by Dan Abnett
Shrouded in smoke, coughing, they struggled back up.
“All right,” said Kolosim. “Which of you jokers had a rocket launcher in his pocket all along?”
“Eighty-First First!” Maggs yelled out. “Eighty-First First!” He was pointing back into the open country behind them.
“Holy feth,” said Caober.
The soldiers of E Company were yelling as they came charging in around either side of the house. The cry they made was incoherent, but the intent, the passion, unmistakable. Warriors of the Imperium, blood up, with the enemy in sight. The scouts saw the flash of fixed blades against the dark battledress of the running figures.
“Now that’s a sight,” said Bonin.
There would be no time for finesse, Rawne realised. This was going to be a pitched battle in the antique sense of the word, infantry line against infantry line. There was no cover, no terrain for ranged fighting, and no room for flanking moves. Face to face, hand to hand, the way wars used to be fought.
E Company had the slope on their side. They poured over the rim of it, running towards the enemy, firing shots from weapons that they were brandishing like spears. The Blood Pact seemed to balk en masse, as if they could not quite understand what was happening. Those at the top of the slope froze in dismay, those further back hesitated because they couldn’t see what was coming.
The lines struck with a visceral, crunching impact of bodies, helmets and battle-plating. The sounds of shooting, shouting and striking became frenetic.
Caffran and Guheen ran into the ruin with the scouts. Both were lugging launcher tubes. Dunik followed, carrying a drum of rockets.
“Welcome to my world,” Caober said to Guheen.
“That your handiwork?” Bonin asked Caffran, who was loading up another rocket.
Caffran glanced at the headless stalk-tank smouldering beyond the wall. “Yes. Bit of a risk at the range I had, but I thought you’d appreciate the effort.”
Guheen had already shouldered his tread-fether and taken aim at the second tank. “Ease!” he yelled. The men around him opened their mouths to help with the discomfort of the pressure punch. Guheen’s tread-fether barked out a hot backwash of flame and spat a rocket into the shoulder of the second tank. It shook with the impact, badly damaged but still active.
“Load me!” Guheen shouted to Dunik.
Caffran was crouching by the wall with his own tube. “Ease!” he warned, and fired. His streaking rocket hit the second tank and finished the work Guheen had begun. The main body section blew apart with huge force, probably helped by the detonation of the tank’s own munitions, and dozens of the Blood Pact around it were roasted in the firewash.
“Aim for the third tank,” Mkoll told Caffran. The formidable plasma mount had opened up, slicing beam-energy mercilessly into the ranks of E Company. The air was suddenly ripe with the smell of cooked blood and bone.
Rockets squealed out from several points in the E Company spread. A Belladon trooper called Harwen scored the winning shot. The third tank went up, its oversized head spinning away, decapitated, still firing plasma beams wildly like a firecracker as it bounced amongst the Blood Pact lines.
Rawne and Feygor were right in the thick of it, lost in the punching, whirling, deafening violence of the fight. Rawne shot those he could shoot, and smashed his bayonet into those who were too close. The last proper action he’d seen had been back during the last days on Gereon, and he’d briefly forgotten the way killing had come to feel. This slaughter quickly reminded him.
Once, combat had been about pride and fury for Elim Rawne, the honest, hot-blooded endeavour of a fighting infantry man. Such a romantic notion, that seemed to him now. He recalled Gaunt and Colm Corbec debating the styles and types of combat, as if it came in different flavours or intensities, like love or sleep.
Today, his blood was cold, his pulse barely elevated. His blood was always cold. Gereon had done that to him. On Gereon, every single fight, from the full-blown open battles to the savage blade-brawls of infiltration missions, had been about survival, merciless survival, totally undressed of sentiment, honour or quarter. He’d learned to use everything, every opening, every advantage. He kicked, stabbed, crushed, stamped, bit and gouged; he ripped his straight silver into backs and sides and buttocks, he’d butchered men who had already fallen wounded, or who had turned to run.
