troopers out. Then he sat his wide rump down on a slab of alabaster, took off his mask and spat.
Kazel, Mallor and Venar suddenly switched round, rifles aimed, as they picked up movement south of them.
“Twenty, seventeen! Hold your fire!”
“Safeties, boys!” Soric urged, as Sergeant Meryn’s platoon ran up to join them out of the drifting smoke.
Meryn was a young, slickly handsome Tanith with more front than the entire fething crusade. It was said Rawne was grooming him, and that, Soric believed, explained why the previously amiable Meryn had become such a hardboiled bastard of late. He was openly ambitious in all the wrong ways, and there were dirty rumours that during the insurgency mission on Phantine, he’d exposed a cruel, almost psychotic side to his character. It was said he’d murdered civilians. Soric didn’t know about that, and didn’t want to, and there was no arguing with the pretty boy’s combat record. But of all the squads he could have meshed with, Meryn’s was about last on the list, save Rawne’s platoon, of course.
And then there was the matter of that ridiculously sinister moustache Meryn had been cultivating.
“Taking a breather, chief?” Meryn suggested as
he approached the seated Soric.
Soric didn’t rise to the bait. “Just waiting for you to win the gakking war single-handed, lad,” he said, replacing his rebreather. “There’s a tank somewhere in the streets yonder. It’s making a gakking mess.”
Meryn turned and yelled: “Guheen?”
Trooper Guheen hurried up, a compact missile tube slung over one shoulder. Coreas came with him lugging the satchel of long-snouted rockets.
“Treads to feth,” Meryn told him. He turned to Soric. “So where’s this tank?”
Soric rose to his feet. He was a head shorter than Meryn and as ugly as Meryn was handsome. “If I knew that,” he said, “I’d have fethed the bastard myself.”
“Sure you would,” said Meryn, dubiously. He waved his platoon forward into the maze of side alleys behind the ruin of the scrivener’s. “Keep low!” he shouted. “Find this armour for me!”
Meryn’s platoon, fourteen, was tight and well-drilled, Soric had to give the pretty bastard that much.
He was about to yell at Vivvo to drag five platoon to order and show Meryn’s lot how it should be done when a scrap of paper landed at his feet. It was just one from the blizzard that had been blown up and out of the office collapse. Drifts of them, many burning, were settling over the ruins. But where all the others were white, Munitorum grade sheets, this was blue and lightweight.
He looked down at it, sighed deeply, then scooped it up.
On it, written in his own handwriting, were the words: Guheen’s going to get himself pulped if he goes that way. The tank is behind the cabinet maker’s shop.
Just like that. Bold as gak.
Soric shivered, tossed the scrap aside and yelled at the top of his voice: “Guheen! Hit the bricks!”
Guheen and Coreas both heard him, halted and looked back.
“Get down, you gakkers!” Soric bellowed, running forward. He slammed into Hefron from his own squad, and wrenched the tread fether out of his bemused hands.