by Dan Abnett
“I think we might have to take that chance,” said Gaunt. “Agreed?”
Biagi nodded. The handlers charged their goads. The sharp stink of ozone filled the little cell.
Dorden thumped the one-dose derma-ject into Soric’s arm and wiped the puncture with a swab loaded with rubbing alcohol. Soric trembled, shivered and convulsed.
Then he snapped awake, staring at Gaunt with his one good eye.
“Sir?”
“Tell me about the nine, chief.”
“Nine. That’s what it said. It wouldn’t shut up about it.” Soric raised his hand, and Gaunt saw it was holding the brass message shell. How the feth had it got back into his hand?
“Ever since Phantine, when I was hurt on Phantine, the thing has been there. Not speaking to me, you understand. Writing to me. All very civilised. I would open the shell and ooops! There’s another message. Split left, split right, head down the wall there… all that shit. Combat shit. Just a word to the wise. I never worried about it. God-Emperor, I know I should have! I should have told you about it long ago!”
“Why didn’t you worry about it?” asked Gaunt.
“Because it was in my handwriting. I like a drink or two, you know that sir. I wondered… had I written it and forgotten…?”
“All these messages?”
“No. No! But at the start of it, a little. Then, when I realised it was more than that, I was too scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of men like you,” Soric said, pointing at Gaunt. “Of men like them,” he added sourly, gesturing to the handlers.
“Milo told me what I should do,” said Soric. Gaunt glanced at Beltayn. “He told me to be a man and fess up.”
“What… what is the shell telling you now, chief?”
“The shell always knows. It knew about Herodor long before we were marked up and shipped out. It knew. It just knows. Nine. Nine are coming.”
“Nine what?”
“Nine killers.”
“Coming to kill the Beati?”
Soric nodded.
“There is a vast army on Herodor trying to kill the Beati,” said Biagi.
“But the nine are special. They have been charged by the Magister. They are deep inside us. The shell says so. Deeper inside us than we dare realise.”
“What are they?” Gaunt asked.
“Wait,” said Soric. He put the message shell back into his pocket and then drew it out again. When he opened it there was a flimsy sheet of blue paper folded up inside.
He flattened the sheet out to read it, and held it up close to his deformed eye.
“Nine A marksman. Three psykers. Three reptiles. A phantom. A death-machine.”
Outside the simple cell, Gaunt leaned heavily against the wall and wiped the rank sweat from his brow.
“Did you feel it in there?”
Biagi nodded.
“Like a swamp suddenly, so hot, so damp…”
“He’s a psyker. He should burn.”
“Not while he’s useful. Forget the invasion force, the archenemy has deployed specialist assassins into the Civitas. We have to find them fast.”
“But—”
“Think, Biagi! I told you this war was symbolic! All that matters, all that your world is worth, is the life or death of the Beati. We have to find these killers and kill them before they win this outright.”
Biagi shrugged. “What do we know? He told us so little. A marksman…?”
“Dead already, I think,” said Gaunt “One down. The reptiles…”
“We know there are loxatl active,” said Dorden. Gaunt nodded.
“He mentioned a phantom,” said Biagi. “I interviewed a life company trooper called Boles just thirty minutes ago. He told me how Landfreed and a whole fire-team were taken down by a ghost that came out of nowhere.”
“Ghost?” Dorden echoed.
Biagi smiled. “Forgive me A spectre. Boles is an experienced veteran. He was sure it was of the piratical devil-breed.”
Gaunt shuddered. Not since his days as a cadet, many years before Balhaut, had he been forced to deal with those vicious killers, the so-called dark eldar.
“What about the three psykers? And this… what did he call it? This death-machine?”
“We’ll find them,” said Gaunt.
“How?” Biagi laughed.
“We’ll find the Beati. They’re all looking for her.”
“What did the prophecy mean, sir?” Beltayn asked as he walked with Gaunt out through the exit hatches of the keep.
“Sister Elinor said there were two dangers: one truly evil, one misunderstood. I believe that misunderstood one is Soric. Remember, she told me to be wary, because commissars are trigger happy? That seems to fit He’s the key and I could have had him executed before I found that out.”
