[Gaunt's Ghosts 08] - Traitor General

by Dan Abnett - (ebook by Undead)

  Gaunt stroked his hands down his cheeks and stared at the ground. “He’s still there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Holy Throne. He’s still there.” Gaunt looked up at Beltayn and Larkin. “Well done, both of you. Let’s talk to Colonel Noth. And get Cirk and Mr Landerson too. It’s time they learned the truth.”

  “Our mission here on Gereon is to find and eliminate one individual,” Gaunt said.

  The assembled Ghosts sat or stood around Gaunt in a semi-circle. None of what their leader had to say was news to them. This was for the benefit of Landerson, Cirk, Noth and four of Noth’s senior lieutenants.

  “One individual?” Noth asked. He laughed. “Who? The Plenipotentiary? I can’t think of anyone important enough to warrant these efforts. Not even the Plenipotentiary, come to that. The Anarch would just replace that toad Isidor with another lord…” His voice trailed off. “Holy Throne, he’s not here is he?”

  “Who?”

  “The bloody Anarch! He’s not here on Gereon is he?”

  “No,” Gaunt replied. “Our target is a man named Noches Sturm.”

  “A man?” said Landerson. After all his patience and trust, he felt disappointed.

  “A prisoner, in fact. He’s being held by the archenemy at the Lectica Bastion.”

  Noth got to his feet. “I said this was all a load of nonsense! You’re out of your mind!”

  “Sit down, colonel,” Gaunt said.

  “I want no part of—”

  “Colonel Noth, the man I’ve just told you about has a rank too. Noches Sturm is Lord Militant General Sturm of the Imperial Guard.”

  Noth blinked and sat down again. Landerson exhaled a long, whistling breath.

  “They’ve got a lord general?” Noth asked.

  “They’ve had him for many months now. As you can imagine, this represents a critical security risk to the Crusade armies. It’s no exaggeration to say that it could change the tide of the entire war here in the Sabbat Worlds. A lord general knows… well, where do I start? Guard codes, cipher patterns, force distribution, army deployment, fleet dispersal, tactical planning, communication protocols, weaknesses, strengths, secrets.”

  “How the hell did they get to him?” Landerson asked.

  “Accident,” said Gaunt. “And, to a certain degree, because of a misjudgement I made.”

  “What?” Cirk grinned. “Is that why you ended up with this nightmare mission? To make amends for letting him get captured?”

  Gaunt glanced at her. “No, Cirk. I’m here to make amends for not killing him when I had the chance.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Noth.

  “Sturm is a traitor, colonel. Several years ago, he and I were responsible for the defence of a hive-city on the planet Verghast. It was a close-run thing, hard won. At the darkest hour, fearing for his own hide, he tried to abandon the hive and make his escape. His actions weakened the defence and almost cost us the fight. As senior commissar, I had him arrested for desertion and cowardice. He chose to take the honorable way out, but then turned that opportunity into another attempt to escape. I cut off his hand and put him in detention. I should have executed him, right then and there.”

  “Why didn’t you?” asked Cirk.

  Gaunt hesitated. “After all he had done, Cirk, I think I wanted him to suffer. I wanted him to endure the humiliation of a court martial, of public disgrace. A simple, summary execution on the field of battle, something quite within my power to exact, would have been too easy. Besides, the commissar in me could see the political value of a court martial. The public disgrace, trial and execution of a lord general would send out a message to any other over-zealous, over-ambitious commander that the new Warmaster was not someone to be trifled with. Sturm was transported for detention pending trial. The trial was scheduled for the middle of last year, but the events of the counter-attack through the Khan Group got in the way. Disastrously, Sturm was en route to the court martial when his ship was captured by an enemy squadron. They quickly realised what a valuable trophy they had accidentally won.”

  One of Noth’s officers raised his hand. “Sir, isn’t it too late now? I mean, surely Sturm will have already divulged all of his secrets?”

  “Especially if they torture him,” Noth agreed.

  “Sturm was placed under mindlock by the Guild Astropathicus during his detention. It’s standard practice in these cases. The guild would have removed the lock at the trial, so that Sturm could be properly cross-examined.”