Rawne had never been a particularly honourable man, but now his soul was cold and hollow, utterly devoid of honour or courage. Fighting had simply become a mechanical absolute; it no longer had degrees. Rawne either fought or did not fight, killed or did not kill. Combat’s purpose had been reduced to a point where it was simply a way to ensure he was still alive when everything around him was dead. He had no use for caution, no use for fear.
Feygor, fighting at his commander’s back, was much the same. Death was no longer something he feared. It was something he used, a gift he dished out to those that opposed him. Death was just a tool, an instrument. The only thing Murt Feygor was afraid of any more was being afraid.
Near to them, struggling in the melee, Meryn became aware of the sheer fury he was witnessing. It took his breath away to see the two men, so completely unchecked by fear. When Mkoll and Bonin broke through the scrum of bodies to lay in beside Rawne and his adjutant, Meryn faltered completely and backed away. He hated the archenemy with a passion, but his own courage and intent seemed to leak away when he saw the Blood Pact broken apart by these daemons.
Daemons. Daemons. Not Ghosts at all. Not even human.
The Blood Pact broke. Engulfed and overwhelmed, surprised by a foe it had not expected to meet, it scattered back towards the deep cover of the basin. E Company, enflamed by Rawne’s brittle fury and example, gave chase.
Meryn limped back up towards the smoking stones of the house. He’d taken a gash in the knee somewhere along the line, he couldn’t remember how. The ground was carpeted with bodies, the vast majority of them crimson-clad Blood Pact. Steam rose like mist. The air was clammy and smelled like a butcher’s hall.
In the house ruin, and along the ridge beside it, E Company teams were setting up crew-served weapons. Leclan, the corpsman, was treating Hwlan. Maggs and Caober had vanished into the fight. Kolosim was sitting against a pile of stones, a dressing pressed to his torn mouth.
“What’s the matter with you?”
Meryn glanced round. Banda had been using part of the stone wall as a sniper nest, but the enemy was out of range now.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Are you just going to let him do that?” she asked, stripping out her long-las to take a fresh barrel.
“Do what?”
“Just come in and take over. Last I heard, you were E Company’s commander.”
Meryn sat down on part of a stalk-tank’s buckled undercarriage. He tore off his helmet and threw it on the ground.
“It’s Rawne,” he said.
“So what?” she asked.
“You think I could have done this?”
“You give the order, captain, E Company jumps,” Banda said.
He really wasn’t enjoying her tone. “Jessi,” he said, “if it had been up to me, I wouldn’t have even broken us east. Rawne recognised the signal, I didn’t.”
“Wilder’s going to be pissed.”
“I know.”
“You want Rawne to get E Company?” Banda asked.
“He’ll be up on charges for this.”
“You think, Flyn?” she asked. “You really think so?” Jessi Banda’s face was unusually beautiful and expressive, but when she got angry, it became ugly and repellent to Meryn. “Take a look, Flyn. Take a long look,” she said, gesturing down the body-littered slope towards the dark basin. E Company was near the line of undergrowth now, picking off the enemy troopers as they tried to escape.
“Rawne just picked up on a counter-offensive and squashed it flat. Wilder may have words with him, but that’s a commendation in the eyes of high command. Maybe a pretty medal.”
“So what?”
“So you just stood there and let him do it,” she said, getting to her feet and slamming a fresh hot-shot pack home.
“Something’s happening,” Kolosim said abruptly, rising to his feet.
“You’re right. They’re coming back,” Leclan agreed, getting up from beside Hwlan.
Meryn turned. Down the long slope, E Company was suddenly pulling back. Heavy fire was driving them into reverse out of the undergrowth. Plasma fire, lancing beams of blistering force.
Meryn realised he was smiling, despite the situation. Rawne had taken a big bite, and it had proved too big. The Blood Pact force Mkoll’s scouts had alerted them too was a great deal bigger than they’d first imagined.
“Shit,” said Kolosim again, coming to stand beside Meryn. “We thought it was a small strike brigade. They must have been pushing a whole frigging army along the east side.”
Meryn took a deep breath and reached for his dangling microbead. Now he could take charge and settle in a proper defence. Now he could make Rawne look like an impulsive idiot for—
“We heard there was a party. Are we too late?”
