Gaunt was on his feet. He had retrieved the power sword, but there was no need for it any more.
The partisans were emerging from the shadows all around, swathed in their grey cloaks, firing and reloading their mag-bows, then firing again. They were aiming for the bare, exposed head.
Uexkull stopped screaming because he couldn’t any more. His head was a head no longer. It was a distorted mass of meat and broken bone so thickly stuck with iron barbs that many of the bow-shots ricocheted back off the dose-packed metal stalks.
Blood ran down his chest plate and shoulder guards. Lord Uexkull, his skull just a malformed pincushion, sank down onto the decking and died.
TWENTY-ONE
“What the feth did you do to my las?” Larkin muttered.
“Saved your life, so shut the feth up,” Rawne replied.
“Only asking…” Larkin said, nursing and tweaking the long-las, and shushing at it like it was a girlfriend of his who’d been goosed while his back was turned.
“Well, don’t,” said Rawne. “Feth, I don’t even know if this is over.”
“It’s over,” Mkoll said, emerging from the thick smoke that billowed from the burning tents upwind. That much was evident from the quiet that had settled over the shattered camp. The gunfire had stopped.
The Ghosts regrouped, numbed by the ferocity of the savage fight, and quietly dazed at the simple magnitude of what they had accomplished. Between them, they had taken out five enemy Chaos Marines, and with no losses of their own. Criid and Larkin were both bruised, but the closest they had come to losing a man was Brostin, who had nearly drowned. In the midst of the mayhem, Landerson had dived in after him and dragged his unconscious form to safety.
“Five,” breathed Rawne. “Five of the bastards. How the feth did we manage that?”
“Luck?” Bonin suggested.
Luck didn’t seem to have favoured the partisans. The archenemy warriors had slaughtered over forty of them, including women and children. Their platformed encampment was devastated. Gaunt ordered his team to help them in any way they could, and the Ghosts spread out, running triage under Curth’s direction. She collected up the remaining supplies in her kit and all the field dressing sets in their own packs to treat any manageable wounds. But some injuries were too extreme even for her abilities.
“There’ll be another five or six dead in a few hours,” she told Gaunt.
He nodded. His own cheek was a bloody mess where Uexkull’s armoured fist had torn it, but he refused a dressing. “I’m all right. Others need it more.”
The partisans seemed not to understand the Ghosts’ intentions at first, but Mkvenner did his best to explain, and they reluctantly permitted their wounded to be taken to Curth. Brostin, still belching up swamp water occasionally, supervised the extinguishing of those parts of the camp set ablaze in the attack. His knack with fire was as impressive when it came to quelling flames as it was when making them thrive.
Landerson assisted the Ghosts as best he could. Only Cirk refused to involve herself with the partisans. She sat on one of the lower stages, keeping watch over Feygor’s supine form.
The surviving partisans, silent and sombre in their segmented cloaks, seemed to be gathering up the salvageable items from their campsite. The cleverly constructed dome tents—those that had not been shredded or burned—were collapsed into portable spindles of tight-wrapped fabric. Sewn-leather packs were filled with possessions, and gourd flasks brimming with crude prom sealed so they could be carried on shoulder yokes.
“They’re leaving,” Gaunt observed.
Mkoll nodded. “As far as Ven can make out, they’re nomadic anyway. There are many platform camps like this dotted all through the Untill. All of them built an age ago. They move from one to the next, stay a few weeks, move on again. Apparently, they’re not likely to return to this one again. It’s been… polluted, I suppose is the word. Polluted by what just happened here.”
“We brought this doom on them,” Gaunt said.
“No, sir, we didn’t. They brought it on themselves. Rawne doesn’t even think we should be helping them now.”
“Funny thing, Mkoll,” said Rawne, appearing from the shadows behind them. “I have a rank.”
“My apologies, major,” sniffed Mkoll.
“That true, Rawne?” asked Gaunt.
“Yes, sir. You made me major yourself.”
“I meant the other thing. And you know it. Don’t feth around right now, Rawne. I’m not in the mood.”
“Sir.”
“You honestly can’t understand why we’re helping them?” Gaunt asked.
Rawne shrugged. “They refused to help us. They tried to sell us out. I don’t understand why we fought to defend them. I don’t understand why we’re wasting the last of our field dressings treating their wounded.”
“Because the Emperor protects, Rawne,” Gaunt said.
“Even those who don’t recognise his majesty?”
“Especially those, I should think,” Gaunt said.
Rawne huffed and walked away. “This place is getting to you,” he muttered.
Is it, Gaunt wondered? That was perfectly likely now. They’d won the battle—somehow—but it had been a mistake to fight it in the first place. Was his leadership now suspect? Was he making irresponsible decisions? Was the taint of Gereon now so deep in him that he was thinking wrong?
