As the Salamander slowed, Ludd got to his feet and stared out over the cabin top. He’d never seen anything like it.
The column was bunching up ahead. The relief forces from post 10 were coming up against the exodus from the north. There was panic and confusion. Over the Salamander’s vox-caster, Gaunt could hear frantic chatter. Calls for help, calls for clarification, calls for orders. He knew the sound only too well. It was the sound of defeat. It was the terrible sound the Imperial Guard made when it fell apart.
“Post 12?” he asked the Salamander’s vox operator. The man shook his head.
“Sir!” Ludd called out sharply. Gaunt joined him at the front of the Salamander’s compartment and took up a scope. The ragged edge of the firestorms lay about three kilometres in front of them, and through it, the first enemy units had just emerged. Tanks, some churning fire, scrub and earth ahead of them with massive dozer blades; self-propelled guns, lurching out of the smoke; platoons of troops in rebreathers. Gaunt could see the flash of shells landing amongst the fleeing Imperial forces. He saw the bright surge-fires of the flamer weapons the Blood Pact was using to drive all before it. A quick estimate put the number of enemy vehicles at three hundred plus, and that was just what he could see. There was no telling the infantry strength.
“Throne, this is awful,” Ludd said.
“Nothing gets by you, eh, Nahum?” Gaunt replied. He jumped down from the Salamander and hurried on up the track on foot to the brow of the hill. There, Whitesmith stood in conference with some of his senior unit officers.
“Situation?” Gaunt asked.
“We’ve just had an unconfirmed report that Colonel Stonewright has been killed.” Stonewright was the Second Binar’s commanding officer, who had led the support forces in an hour in front of them. Whitesmith’s orders had been to move in to support him.
“That puts you in charge, Whitesmith,” Gaunt said. “These men are waiting for your orders.”
Whitesmith straightened himself up, as if he’d only just realised that. “Yes, commissar, of course.” He paused. “I’ve called in for more air cover.”
“That’s good. That’s about the only advantage we have right now.”
Whitesmith gestured to his left. “The bulk of our armour is down that way, though Throne knows it’s hardly deployed properly. Beyond it, towards that lake, I think we’ve got auxiliary light armour, the Dev Hetra 301, but I’ve no idea what shape they’re in.”
“Other side?” Gaunt asked, glancing south.
“The bulk of our infantry, and two columns of Sarpoy armour. See for yourself, though. It’s a shambles.”
Whitesmith looked at Gaunt. “I can’t raise Marshal Sautoy. I can’t even get a clean patch through to the Sarpoy or Dev Hetra commanders. And I’m afraid I can tell for a fact that my boys are close to breaking. They’ve had no experience of this. Line discipline has gone and—”
“Line discipline is my job, Major Whitesmith. Stop worrying whether the men will do as you tell them, and start worrying about what it is you’re actually going to order them to do.”
Whitesmith shook his head. “I believe I have two options on that score, sir. The first is to hand command to you.”
“Whitesmith, I’m a commissar, not a command officer. It’s my place to advise, muster control and make sure orders are followed. It’s not in my remit to decide strategy.”
Deep, rolling booms echoed in across the lowland floodplain. The enemy tanks were shelling with more fervour. “With respect, Gaunt,” Whitesmith said soberly, “you were a line officer and a commander for a long time. A successful, decorated commander. You’ve had a damn sight more experience of front-line engagement than me or any of my staff, and you’ve lived to carry that wisdom forward. For pity’s sake, sir, I hardly think this is a moment to stick to some feeble rule of authority. Are you honestly going to stand by and watch while I struggle and lead these young men into a shambolic disaster?”
“No, major. In my capacity as an agent of the Imperial Commissariat, I am going to support you in the implementation of your command decisions. You were given your rank for a reason. You are an officer and a leader of men, and your training should tell you what to do under these circumstances.”
Whitesmith smiled sadly. “Then there’s the second option, commissar. My forces are in disarray. The enemy’s right upon us. I must order an immediate retreat in order to salvage what lives and materiel I can.”