Meryn looked around. Gol Kolea calmly strolled up beside him. Behind him, C Company had fanned out in a wide line, covering the top of the slope. Support-weapon teams were assembling their pieces.
“Fix your silver,” Kolea called out, casually.
His words were answered by a clatter.
“Looking good, digger,” Banda called out to Kolea with a cheeky grin.
“I always look good, girl,” he called back. “C Company! Get your act together. Let Rawne’s people come back to us and then we’ll get busy.”
Rawne’s people. Meryn glared at Kolea.
“Come on, C Company!” Kolea was shouting. “Let’s get some torches up to the front.”
Brostin, Lyse, Mkella and a Belladon called Frontelle hurried forward out of the C Company line, their heavy flamer tanks clanking.
“I spy undergrowth,” Kolea said. “It looks flammable to me. What do you say, Bros?”
Brostin smiled. The last stub of a lho-stick dangled from the corner of his mouth. He reeked of promethium, as if he’d been bathing in it.
“I say good morning flammable undergrowth, sir. Just say the word.”
“Heat “em up,” Kolea said.
Brostin moved forward, trudging down the long slope. “Line up on me, torches, wide spacing,” he called out. “Fat-blue, wide-wash, keep it near the ground. And keep your pressure up.”
Lyse, Mkella and Frontelle came forward with him, adjusting their regulators. The stink of promethium jelly was now sharp and acute.
“Hey, Larks!” Brostin called out as he went forward. Larkin emerged from the C Company line, toting his long-las. The Belladon, Kaydey, came with him.
“Yeah?”
“Little airburst special?” Brostin said.
Larkin nodded. “Whatever makes you happy.” He toggled off his long-las and shook out his shoulders, following the flame-troopers down the slope.
“What are we doing?” Kaydey asked him.
“I’m taking a shot,” Larkin said. You’re watching and learning.”
“Hey, sniper,” Banda said as Larkin walked past her.
“Hey yourself, doll,” Larkin replied, smacking hands with her.
“Go do some hurt,” she called.
“I intend to,” Larkin replied, snuggling his long-las up into his shoulder as he walked forward, like a gamekeeper seating his shotgun.
E Company was coming back up the slope. It wasn’t so much a retreat as a survival measure. Whatever was massing in the undergrowth behind them was angry and well-armed.
The C Company flamers, tooling down the slope in a wide spread formation, as if they were on a country walk, met the men of E coming back up. Rawne, spattered with blood, came up to Brostin.
“Good to see you,” he said.
“Trouble, major?” Brostin asked.
“The hostiles we just minced were only the forward section of something a lot bigger. They’re right behind us and about to come calling.”
Brostin nodded. “Fine. Mister Yellow is at home for visitors,” he replied. “Got a smoke on you, boss?”
“Feygor?” Rawne called.
Feygor hurried over and pulled out a pack of lho-sticks. With the troops of E Company flooding past back towards the top of the slope, Feygor drew a stick out and posted it into Brostin’s mouth.
Brostin lifted his flamer gun up and lit the stick off the blue pilot flame sizzling beside his weapon’s regulator. Bubbles of promethium were dripping from his torch’s hoses.
“Ah, yes,” Brostin said. That draws nice. A fine brand, Mister Feygor.”
“Only the best,” Feygor smiled.
Brostin exhaled. “Flamers? Let’s get this done.”
As the last tail-enders of E Company ran back past them, the flame-troopers plodded down the slope, spreading wider. The tanks on their backs were gurgling and sputtering, and their pilot flames hissing. Larkin, his gun half-raised, tailed them, Kaydey behind him.
Twenty metres from the edge of the undergrowth, Brostin brought his team to a halt. He took a flamboyant drag on his smoke and then flicked it away.
“Wait for a heartbeat,” he called out. “Let’s see their faces.”
Blood Pact troopers began to emerge from the edges of the undergrowth cover. They raised a cry, a howl. Weapons cracked and barked. Behind them, machine noise betrayed the approach of more stalk-tanks.