“What about the other?”
“Well, that’s what we’re looking for.”
“And what did she say at the end… ‘Let your sharpest eye show you the truth’?”
Gaunt nodded. “Raise all sections still in the field. Tell them the Beati is at risk and they should locate her and safeguard her. And get me Mkoll on the link. He’s my sharpest eye.”
Gaunt paused. “And get me Larkin too.”
“Holiness! Your holiness!” Domor ran across the yard to where the Beati stood. Milo was with her. She seemed to be staring at the sky.
Domor had to shout to make himself heard over the bombardment rippling through the nearby streets.
“Another vox-signal! From Marshal Biagi this time. He repeats Colonel-commissar Gaunt’s instructions. We must make our way to Old Hive. It’s imperative! Holiness?”
“I think she understands,” said Milo. The ground shook as a tank round demolished a commercial property not seventy metres away. “We can’t stay out here much longer anyway.”
Sabbat shivered, as if the night air was cold. In truth, it was sweltering hot from the raging firestorms.
“What is it?” Milo asked.
“He’s coming. The endgame is on us.”
“Who is she talking about?” Domor asked Milo.
Milo shook his head. “We have to go to Old Hive now, Sabbat,” Milo said. “They’re waiting for us. They need us.”
The Beati turned and looked at him with a half-smile. Sometimes, like now with the flame-light starkly side-lighting her features, she had a terrible, terrifying aspect.
“Soon,” she assured. “One last venture. We must get to the agridomes.”
Out on the bare wastes of the Great Western Obsidae, the night was a hard, dry sub-zero, cut by merciless winds from the outer zones. Phospha lamps glowed and swung in the wind, coldly illuminating the row upon row of empty landers and transport ships. Their mouth hatches were open, pointing south.
There, distantly, the Civitas lay, submerged in the murk and flash of war. The orange glow of the firestorms lit the low sky.
Thrusters whining and cycling hard a single lander, more massively armoured than the rest, came in low, sheeting up dust waves more fiercely than the desert winds. Its Locust escort turned and banked away. Burners flared blue. Hydraulic landing claws extended, and the battle transport settled like a giant mosquito.
The ramps opened. Light shone out Crews of slave-carls spewed from the hatches, followed by a formal marching block of Retinue in full armour. The Retinue, five hundred strong, divided with parade ground precision, swung their weapons to shoulder in a perfectly synchronised movement, and formed two lines of honour guard.
Etrodai, his changeling blade skinned and hungry, strode down the ramp and He followed.
He was dressed for war in gleaming beetle-black armour. His face was masked by His antlered helmet. The Retinue murmured their moan of respect.
Enok Innokenti, Magister, Warlord, chosen disciple of the Archon, set foot on the dusty soil of Herodor. He raised His arms in salutation.
The Retinue screamed His name.
TWELVE
IN THE NAME OF SABBAT
—Ibram Gaunt
Some of the men in Corbec’s platoon were getting vocal with their complaints, and Corbec could half understand why.
“When the feth do we get to fall back?” said Bewl.
“For feth’s sake, why are we still out here?” said Cown.
“We have a job to do, boys,” Corbec assured them. Instructions had been simple. Find the Beati and get her back to Old Hive. And watch out in particular for the really bad things. Of which there were nine, apparently.
They weren’t fighting anymore. They were sneaking. Cloaked up, stealthy, using every shred of Tanith woodcraft to edge through the splintered ruins of Guild Slope. They dodged advancing Blood Pact units, and hid while crimson tanks grumbled past, lamps blazing. There was the odd fire-fight or three, when circumstances demanded, but then it was strictly hit and run.
They were working the shadows and staying alive.
Corbec was glad to have Mkvenner back with him. He’d lost count of the Blood Pact throats Ven had sliced that night as he led them at point. There was no getting away from the fact that they were all going to die here on Herodor, one way or another. That was the way the odds were stacked, and not even Varl or Feygor would have given better. But by feth, they were going to make a good account of themselves.