“What about a third option, major?” Gaunt said.
“Dammit, there is no—”
“There’s always another option, Whitesmith!” Gaunt snapped. “Think of one! You were kind enough to remember I was once a successful commander in war. Do you think for a moment those successes came easily? That I never had to wrack my brains and think beyond the obvious? Tell me, quickly, what would you do if this was more to your liking?”
“What?”
“Ignore the immediate problems. Imagine you’ve got the Jantine Patricians here under your command, or a phalanx of Cadian Kasrkin. Battle-hardened veterans, ready and eager for your orders. What would those orders be, Whitesmith?”
“I’d…” Whitesmith began. “I’d order them to hold this ridge line, and the open fen down to the lake there. That would give us the best defensive file.”
“Good. Go on.”
“I’d spread the infantry out, right along the line, and swing two squadrons of armour up over the ridge onto the right flank. I’d deploy artillery in the low land behind us and start shelling the enemy before they got any closer. And I’d make damn sure the Dev Hetra and Sarpoy understood that I needed their firm support.”
Gaunt smiled and smacked the Binar on the shoulder. “That sounds like a plan to me, sir.”
“But—”
“Call up your officers. Finesse that plan for five minutes, get it solid and workable, make sure everyone knows what they’re supposed to be doing.”
“Where will you be?” Whitesmith asked.
“Holding up my side of the bargain,” Gaunt replied, “by making sure your orders are followed when they come.”
Gaunt hurried back down the dirt track to Ludd and Ironmeadow. Eszrah lurked behind them, gazing dubiously at the creeping curtain of fire and smoke approaching like doomsday across the scrubby landscape.
“Ironmeadow,” Gaunt said. Your services as a liaison are no longer required.”
“Sir?”
“Look about you, man. Whitesmith needs every officer he can get. Go to him, listen to him, obey him. You’ve got rank there, Ironmeadow. Use it. Give an example to your men and they will follow you. Whitesmith’s counting on you.”
“Yes, sir!” Ironmeadow said.
“I know you’re young and this is new to you, Ironmeadow, but I have faith. You faced down a stalker last night and lived to tell the tale.”
“Only because you saved my bloody life, sir,” Ironmeadow groaned.
“It doesn’t matter. You’ve looked death in the eyes, and survived. That’s more than any of these young men can say. That makes you special, tempered, like any good officer or fine piece of steel. It almost makes you a veteran. Strength of character, Captain Ironmeadow.”
Ironmeadow smiled.
“Tell every Binar you meet that Ibram Gaunt is with them, and Ibram Gaunt expects to be honoured by the company he keeps. And Ironmeadow?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I expect to read your name in despatches tomorrow, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir!” Ironmeadow replied, and ran up the slope to where Whitesmith was convening his officers.
“Ludd?” Gaunt said, turning to his junior. “I want you to go find every commissar on this hillside and get them assembled here in the next ten minutes.”
“Sir?”
“The Binars have at least three, Ludd. Find them for me.”
Ludd hesitated. The sound of shelling was rolling ever closer. There were dark strands of smoke in the wind.
“What are you waiting for?�
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“Nothing, sir. I’m on it.” Ludd hurried away.
With Eszrah at his heels, tall and ominous, Gaunt crossed the trackway to the left and hurried down a slope of patchy grass onto a muddy strand beside a long pool. Almost a hundred Binar troopers were gathered there, gazing at the oncoming horror. Behind them, several Binar treads had come to a halt, bottled up.
“You men!” Gaunt yelled. Some of them turned and straightened up at the sight of an approaching commissar.
“What the hell are you doing?” Gaunt demanded, splashing closer. There were a few, miserable answering grunts. Gaunt leapt up onto a limestone boulder at the edge of the pool so that they could all see him.
