[Gaunt's Ghosts 07] - Sabbat Martyr

by Dan Abnett

  Surrounded by the heaped dead, Innokenti stood before him. The Magister, more vile and wretched than anything Gaunt could have imagined, was locked sword to sword with the Beati.

  Every blow they exchanged, every strike, crashed like thunder. Sparks flew. Shockwaves from the meeting blades threw men around them — friend and foe alike — off their feet Hideous corposant writhed and seared around the Magister. Cold green fire, in the form of a great eagle with its wings unfurled, lit up the Saint.

  Gaunt charged forward, his boots slipping on the blood-wet stone.

  A daemon sprang at him, blocking his path. The beast was huge. It was cased in the blue-black armour of the Retinue, but its head was bare, the pink flesh grievously marked with ritual scars. Its mouth and nose were hidden behind an augmetic grille and its eyes were glowing yellow slits. It wielded a ghastly sword of serrated bone which grew out of its right fist. The flesh of that fist had peeled back, exposing grey finger bones that were fused into the long blade. It swung at Gaunt.

  Blood saved him. His boot slipped and he fell. The bone-blade whistled over his head and Gaunt rolled before it could slice back. He jumped to his feet and parried the daemon’s sword as it came at him, and then drove hard with a thrust that the beast turned aside.

  They circled amid the whirling carnage, trading blows with all their strength. Gaunt could no longer see the Beati.

  Only a greenish light in the air suggested she was still alive. Desperately, Gaunt lunged, but the daemon hooked the strike away, countering with a thrust that juddered Gaunt’s power sword down.

  His guard was open. The bone-blade came at his throat.

  A las-round smacked into the side of the daemon’s neck, and a second ripped open its shoulder guard. It stumbled away from Gaunt, turning.

  Brin Milo charged forward, power-cell spent, and rammed his straight silver up to the hilt in the daemon’s chest.

  Eaten by the beast’s acid blood, the blade snapped off. Milo staggered back. With a wordless scream, Gaunt swung around and put his power blade clean through the thing’s neck.

  Etrodai, life-ward of the Magister, fell dead, his changeling blade crumbling to dust.

  Gaunt and Milo turned and ran towards the Beati. Living fire was sizzling around her, and pouring like burning oil out across the pavements of the concourse.

  The fire was pouring from the disembowelled corpse of Enok Innokenti.

  “Holy Terra…” Gaunt stammered.

  Sabbat rose, the sightless, gaping head of the Magister dangling from her raised fist.

  “In the name of the Emperor!” she yelled. The luminous aquila around her flared to three times its size, snapping and beating at the high roof.

  The sound of her voice was so clear, so loud, it blew out the great windows of the concourse in a vast blizzard of glass.

  To a man, every archenemy warrior on Herodor shrieked.

  Where he had been hard-pressed just a minute before, Corbec now found himself facing an empty hallway. Weary and nervous, he edged his forces forward, dealing through to the western gate of the hive.

  Something had most definitely happened. The enemy forces had been all over them and now they were in flight.

  “Rerval? What’s the story, son?”

  Rerval shook his head. A huge and devastating rush of psyk-noise had just burned out all the comm channels and fused every vox-set in the hive area.

  “Could be a trick,” said Mkvenner.

  Corbec nodded. “Hold it here. The fethers don’t give up that easily. We’ve got a breathing space at least.”

  Mkvenner nodded. He rounded up the Ghosts and PDF in the immediate area and put them to work building barricades with the debris in the hall.

  Haller ran up as the work began.

  “Something’s going on,” he told Corbec. “Got no vox, but word of mouth says the enemy is falling back all over.”

  Corbec scratched his head. “Damned if I know what this is about.”

  “Colm?”

  Corbec looked round. Mkoll was approaching now. Some of his squad came up behind, battered and bleeding like the rest of them, escorting a figure.

  It was Soric.

  “He… he demands to talk to you,” said Mkoll.

  “Agun’s never had to ask for my ear in his life, Mkoll. He won’t start now either.”

  Corbec walked over to Soric. The old Verghastite was shaking and exhausted.

  “You have to warn Gaunt.”