His camo-cloak pulled up around him like a hood, Corbec scuttled forward at a signal from Ven, passing Orrin, Cown, Cole and Irvinn in cover. He reached the street turn and used the shadows cast by a burning community hall to blend into the scenery. He raised a hand, made a signal of his own. Veddekin, Ponore, Sillo, Androby, and Brown sprinted up on his heels and vanished into the shot-up print shop to his left. Then Surch and Loell moved up smartly, lugging the .50 and its panniers of ammo.
Corbec scurried over to fresh cover. He was quiet for a big man. Rerval and Roskil covered him, and then slipped in behind him.
The three of them were running, in file, down to the end of the block. A tank, or something similar, had flattened the building there and left nothing but ragged rockcrete sections, sprouting the broken strands of their internal metal reinforcement.
Mkvenner reappeared, jogging back to them, light on his feet.
“Some kind of covered market to the left there. The road to the right is blocked. We could carry on down the hill if we follow that side street.”
“Can we go through the market?” Corbec asked.
“I haven’t scoped it.”
“Let’s try.” Corbec rose, and flashed a finger signal back. Then he and Ven were running forward again, with Brown, Cole, Sillo and Roskil behind them.
The covered market had once had a glass roof, but the Shockwaves from the shelling had brought it down. Some wooden screens remained. The produce shops and trader barrows inside were all locked up and shuttered.
“Doesn’t look promising,” Ven said.
Corbec nodded, and turned to go back. Then he stopped. He had smelt something. It was faint, very faint almost masked by the rich stink of smoke and burning fuel.
Something like cinnamon. He knew that smell, vividly. That particular reek. From Hagia, the Doctrinopolis… what was it now? Four years ago?
He’d never forget it. It was in his nightmares still. A moment in his life no amount of good nights’ sleep could wear away. Him and the poor boy Yael. Prisoners of the Infardi. And that thing, that monster in human form. The one who’d butchered Yael just to hear him scream.
It couldn’t be! That bastard was long dead…
Corbec breathed in again: cinnamon, sweat, decay. Faint, but lingering.
“Cover me,” he said to Ven, and ignored the askance look the scout gave him.
Corbec advanced into the market lasrifle low and ready. He took care with every step. The floor was covered in chips of broken glass from the roof. On the edge of his nerves and as fine as any Tanith scout Corbec made no sound.
He prowled in, checking from side to side. Twice, he jumped at shadows and almost discharged his weapon. The smell grew stronger.
Corbec saw movement. Low down, under a trader’s barrow. He circled, switching his lasrifle to a single-handed grip as he fished out a lamp-pack. He edged round the cart, and saw there were two kids hiding between the wheels. Little, hunched up kids. One of them was waving his hand beside his head, as if he was trying to fan the close air. Corbec came around further, and clicked on the pack. He lit the kids up with a hard-light beam and they didn’t flinch. He saw their faces.
“Oh feth!” he growled.
Something hit him from behind, a heavy, powerful mass that reeked of sweat and cinnamon. Corbec lurched forward and crashed into the cart, overturning it.
The weight was on him. He felt a knifing pain in his left shoulder.
Corbec yowled and smacked back with his elbow. The weight reduced, and he rolled, groping for his rifle. He blundered into the kids… though from his brief glimpse of them he knew they were not kids… and felt them grab at him.
“Colonel? Sir?” Corbec could hear Ven shouting. He heard men running forward over the glass litter. A lasrifle fired.
Mkvenner came charging in, with Brown and Cole beside him. Roskil and Sillo were close behind. Cole had already fired, shredding the shutters of a produce shop behind the shuffling twins. The twins seized each other and switched their sightless heads around in unison, looking at Cole. The concussive psi-wave hit him and broke every bone in his body. His limp, flopping form flew backwards into the air like a weighted sack, up and out through the market’s roof, snapping a support truss with a sickening crunch.
Corbec leapt up, and switched around. He saw a flash of green silk and a glint of exposed fangs.