  “So he can’t tell them anything?” Landerson said.

  Gaunt shrugged. “Not willingly, Mr Landerson. But the archenemy has powerful psykers of its own. A mindlock is hard to remove, but not impossible. No, I’m afraid the only way of ensuring Sturm reveals none of his secrets is if they die with him.”

  “If it’s this vital,” said Noth, “why only send in a team of troopers? Why not engage the fleet and flatten the bastion from orbit?”

  “The same reason the liberation of Gereon has not yet begun, colonel,” Gaunt said. The counter-attack is still being fought back. The fleet is stretched to its limits. And besides, there’d be no guarantee. With a bombardment, we could never be sure we’d actually got Sturm.”

  “You know the Lectica Bastion isn’t the sort of place you just walk into?” Noth said quietly.

  Gaunt nodded. “It’s going to take scrupulous planning and a lot of luck.”

  “You’re sure he’s there?” asked Cirk.

  “As sure as we can be. Intelligence gathered prior to this mission positively identified the bastion as the place the enemy had sequestered Sturm. There was every chance he’d be moved. But my vox-officer has managed to access and read recent transmissions made on the archenemy command channels.” Gaunt looked at Beltayn.

  Beltayn cleared his throat. “Sturm is referred to by the enemy codeword ‘eresht’, which means a package or parcel. He’s definitely still there. In fact, it looks like something big is going down. A large number of senior ordinals is gathering at the bastion to meet with him.”

  “Something big?” Noth said. “Like… the breaking of the mindlock, perhaps?”

  Beltayn shrugged. “Not for me to say, sir. A lot of the transmissions are untranslatable. But we know he’s there. Several codes are used to refer to him. Eresht is the main one. They also use ‘pheguth’, but my system can’t supply a meaning for that word.”

  Rawne nodded across the room. “Maybe Major Cirk can tell us?”

  Cirk glared at Rawne. “Don’t ask me for a literal translation. The word is a slur. Extremely unpleasant. In simple terms, it means ‘traitor’.”

  Noth got to his feet. “I’ll assemble what maps and charts I can get hold of, sir,” he said. “We’ll start devising an entry plan. Cirk also spoke of a diversion. It seems to me that’s vital. A big noise to draw the enemy’s attention. I’ll make contact with the other cell leaders in the heartland tonight. Together we can field upwards of six hundred fighters. It wouldn’t be hard to coordinate a joint attack on the bastion, especially if I tell my fellow commanders that there’s a chance to destroy a whole crowd of the enemy’s senior ordinals in one go. That’s a target of opportunity the resistance can’t afford to miss.”

  “Colonel,” Gaunt called out. “You do realise that’s a lie, don’t you? Even with six hundred men, the chances of getting through the gate are slim. You’re not likely to get anywhere near the ordinals.”

  Noth nodded. “I know it’s a lie. But I’ve got to tell the commanders something if I’m going to persuade them to sacrifice their entire cells just to get you inside.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “What the bloody hell is that noise?” Sturm asked. At his heels, Humiliti the lexigrapher jabbed out some more keystrokes.

  “Don’t type that, you idiot!” Sturm snapped. “Desolane?”

  It was late afternoon, but the light outside was already failing, as if a storm was drawing in. Servants with tapers hurried down the long hallways of th
e bastion, lighting the lamps. There was a general bustle of activity everywhere in the fortress. Transports and aircraft had been arriving all day, and the primary courtyards were swarming with newly-arrived troops. Sturm basked in the knowledge that it was all in his honour. All this fuss, and the formal ceremonies to come. For him.

  “Desolane!”

  The life-ward was at the far end of the marble gallery, talking with sirdars of the Bastion Guard. The officers were dressed for the evening in extravagant formal uniforms, dripping with gold frogging and silver buttons. The gorgets at their throats were encrusted with gemstones, and the silver helmets they held under their arms were festooned with white feather combs.

  Hearing Sturm’s voice, Desolane dismissed the sirdars, and hurried to the general’s side.

  “Sir?”

  “That bloody awful noise, Desolane. What is it?”

  “It is the martial band of the First Echelon, sir, rehearsing for tonight’s reception. High Sirdar Brendel insisted the band played when the Plenipotentiary arrived.”