  “Warn him?”

  “It’s not over.”

  “I’ll not argue with you, Agun. Something fishes going on but I d—”

  “No, Colm!” Soric pulled a brass message shell out of his pocket and opened it. “The nine. The nine are not finished. The psykers—”

  Corbec smiled. “I killed the psykers, Agun. Pater Sin and his two freaks. I sent them to hell.”

  Soric swallowed. “I know you did. It told me.”

  “What did?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Colm, they’d already imprinted their task. That’s what they were for. Not to kill the Beati like the others, but to choose and direct a killer who would do it for them. Someone close to her. And he’s still out there.”

  Corbec’s eyes widened. “Feth… What? Who?”

  “It showed me everything, Colm. It showed me what he was,” he said, holding out the ragged sheet of blue paper for Corbec to see.

  Milo put his arm around the Beati’s shoulders and led her across the concourse. She was shaking with exhaustion, and deep slashes from Innokenti’s blade were bleeding freely.

  “Medic! Medic here!” he called.

  The enemy had gone, in rapid retreat, their morale broken as much by the death of their overlord as by the victory of the Beati. Even now, the fleeing enemy forces were engaging with the pilgrim army in the high town as they tried to break off.

  It was not over. Indeed, the fight for Herodor was a long way from done. But for now, the looming defeat was postponed.

  The ruined concourse, adrift with smoke and crackling fires, was littered with the dead of both sides. Men picked their way through the rubble, looking for the wounded, for fallen comrades. Where they found the enemy alive, they were merciless.

  Dorden led a gaggle of medic teams out into the battlefield.

  “Here!” Milo called, and Dorden came running over.

  Gaunt and other officers stood warily by as Dorden treated the Beati’s wounds. “Can we get vox?” he asked Beltayn.

  “It’s all out, sir. The death scream of the enemy leader fried every circuit.”

  Gaunt turned to the men around him. “We’ve done a great thing this day. We’ve pulled back from a brink I was sure we would topple over. We have struck a great blow at the archenemy of mankind. Gather your units, see to the wounded, and spread this word, by mouth, to all you meet. The Beati is triumphant. Innokenti is dead. Make sure everyone knows it. Make sure every last damn citizen in the hives knows it.”

  The officers nodded and spread out.

  “I need to get her to an infirmary where there’s power,” Dorden said. “And I’ll need a stretcher…”

  “I can walk,” said Sabbat, rising.

  “Then we’ll walk with you,” said Gaunt. “Honour guard, here!”

  Milo stepped up, as well as Daur and Derin. Nessa also took a step forward. Gaunt nodded.

  Larkin, sat wearily against a wall nearby, got to his feet.

  “Me too, sir,” he said.

  Gaunt looked at him. “Any special reason, Larks?”

  Larkin gestured at the Ghosts around the Beati. “They were the honour guard. On Hagia. The ones she called.”

  Gaunt looked and realised the old sniper was right. Dorden, Daur, Nessa, Milo and Derin had all been part of Corbec’s inspired mission on the Shrineworld. Apart from Corbec himself, the only ones missing were the ones no longer alive. Greer, Vamberfeld and Bragg.

  “Try would’ve wanted me to fill in for him,” Larkin said. “It mattered to him. She matte
red. I… I can see why now.”

  “Carry on,” said Gaunt.

  Using lamp packs to light their way, and moving slowly, the escort left the Great Concourse and headed down the connective hallways towards the main stairwell. They walked through abandoned hive streets littered by warfare and looting. Terrified and stunned civilians huddled in the ruins and watched them pass by, bowing at the sight of the Saint.

  Edgy, Gaunt walked with them, desperate for the vox to come back so he could get a picture of the situation. He’d have to trust Rawne and Udol to get things solid without him.

  They were clearing another hallway, close to the access shafts, when Gaunt saw a flash of torchlight and heard a voice calling his name.

  Panting hard, Corbec ran up, followed by Soric.

  “What’s he doing here?” Gaunt asked.

  “His duty,” said Corbec. “There’s a killer out there still. One of the nine.”

  “What?”