“AH right,” said Brostin. That’s enough faces. Cook “em. Fat-blue, wide-wash, keep it near the ground. Let’s do it.”
The four flame-troopers triggered their weapons and sent searing plumes of fire down the slope. Caught in the sudden inferno, the front line of the Blood Pact shrieked and staggered, enveloped. A moment later, the edges of the dried undergrowth caught too. A mess of flames boiled up the basin, storming and furious.
Brostin squeezed his flamer’s paddle gently, nursing out gouts of liquid flame. “Easy does it,” he urged.
The hem of the undergrowth was a blitz of fire now. Screams and shrieks rang out of the furnace. Several Blood Pact troopers emerged, stumbling, encased in fire.
“Now, that’s real nice,” Brostin said.
Something big exploded in the undergrowth—a stalk-tank’s munitions cooking off—and the fire spread.
Brostin shrugged off his flamer tanks and glanced at Larkin. “Larks?” he said.
“I’m ready,” Larkin replied, raising his weapon. Brostin uncoupled his feeder tubes and dropped his gun.
“Wind it up,” Larkin said. He and Brostin had pulled the “airburst special” more than once back on Gereon.
Brostin was a big, hulking man with a heavy upper body. He began to turn slowly, picking up speed as he rotated, like a hammer thrower. His flamer tanks were in his right hand, spinning out as a counter weight.
With a grunt of effort, he released them, and the heavy prom tanks flew up into the air over the basin undergrowth. Larkin tracked them, and, as they began to dip, he fired.
The hot-shot round smacked into the pressurised tanks and ignited them. A torrential rain of liquid fire fell across the basin and brought it up in searing flames.
“Holy crap,” Kaydey said.
Brostin turned away from the crackling heat of the firestorm in the basin. The screams and popping explosions drifted back with the smoke.
“Say hello to Mister Yellow,” he said.
A thick belt of black smoke was climbing into the sky when Wilder reached the scene of the battle. Keshlan sat down to catch his breath. Novobazky wandered in beside Wilder, gazing at the litter of the fight.
C and E Companies had taken up a heavy defensive position facing Ridge 19. A large portion of the lowland countryside was on fire.
“The God-Emperor protect us…” Wilder said, surveying the devastation. Kolea approached and threw a salute.
“I want full details, inc
luding casualties, later, Kolea. Right now, the short version.”
“Kolosim’s recon party picked up hostiles in the woods thataway. E Company moved in and pretty much crushed them before we got here.”
“This would be the E Company that I ordered specifically not to engage without my permission?”
“I’m guessing yes, sir.”
“Go on, Kolea.”
“But the hostiles were just part of a much larger force.”
“How large?”
“Eight, nine hundred troops, maybe more, with stalk-tank support. The enemy was definitely out to mount a major offensive through the difficult terrain in the east compartment while our attention was on the tank fight.”
Wilder nodded. “And you’ve held them?”
“Flamers did a lot of damage. Drove them back. We assume they’re either in retreat, or they’re waiting to come at us along the ridge there.”
Wilder looked around. “Understand me, Kolea. You, Meryn, Rawne and I will be having a serious talk about this later. I know it’s going to be hard for me to tear you off a strip when the results are this good, but believe me, this will be settled.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You stay in my command, you follow my orders, or I throw you to the commissars.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wilder walked over to Keshlan. “Get me post command,” he said to the vox-man. “We’d better tell DeBray that the enemy’s just gone proactive on us.”
“Not just here, sir,” Keshlan said. “From the reports coming in, the whole Mons has gone crazy.”
NINETEEN
07.54 hrs, 197.776.M41
Post 10, Third Compartment
Sparshad Mons, Ancreon Sextus
The sound of gunship engines woke Gaunt from a curious dream. Dawn had come, grey and damp, and a cold wind flapped the seams of the habi-tent. Ludd was still sound asleep, but Eszrah was crouching in the flapway of the tent, looking out into the camp. There was a lot of activity out there. Trucks and transporters were revving, and men were shouting. Another squadron of Vulture gunships droned low overhead, snouts down, heading into the north-east and the bleak morning.