Man of Iron
Page 3
Minutes passed until finally the gun emplacement reared up before him, brutal and angular, a slab of pitted rockcrete shattered by artillery. One side was intact, but the other was gone, leaving the surreal sight of a furnished room, split down the middle and hanging in the air. The furniture was undisturbed: a neatly made bunk, metal plan chests, a small dining table; all perched in the clouds, washed clean by the endless rain.
Glutt had almost reached the walls when he heard someone snap the safety off a lasgun.
He staggered to a halt, his heart thudding as he tried to pinpoint the sound.
‘The savant?’ The words were spoken quietly, but they echoed across the swamp, eerie and dislocated.
‘Lieutenant Sorov?’ gasped Glutt, still crouched, staring at the shifting clouds.
‘Throne,’ said Sorov, striding into view, flanked by Guardsmen, their lasguns trained on Glutt.
‘In,’ he snapped, waving for Glutt to approach.
Glutt staggered forwards, into the arms of the Guardsmen, who grabbed his filthy coat and hurled him inside the ruined tower.
As Glutt lay panting on the floor, Sorov and the others stood over him, scowling.
Sepus Prime could not touch Lieutenant Sorov. He shrugged it off like an idle threat. He was one of those officers with the inhuman ability to look clean, fresh and unperturbed as the galaxy went to hell around them. His hair was immaculate, oiled and gleaming beneath his cap, and the buttons on his coat flashed proudly as he moved. An old scar curved from the corner of his mouth to his ear, but even that looked deliberate – just another military honour. He studied Glutt through half-lidded eyes.
‘Where is the rest of your detail?’
‘We never made it to the front lines, lieutenant. The insurrectionists were on us before we reached Tadmor Ridge. I was able to–’ He hesitated, noting the wary expressions of the Guardsmen. ‘I was able to disable some of them, but there were too many.’
‘You’re a psyker?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You abandoned your men?’
‘No.’
‘They’re dead,’ said Sorov, his expression blank, ‘and you are not.’
‘I did everything I could, lieutenant.’
Sorov studied him in silence. No one helped him to his feet.
The silence was broken by the crackle of the vox-unit. There was another trooper crouched a few feet away – a comms officer, hunched over his vox-caster.
‘Ten minutes until contact,’ said the Guardsman, with the handset held to his ear. There was a tremor of excitement in his voice. ‘Everything went to plan.’
Sorov closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again he looked back at Glutt. ‘Tell me, Glutt,’ he said. ‘If you were a traitor, why would you have stumbled over here and revealed yourself, rather than using your talents to kill me from a safe distance?’
Glutt struggled to keep his expression neutral. Traitor. Sorov had pinpointed the doubts that had haunted him for weeks. All he saw on Sepus were pitiable fools and callous, inhuman orders. His faith was gone. What did that leave?
‘There is no reason,’ said Sorov. His expression softened. ‘You’ve done well to last this long, soldier. Not many have.’ He nodded to his men. ‘Pick him up. And keep an eye on him. He’s a sanctioned psyker. Don’t let him ruin this.’
As the Guardsmen dragged Glutt from the mud, Sorov headed over to the comms officer.
‘Korbol,’ he said, glancing up at the shattered floor of the room above their heads. ‘Anything?’
‘Nothing, lieutenant.’
Sorov nodded, and then glanced back at Glutt. ‘Over here.’
Glutt tried to brush some of the muck from his coat as he rushed after Sorov, but it had dried into a thick crust. He moved with the clumsy, awkward steps of an automaton.
‘Get me Kapek,’ said Sorov to the vox-officer.
There was another burst of static, then a voice came through the speakers, ghostly and hazed by distance, like an old recording.
‘This is Sergeant Kapek. We have–’ The voice was cut off by a series of pops and whistles. ‘We are no closer, lieutenant. Heavier losses than anticipated. The aerial strikes failed to knock out the lascannons. They’re cutting us down.’
Sorov grabbed the handset. ‘Ten minutes, sergeant.’ His voice was an urgent whisper. ‘Ten minutes more.’
There was a pause on the other end, but it was not static this time; they could all hear the sergeant breathing. ‘Ten minutes?’ he said finally, sounding shocked.
Sorov raised his voice, despite the risk of revealing himself. ‘Throw everything you have left at them for ten more minutes. It’s working. He’s headed your way.’
This time there was no pause. ‘Ten minutes, lieutenant. We’ll do it.’
Sorov looked pained and seemed on the verge of saying more, but he held it back.
‘Lieutenant,’ came the voice again. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Sergeant.’
The voice sounded defiant this time, all trace of doubt gone. ‘It was an honour, lieutenant.’
Sorov’s expression tightened. When he spoke again, his voice was as rigid as his face. ‘High command will know, sergeant. Commander Ortegal will know what happened here today.’
Another series of pops and crackles hissed through the speaker.
‘Kapek out,’ came the reply, then the line went dead.
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First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.
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Cover illustration by Paul Dainton.
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