“You see the emblem on my cap?” he cried out. “Commissariat, that’s right! You know what that means, don’t you? It means bully! It means discipline master! It means the lash of the God-Emperor, driving you cowards to a miserable end! Let me show you something else…”
He drew a bolt pistol in one fist, his power sword in the other, and held them both up so that the crowd of men could see. “Tools of my trade! They kill the enemy, they kill cowards! Either one, they’re not fussy! Now listen to this…”
Gaunt dropped his voice, made it softer, but still injected the well-practiced projection qualities he had honed over the years, so that they could all still hear him. “You want to run, don’t you? You want to run right now. You want to get out of here. Get to safety. Throne, I know you all do.” He sheathed his sword and reholstered his gun. “I could wave those about some more. I could tell you, and Throne knows I wouldn’t be lying, that whatever it is coming this way in that wall of smoke is nothing compared to my wrath. I could tell you I’m the thing to be frightened of.”
He jumped down off the boulder and walked in amongst them. Some of the men backed away. “If you want to run, men of Fortis Binary, then go ahead. Run. You might outrun the archenemy, bearing down on us now. Feth, you might even outrun me. But you will never, ever outrun your conscience. Your world suffered under the yoke of the Ruinous Powers for a long time. You’re only here today, as free men of the Imperium, because others did not run. Your fathers and uncles and brothers, and young men, just like you, Imperial Guardsmen from a hundred scattered worlds, who had the courage to stand and fight. For your world. For Fortis Binary. I know this because I was there. So, run, if you dare. If you can live with it. If you can face the dreams, and the pangs of conscience. If you can even bear to think of the fathers and uncles and brothers you lost.”
He paused. There was a strained silence, broken only by the booming sound of the shelling behind him.
“Alternatively, you can stay here, and follow Major Whitesmith’s orders, and fight like men. You can stay, and honour the memory of your fathers, and your uncles and your brothers. You can stay and stand with me, for the Imperium, for the God-Emperor. And for Fortis Binary.”
Gaunt walked back to the boulder he had vacated and climbed back onto it. “What do you say?” he asked.
The men cheered approval. It was hearty, and just what Gaunt had been looking for. He smiled and raised a fist. “Squad leaders form up! Get this trackway cleared so the treads can roll through! Unit commanders! Where are you? Come on! Get yourselves up onto the trackway so Whitesmith can brief you! Support weapons, through to the front and get set up! Let’s move!”
The men started moving. Gaunt jumped down. He turned to Eszrah. “Come on,” he urged.
They splashed across the edges of the pool, onto the far slope and ran towards the next gaggle of Binars, milling purposelessly on the adjacent ridge top. The men there had seen the activity below, heard the sudden cheer, and stood bewildered.
“Histye, soule!” Eszrah called.
“What?” Gaunt looked back over his shoulder, still running.
“Preyathee, wherein wastye maden so?”
“Blood,” said Gaunt simply. “My blood. My father.”
Eszrah nodded, and followed Gaunt up the slope. The Binars crowded there spread back from the commissar. Gaunt hurried to a parked Chimera and clambered up the access rungs onto its roof. He stood there for a moment, looking down at the huddled men. So young, all of them. So scared.
“Sons of Fortis Binary,” he began, “I’ll keep this simple. I’ll tell you what I just told your comrades down in the vale…”
It was almost fifteen minutes before Gaunt and Eszrah returned to the trackway. The enemy line, indeed the firestorm itself, was much closer. The forward edge of the Binar formation was now less than a kilometre from the advance, and the rain of shells from the Blood Pact armour had begun to find range. Binar and Sarpoy tanks started to open up in reply. From behind the Binars’ forward position, the artillery commenced barrage firing, lofting shells over into the Blood Pact lines.
Gaunt checked in with Whitesmith. The man was pale with tension, but also enervated. “I’ve lined them all out,” he told Gaunt. “And the armour’s all but deployed. Some slackness from the infantry. Most of them are still scared. It’s the ones in flight, you see.”
By then, the exodus of troops and machines fleeing before the invasion had begun to trickle through the reinforcement line. The sight of them, and the stories they were bringing with them, were steadily eroding resolve.
“Tell your officers to let them come through,” Gaunt said. “Don’t oppose them. They’re running anyway, nothing’s going to change that. Let them through and ignore them.”
“That an order, sir?” Whitesmith smiled.