  “The psyker’s imprinted someone,” Corbec said. “Someone suitable.” He held out the rag of blue paper to Gaunt.

  “Get her in cover!” Gaunt yelled and raised his lamp to read the scrap as Dorden and the honour guard hurried the Beati towards shelter. Nessa and Larkin immediately raised their long-lases and started to scan for trouble through their scopes.

  “No…” Gaunt said, reading the name on the paper. He swung round. “Milo! Get h—”

  A las-shot seared out of the darkness around them and hit the wall centimetres from the Beati’s head.

  Everyone dropped. Another two shots zapped at them. One hit Derin in the shoulder and threw him off his feet.

  “I can’t see him!” Larkin moaned, training his weapon.

  Two more shots whined in. Nessa tried a return, and banged a hot-shot into the darkness. The killer’s reply, a semi-auto flurry, hit Daur in the hip and slammed Dorden over against the wall.

  “He’s all over us!” Corbec yelled, down in cover beside Gaunt. “Did you see Soric’s note? Did you read what he did?”

  Fury boiled through Ibram Gaunt. Soric’s talent had not only identified the killer imprinted by Sin’s psykers, it had exposed him for all he was. Soric had seen into the hateful mind of a stone killer and revealed all his crimes.

  Lijah Cuu. Murderer. Rapist. Killer of Bragg. Killer of Sehra Muril.

  Corbec held out his laspistol to Gaunt.

  “On three?” he suggested.

  Gaunt looked back at the beleaguered escort. Daur and Derin were both writhing in pain. Dorden was lying on the ground and looked like he was dead. Nessa was pumping his chest frantically. Milo and Larkin, weapons raised, were shielding the Beati with their bodies.

  “Get ready to move her!” Gaunt yelled.

  He and Corbec leapt up and charged, firing into the dark. The laspistol cracked in Gaunt’s hand, spitting bars of light into the shadows. Corbec was beside him, spraying auto-fire from his lasrifle.

  A flurry of shots burned back at them.

  Gaunt leapt over a scatter of fallen wall stones and darted along the far wall. He fired into the shadows. “Cuu! Cuu, you bastard! I will have you!”

  A las-round hit Gaunt in the back and threw him hard onto his face. He felt the hot rush of blood leaking out of him. He tried to turn.

  “You first, sure as sure, then the bitch Beati,” Cuu said, kneeling on Gaunt’s back and making him yell with pain. “I’ll kill you all.”

  The straight silver came down to Gaunt’s throat.

  The hot-shot was so loud the noise of it rolled up and back down the hallway. Gaunt felt Cuu’s deadweight slam down across him. He struggled out from under Cuu’s body. Larkin bent down and dragged him up.

  Gaunt swayed. The wound in his back was agonising. He gazed down at Cuu’s ruined corpse.

  “Never did like him,” Larkin said.

  “He killed Bragg.”

  “I know, sir,” Larkin said.

  “Good shot. In the dark like that.”

  “I just fething wish I could have got a bead on him sooner,” said Larkin. His voice was low, as if strained by massive emotion.

  “What do you mean?” Gaunt asked. He stirred up and looked back down the hall. Pain flared through his back, but what he saw hurt him so much more.

  Twenty metres back down the hall, face down in a pool of blood, Colm Corbec lay dead.

  EPILOGUE

  The battle for Herodor lasted another six weeks. The vast invasion force fell back after Innokenti’s death, harried and harassed by the militant pilgrim army. Two days later, renewed and using its strengths to the, full, it re-assaulted the Civitas. Thousands of pilgrims perished in the resistance The Beati, limping from her wounds, led the counter push with the remnants of the Imperial strength — Ghosts, Regiment Civitas, PDF and the pilgrim host — and kept the massive force at bay for a week.

  Then the reinforcement fleet arrived, sent by the Warmaster. The initial fleet engagement lit up the night sky. A far greater and more bloody combat than is recorded in this account then took place. Over a period of weeks, the Magister’s forces were driven out of the Civitas, and extinguished in a final pitched land battle in the Stove Hills.

  The Tanith Ghosts played no part in that.