  “This Brendel’s an idiot.”

  “He is high sirdar of the Occupation army, sir. And he will be one of the senior dignitaries asking questions of you when the formal interviews begin.”

  “I’ll tell him what he wants to know,” Sturm snorted. “And I’ll tell him his marching band’s a bloody disgrace to boot.”

  “You must do as you see fit, of course,” said Desolane.

  They walked together down the gallery, the lexigrapher hobbling after them. Humiliti had recently cut another flapping swathe of typescript off the printing machine’s roll and handed it to a servant to be taken for filing. The lexigrapher had been following Sturm about the bastion all day, recording the general’s every comment. He’d had to change paper rolls twice already.

  Sturm had been in a magnanimous mood, eager to talk, even though he affected a contempt for the dwarfish servant. Memories were returning now all the time: some small and fragmentary, others long and involved. Sturm took delight in recounting everything that occurred to him for the lexigrapher to take down. He recalled the events of certain actions, uniform details of the regiments he had served with, events from his childhood, the characters of men he had known, his family background, his first battlefield success.

  At one point, earlier that afternoon, he had stopped in his tracks and announced, “Roast sirloin of grox. Bloody, not over-done. That is my favourite dish. I’ve just remembered. Fancy not remembering that.”

  He laughed. Desolane made a note to make sure grox was on the menu for the banquet. Bloody, not overdone.

  It seemed to the life-ward that Sturm was desperate to get his memories down on paper. Sturm had speculated about “composing a full autobiography” as a work of that nature was only fitting for a man of such note and substance. “History must know me, Desolane. For history will take its shape because of me.”

  Desolane had nodded dutifully. The life-ward had no wish to discourage Sturm’s urgent recollections, as he seemed to remember more and more with each returning memory. One thought set off another, one idea reminded Sturm of a dozen other new things to say.

  But in truth, there was desperation. It was as if Sturm dearly wanted to get everything down in case he forgot it all again. The mindlock had been cruel indeed. Sturm never wanted to feel so lost again.

  The general was wearing the plain Occupation force uniform Desolane had found, but he had already insisted on “something more dignified” for the evening’s formalities. “Something with braid, please, Desolane. A long jacket, a sash. An officer’s cap too, or is that too much?”

  “I will arrange these things,” Desolane had replied.

  Now, as the daylight faded, they wandered out from the gallery onto the wide marble landing that overlooked the double sweep of the grand staircase in the bastion’s main hallway. The crystal chandeliers were lit, and huge silk banners decorated the walls, displaying the insignias of various echelon units, the symbols of the High Powers, and, centrally, the badge of the Anarch himself.

  Sturm was talking again, something about a formal ceremony like this that he had once attended. Humiliti rattled it all down, pausing only once to re-ink his levers. Down below them, servants and troopers hurried back and forth across the wide floor of the hall, pushing trolleys laden with crystal glasses, bringing food stuffs from the unloading freighters.

  Desolane had plenty to think about. Security in the bastion had to be perfect. Apart from Sturm himself, and the exalted Plenipotentiary, three hundred and eight senior ordinals and staff officers were due to arrive before nightfall. Most would have their own life-wards or bodyguards, but Desolane felt ultimate responsibility for the safety of all of them. Since the attempt on Sturm’s life, the life-ward had personally overseen every aspect of security. Desolane didn’t dare delegate to any of the sirdars, and didn’t feel comfortable relying on anyone else to get the job right.

  “More seniors are arriving now,” Desolane said, pointing down towards the hall’s huge outer doors.

  “Do I have to greet them?” Sturm asked.

  “No, you will be presented formally at the reception, once the Plenipotentiary has arrived,” Desolane said. “There. That man is Ordinal Ouflen. He is an expert in lingua-forms, and will want to question you about Imperial battle languages. With him, that is Ordinal Zereth, who specialises in propaganda. He will be interviewing you on Imperial morale, and what methods might be employed to undermine the confidence and motivation of the average Imperial Guardsman. Coming in through the door, that is Sirdar Commander Erra Fendra Ezeber of the Special Echelon. She has interest in tactics and also in cunning and subterfuge.”