“Sin!” he screamed, and slammed out a fist that met Pater Sin in the face. The huge Infardi crumpled and crashed away, smashing over another two carts. Buttons and beads spilled across the floor.
“Pater Sin!” Corbec yelled again, and dived at the rolling bulk. The twins heard his cry and switched their heads towards him. The psi-shock caught him a glancing blow and tumbled him head over heels into the shutters of a shop on the far side of the aisle. He broke several slats, and fell onto the ground.
Mkvenner leapt onto Sin as he tried to get up. They grappled furiously, and the scout brought him down again. Sin slammed out a tattooed arm and smacked Mkvenner sideways.
The twins opened their mouths and the buzzing sound gushed out. Brown and Roskil skidded to a halt, and swayed, blood gushing from their nostrils and ears. Roskil raised his lasrifle and shot Brown between the eyes. Then he swung round drunkenly and aimed at Sillo, who was backing away in terror.
There was a blurt of las-fire on auto. Mkvenner was up on one knee, blasting. The twins slammed back against the wall together, and slid down, leaving sticky swipes of blood behind them. Roskil, brain-fried, collapsed as they died.
Howling, Pater Sin threw himself at Corbec. His lethal implants gnashed and bit at the Ghost’s neck. Corbec fended Sin off with his left arm, groping with his right to find something to use against the maniac. Something. Anything.
He got his fingers around something metallic and hard. He hoped to feth it was his warknife. He pulled it and stabbed it into the side of Sin’s skull. It didn’t penetrate, but the blow cracked Sin back for a second.
It wasn’t Corbec’s straight silver at all. It was a tube-charge.
Corbec swore and flinched as Sin came in again. His massive body pinned Corbec, and his augmetic fangs opened to rip his enemy’s throat out.
Corbec jammed the tube into the yawning mouth as Sin bit down. His razor teeth clamped solidly into the tube’s metal casing. Sin tried to pull away. Corbec got his legs up under Sin’s torso and kicked out, throwing the heretic backwards off him.
A torn strand of det tape remained between Corbec’s fingers.
“That’s for Yael, feth-face!” Corbec yelled as he threw himself flat.
The tube-charge anchored in Pater Sin’s teeth detonated
.
Spattered in Sin’s vaporised remains, Corbec rose. He hurried over to Mkvenner, who’d been thrown flat by the blast.
“Got the bastard,” Corbec said.
Caffran suddenly realised what he was looking at He’d taken point down a side street, and was hunched in cover as the Ghosts moved up behind him. The view ahead was dark and empty, heavily shadowed by the bulk of an aqueduct that ran overhead and down the slope into the lower city where the night was firelit orange.
Caffran was looking for movement at street level, but he was distracted by a motion up in the shadows of the aqueduct. Roosting birds, he thought and then remembered that he’d not seen any bird life on Herodor.
He stared up. A pale shape seemed to be moving along the outside of the aqueduct, insubstantial as smoke.
“Stand by,” he voxed. “There’s something—”
And he realised what he was seeing. Two loxatl, sleek and fluid as fish in water, racing along the sheer brickwork, about to cross right over their position.
“Hostiles! Eleven o’clock!” he yelled and opened fire up into the shadows of the arch. The gunfire rolled in the echoing space and his shots, bright and furious, lit up the bricks beside creatures. One immediately disappeared up over the top of the aqueduct, and the other one came down the support pier at a stupendous rate, its long body undulating and glinting. About three metres from the street, it propelled itself over onto the facing wall of the hab opposite, its dewclaws allowing it to skitter up the vertical surface.
Cafrran ran forward, firing again. Feygor, Leyr and Dunik were up beside him, but they hadn’t seen what he had seen.
“Caff?”
“Loxatl! Feth, up there!”
Cafrran shot at the front of the hab, though in truth he couldn’t see the thing clearly anymore. Dunik and Feygor blasted with him, blindly following his lead. The Ghosts had a particular revulsion for the loxatl kind.
The thing reappeared, lower than Caffran was estimating. Little augmetic servo-limbs in its weapons harness clacked its blaster round and it fired.