He tried to put the nagging fear aside. His mind felt clear and true. He felt fine. But wasn’t that how it always started? Men weren’t drawn to the madness of Chaos because it seemed like a viable lifestyle change. The clammy influence of the Ruinous Powers wormed inside a man, changed him slowly and subtly without him ever realising it, making the insanity of the warp-darkness seem like the most natural thing in the cosmos.
All his life, as a commissar, Gaunt had understood that. That was why a commissar had to be so vigilant. And so harsh. Right to the end, on Herodor, Agun Soric had seemed like the most reasonable, loyal man. Gaunt had trusted him, loved his spirit, adored his simple courage.
But the man had gone over. The mark of the psyker had been in him. There had been no choice but to send him to the black ships.
Gaunt had dutifully read all the scholarly texts as a young man, and still reread many. Some of them, like the poetic philosophy of his favourite, Ravenor, writing nearly half a century earlier, had implanted this understanding in his mind. Especially where Ravenor wrote so eloquently, so heartbreakingly, about the fall of his master, Eisenhorn. Gregor Eisenhorn’s ultimate, terrible fate was an object lesson in the seductive power of the warp.
But Gaunt tried to focus on one memory, a lesson taught to him what seemed a lifetime ago by his own mentor, Delane Oktar. It had been Oktar’s deepest belief that a man should simply strive to do what seemed right. Gaunt remembered the thawing snow-fields of Darendara, just after the liberation, the best part of thirty years before. They had been fighting secessionists, not Chaos, and there was great debate as to the appropriate punishment of the prisoners taken. Several commissars urged a thorough purge and a programme of execution. Commissar-General Oktar had argued for a different way. More lenient.
“Let us be firm, but let us re-educate. Blood is not always the answer.”
Three of the senior commissars opposing Oktar’s view had leaned on Cadet Gaunt, hoping to get the young man to use his pull to influence Oktar’s decision. Gaunt had taken supper with his master in one of the lamp-lit rooms of the Winter Palace, and during dinner, he had brought the matter up.
Oktar had smiled patiently. “My boy,” he said at length—he had always referred to Gaunt as “Boy”. “My boy, if we execute everyone who disagrees with us, the galaxy will quickly become an empty place.”
“Yes, but—” the Boy had started to say.
“The Emperor protects, Ibram. He watches us all, no matter what dark corner we lurk in. It should be our sworn duty to convey that message to others, to the lost and the disenfranchised, to the ignorant and the troubled.
We should be finding ways to help them learn, to help them come to terms, and benefit from the God-Emperor’s goodness, just as we do. There are plenty of things in this thrice-accursed galaxy that we have no choice but to fight and kill, without turning on ourselves too. Think of this… if we do no more than what we feel is the right thing, then the Emperor is watching, and he will see it. And if he approves, he will protect us and let us know he is pleased with our service.”
“You know, sir, some would say—”
“Say what, boy?”
“Some would say that’s heresy, sir,”
Throne, had he really said that? Gaunt winced as he remembered uttering those idiot words to his mentor. A few short years after the Darendara Liberation, the new governing council—many of them politicos spared thanks to Oktar’s mercy—had formed a new allegiance and renewed their vows to the Imperium. Darendara was now one of the most staunchly loyal worlds in its subsector. Oktar’s views had been vindicated.
Gaunt wandered alone along the smouldering platforms, and lingered for a while on the highest stage still intact. He gazed out over the marshes of the Untill.
“The Emperor protects,” he murmured to himself. “The Emperor protects…”
Judge thyself first, then judge others. That was the first law of the Commissariate. Gaunt took out one of his bolt pistols. He had very few rounds left for either. As long as he still had one shot, he could yet make the most important judgement of all.
The following dawn, he was vindicated.
They had all slept badly on the hard platforms. The night had been humid, and the swamp air especially close. Curth had stayed awake until after midnight, tending two partisans who died despite her efforts. Brostin, his cannon destroyed, had been busy all night fiddling with the flamer that one of the Chaos Marines had been carrying. It was a crude thing and, in truth, rather too large and bulky to be carried by anyone without the support of power armour. But he persevered, stripping it of all but the basics, and chiselling away the more offensive Chaos symbols and badges. Finally, he fashioned a shoulder harness from some of the severed lengths of platform cable to distribute its weight. He practised lugging it around, and quickly decided he could only manage one of the three fuel canisters the Marine had carried. More adjustments. Just before first light, he had waded out from the platforms and filled the canister from the natural well.
“Will it work?” Varl asked him.
“You fething betcha!” Brostin snorted, and test-clacked the trigger spoon. A coughing, faltering gust—part flame and mostly steam—exhaled weakly.
“Right,” Brostin said, scratching his head. “Right. A few adjustments, and you’ll see.”
When the Ghosts woke, unsteady and weary, they found the partisans about to leave. All their camp belongings were packed and shouldered. The wounded had been lifted up on makeshift stretchers. The dead were laid out on the broken stages, with swamp flowers on their faces.