  “What’s that?” asked Sturm, gesturing at a hulking figure dressed in fur-edged robes that had just come in through the door escorted by two silver servitors.

  “Aha. That is Pytto, an agent of Flotilla Admiral Oszlok. There will be a lot of questions from him. Imperial Battlefleet tactics, ship weaknesses, possibly even dispositions. It’s been a while since you were privy to such information, but the admiral hopes you will be able to pinpoint safe harbours, and secure high anchor points used by Imperial warships. A surprise assault on an Imperial safe harbour could cripple a significant portion of the Warmaster’s space power.”

  “I spoke about that earlier. Didn’t I?” Sturm looked down at Humiliti, who nodded eagerly.

  “Earlier today, I remembered some details of hidden high anchor stations in the corewards portion of the Khan Group. The midget wrote it all down. Make sure the appropriate sections of my transcript are passed to your beloved admiral with my compliments.”

  “Perhaps you should rest for a while, sir,” Desolane suggested.

  “I’ll try, if that bloody band agrees to shut up.”

  Desolane bowed slightly in consent. “His highness the Plenipotentiary is due to arrive in three hours, at which time the formalities will begin. I understand he wishes to start by having you swear an oath of allegiance to the Anarch, whose word drowns out all others. After that, I believe he intends to bestow an honorary rank upon you—sirdar commander, I think—and award you a ribbon of merit to acknowledge your efforts and cooperation.”

  Sturm nodded sagely. “Wise. It would be good to reinforce the perception that I am a man of significance to these commanders.”

  Desolane was amused. Sturm could not disguise the flush of pride that filled his face. Respect, admiration, power, after all this time, restored to him.

  “I will have a bath drawn in your quarters, sir,” Desolane said, “and send the footmen to lay out your attire. I will come for you fifteen minutes before the ceremonies begin. Now, if you will excuse me, sir.”

  Desolane bowed again, and hurried down the stairs, pausing to issue instructions to a group of excubitors. Then the life-ward descended to the hall floor and walked towards the guest most recently arrived.

  Mabbon Etogaur was wearing his usual, understated garb of brown leather, but his boots and buttons we
re polished, and he had affixed a golden badge of the Anarch to his throat button. He wore an expensive laspistol in a belt holster, and a short, curved power sword in an ornate scabbard.

  “Etogaur,” Desolane nodded.

  “Life-ward. You asked me here early.”

  “You understand why?”

  “Security, it said in your message.”

  “Indeed.”

  Mabbon Etogaur turned and nodded at the two men who had accompanied him in. They were both huge, heavily-muscled troopers, wearing ochre uniforms with gold sashes and bone-white helmets that came down in a half-visor over their faces. They stood to attention, rigid, eyes forward, their polished lasrifles crossed in front of their chests.

  “It’s going to be a fine night,” Mabbon said, “and I see no reason why it shouldn’t be an appropriate time for the worthy commanders of the Anarch’s forces to get their first glimpse of the Sons of Sek. I’ve brought a force of sixty, the best in the camp. I trust that will help you with your security issues?”

  “I’m gratified,” said Desolane. “Most should assemble in the upper courtyard, ready for review. I’d like a few ready to reinforce the front gates and the curtain wall during the banquet. Might you also spare two of the most trustworthy to stand guard over the pheguth’s… I’m sorry, over Lord Sturm’s private apartments?”

  Mabbon nodded. “You say two of the most trustworthy, life-ward, but I’ll tell you an odd thing. Over the weeks of training, I’ve been speaking from time to time to the men about the… the pheguth, and how he would eventually empower them with knowledge and wisdom. In their expectation, they came to almost worship him. And then, the other day, when we went to inspect them on the field, when Sturm collapsed in front of them… I was afraid they would lose all respect for the man. The Sons despise weakness, you see.”

  “And?” asked Desolane.

  “You were there, life-ward. You saw how Sturm recovered, got back on his feet, faced them without a hint of shame. And the speech he made, just like that. It was humbling. The man has true charisma. He is a born leader. No wonder he achieved such a high rank in the army of the False Emperor.”