  Nor did they play a part in the overall victory. Freed from their obligations at Morlond and the front, large segments of the Crusade force were loosed to defend the Khan flank. The details of those actions is recorded in other works. It is sufficient to point out that had the Magister’s warhost not been so detained with the business of Herodor, the entire Khan Group would most likely have fallen, and the Crusade efforts been lost.

  The Beati’s efforts had been emphatic. She had forced the flank attack to be stillborn, and furthermore she had killed one of Gaur’s most senior lieutenants. The message sent to the enemy was devastating. As the Archon’s forces tumbled back into the edge systems of the Sabbat Worlds, Macaroth prepared for the final, triumphant era of the Crusade.

  As history records, it would not be easy. But for the while, the advantage was entirely his.

  Gaunt turned his face away from the stinging dust as the lander came in. It settled on the roofpad of Old Hive, and the thrusters died.

  He turned to face the Beati and knelt. She lifted him up again with both hands.

  “Not to me,” she said. “I should kneel to you.”

  “Do you know where they’re sending you?” Gaunt asked.

  “The front line. Carcaradon. To Macaroth’s side… as Lugo kept advising.”

  Gaunt smiled. “You knew better.”

  “Now, he’s right. I will not forget the service of the Ghosts, Ibram.”

  “Just do me a favour and look after him.”

  She smiled and nodded. “His destiny awaits us, Ibram Gaunt. It is more than you could possibly imagine.”

  She kissed Gaunt’s forehead and walked away towards the open ramp of the lander. Gaunt looked at Milo. He seemed happy and terrified, all at once. He ran over to Gaunt as if to hug him and then, at the last minute, stopped and threw a hard salute.

  Gaunt returned the salute. Then he drew his warknife and handed it to Milo.

  “You lost yours. Take mine with you now.”

  Milo looked at the straight silver in his hands for a moment and then ran to join Sabbat. The lander’s ramp closed, and it lifted away into the colourless sky on a roar of jets.

  “Goodbye, Brin,” Gaunt said, certain he would never see the boy again.

  The shuttle from the black ship was waiting. Ominous men in long dark robes paced about the platform. He could smell the ozone stink of power-goads. His hands shook in their cuffs.

  A black-robed figure strode down the landing ramp, glanced at a data-slate offered by a servitor, and walked towards him.

  “Name?”

  “Agun S—”

  A power-goad lashed him into silence.

  “His name is Agun Soric,” said the man standing beside him.

  “Evaluation?”

  “Psyker,
level beta.”

  The black robed figure nodded. “Sign the release, please.”

  Viktor Hark took hold of the data-slate with his newly implanted augmetic limb and studied it. He put his signature on the plate with the stylus and handed the slate back to the inquisitor. “Where are you taking him?” Hark asked.

  “Where he belongs. It’s no concern of yours,” said the robed inquisitor. “Advance him!” he yelled, and the handlers goaded the shackled Soric up the ramp.

  Hark could hear Soric sobbing. He turned away, shutting it out.

  A brass message shell sat on the deck grille at his feet. Hark leaned down and picked it up in his augmetic hand. He opened it and knocked out the paper.

  Two words were written on the blue scrap.

  Help me.

  Hark turned back and watched as the shuttle lifted off and swung up and away into the sky.

  The saw was shrilling. The lovely whine of good wood splitting. The air was thick with aromatic dust.

  Colm Corbec walked into the little woodshop off Guild Slope and watched for a while as the old man — what was his name again… Wyze?—worked the wood. Business had been brisk. Feth, yes! Coffins for the departed. God-Emperor, that was supply and demand!

  Corbec stepped into the pungent, dry air of the woodshop, and ran his hand down a length of mature timber. Not nalwood, but good.

  This Wyze He was all on his own, without any assistance. Not the way Corbec’s father would have run it. He needed a hand.

  Corbec rolled up his sleeves. He knew this work. He liked it. He’d stay awhile and help out.

  “No other wood will do. You understand?”

  “Yes, Mister Gaunt,” said Guffrey Wyze.

  “That’s Colonel-commissar—” Gaunt began and then shook his head. “Nalwood. All of it.”

  “It’s your money, sir. Friend of yours, was it?”