“No,” Gaunt smiled back. “Just an informed suggestion. It’s going to get bad in the next half-hour or so, major. I won’t lie. Keep the line, and trust your men. The Emperor protects.”
Whitesmith saluted Gaunt and ran back to his Salamander. Shells were now whistling down and impacting on the lower slope of the rise where the track fell away. Gaunt hurried back down the roadway to Ludd.
Ludd had assembled five commissars. An elderly senior attached to the Sarpoy called Blunshen, two of the primary Binar commissars—Fenwik and Saffonol—and two young juniors.
“Gentlemen,” Gaunt said as he came up to them.
“The state is parlous,” Blunshen said at once. “With such woeful measure of resolve, and such feeble unit connection, we must supervise an immediate fall-back and—”
“Blunshen, is it?” Gaunt asked.
“Yes, commissar.”
“Chain of command places Major Whitesmith in charge of this action. I am Major Whitesmith’s commissar, and so that gives me authority here. Do you agree?”
“I suppose so,” said the old commissar.
“Good. No more talk of retreat. From anyone, especially someone wearing that badge. Marshal Sautoy’s last orders to me were to accomplish the maintenance of decent battlefield morale and discipline along this line. That’s right, isn’t it, Ludd?”
“To the letter, sir.”
“Good,” said Gaunt. There will be no falling back. Not on my watch. Whitesmith has devised a scheme of resistance. Are you all familiar with it?”
“I made sure the major’s orders were circulated,” Ludd said.
“The archenemy has us on the ropes here,” Gaunt said. They must not be allowed to prevail. If we break now—or fall back, Commissar Blunshen—then the third compartment will be forfeit. Do you know what that means?”
“A severe set-back to our advance into the Mons structure—” Blunshen began.
“No, Blunshen, It means Lord General Van Voytz will be angry. I happen to know him, and I do not want to be on the receiving end of that anger. The seven of us will make the difference between success and failure today. The Guardsmen here are well-armed, well-trained, and capable. The only thing they lack is discipline. They’re scared. It’s up to us to enforce the control they need. It’s up to us to make sure Whitesmith’s entirely workable strategy pays off. The Guard needs inspiration and motivation, gentlemen. Few though we are, we have to accomplish that. Blunshen, I’d like you to return to your Sarpoy units and make sure
they hold the right flank. A great deal depends on their crossfire and support. Explain to them if you have to, that the Fortis Binars in the middle width of the line will be slaughtered if they don’t maintain fire-rate.”
Blunshen nodded. “I’ll see to it at once.”
Gaunt turned to the others. “What’s your name? Fenwik? And you? Saffonol? Good to meet you. Whitesmith has drawn his armour line out across this ridge, and laced the infantry in between it. We have to hold that echelon stable. Fenwik, go south. Maintain firing discipline there, keep the tanks shooting. Range is all we have. Saffonol, head forward, take charge of the units at the head of the rise. Do not, and I emphasise, do not, allow the troop units to charge and lose the advantage of gradient. Use your crew-served support weapons.”
Both men nodded.
“You juniors, step up. What are your names?”
“Kanfreid, sir.”
“Junior Loboskin.”
“Move to the rear, sirs. We won’t survive this without the artillery support, and artillery units have a habit of getting edgy and pulling out because they’re too far away from the visible line to understand what’s happening. Assure them everything’s fine. Dissuade them from leaving. How you do that I leave up to you. Just keep your cool, and keep the rate up. Even if we break, we’ll need the field guns to cover us. They must keep firing. In the event of a rout, they can ditch their cannon and run at the last minute.”
“Yes, sir,” the young men echoed.
“Get on with it!” Gaunt cried with a clap of his hands. The commissars hurried away. Gaunt turned to Ludd.
“I’m intending to cover the northern flank of the Binars,” Gaunt said. “I need you to press on further north and link up with the Dev Hetra units. I need you to keep them solid.”
Ludd paused. “Sir,” he began.
“What is it, Ludd?”
[Gaunt's Ghosts 09] - His Last Command Page 24