Cynhed ap Niht, the chieftain, came to speak with Mkvenner, and brought several of his warriors with him. They talked for a long time. Finally, Mkvenner wandered back to the waiting Ghosts, with one of the warriors at his side.
“What’s going on?” Gaunt asked.
“They’re leaving now. But the chieftain has had a change of mind. He’s decided to help us, after all. After what happened here. It seems we impressed them with our efforts to defend them.”
“Great. What does that mean, Ven?”
“He’s given us one of his sons.”
“What?”
Mkvenner gestured to the tall partisan at his side. The grey man seemed like a statue, so silent and still.
“This is his son. Eszrah ap Niht. He’s going to art as our guide and lead us through the marshes to the heartlands.”
Gaunt looked up at the towering, thin man. “Really?”
“Yes, sir.”
And if he approves, he will protect us and let us know he is pleased with our service.
“Then let’s get moving,” Gaunt said.
He looked round, and saw that the partisans had already started to leave. They were vanishing slowly into the mist. Eszrah ap Niht didn’t even look round to see them go.
Some few, last figures, like phantoms in their segmented cloaks, waited to perform the last rite of leave-taking. Brostin saw them, dumped his heavy pack with the not-yet-working flamer, and jumped off the stage into the water, splashing across to join them.
“Can I?” he asked. “Can I do this?”
Not really understanding his words, but understanding his urgent intent and his bright eyes, one of the partisans handed the flaming torch to Brostin.
“Quethy?” the partisan said.
“You’ve no idea,” Brostin replied. The partisans murmured several ritual prayers, heads bowed.
“Are we done? Are we all done? Can I do this?” Brostin asked eagerly.
One of them nodded.
With a swing of his thick, tattooed arm, Brostin threw the torch. It landed near the centre of the natural well in the mire. The well lit up with a fizzling suck followed by a solid bang. In a moment, lambent yellow flames were boiling out and ripping into the ruined wooden camp. The glade burned. The dead were consumed and sent to whatever god or gods they had worshipped since the dawn of the colony.
Brostin waded back to rejoin the group, who were already backing away from the fierce heat.
“That’s the stuff,” he chuckled.
“Move out!” Rawne cried.
Gaunt looked back one last time. It was hard to see against the glare of the inferno, but there was no sign of the partisans now. The Sleepwalkers had vanished into the Untill.
Eszrah ap Niht still did not look back. He said nothing. He raised one dove-grey hand, and gestured.
So they followed him.
“How did he tempt you to his cause, etogaur?” the pheguth asked as they walked down the field from the roadway where the transports were parked.
“What do you mean, sir?” Mabbon replied. Desolane was walking ahead of them, and the pheguth was certain the life-ward could hear their conversation, but he didn’t care.
“The Great Anarch, whose word drowns out all others,” the pheguth said, raising his hand to mask his mouth in a coy imitation of the archenemy ritual. “You were a lord of the Blood Pact.”
“I cannot really say, sir,” Mabbon replied.
The pheguth nodded. “I understand, if it’s a private thing…”
“No, it’s not like that. I mean I really can’t say where my dissatisfaction began. I was a sworn lord, as you say, and I had made the Pact, blooding myself on the sharp edges of the Gaur’s own armour. It was a privilege. The Blood Pact is a superb fighting force. To be a commander in their ranks, to be an etogaur, it was all the honour a man might hope for.”
They walked on a little further. The day was sunny but cheerless. Cloudbanks loomed against the sky like blotches of mould on stale white bread. The field was broad, and contained nothing except grit and short, wiry stubble.
Desolane was taking no chances since the attempt on the pheguth’s life. The life-ward had insisted on careful security for the day’s outing. Twelve soldiers of the occupation force walked with them, surrounding them in a wide, loose circle, weapons ready. Others guarded the road approach, and the line of the hedge. Two deathships hovered, watching, over a nearby field. The pheguth could hear the lazy rush of their lift-jets.
“I suppose,” Mabbon said at length, “it all changed when I met the Anarch. The Pact division I was commanding was sent into the Khan Group to assist Great Sek. He impressed me at once. He has great personal charm, you see. A ferocious intelligence. The insight to see what needs to be done and the ability to accomplish it. Archon Gaur is a matchless leader in so many ways, but what he achieves, he achieves by brute force. He is a killer of worlds, a dominator, a feral thing. Not once in all the years that I served him as etogaur did he listen to my thoughts or even solicit my opinions. He takes no advice. On many occasions, o
fficer-commanders of the Blood Pact, myself included, were ordered to engage in rash and costly actions at his whim. I’ve lost many men that way, been forced to send units to their deaths, even when I could plainly see a better way of defeating the forces of the False Emperor. When Archon Gaur gives an order, there is no opportunity for discussion.”
“I see,” said the pheguth. He was only half-listening. The constant, post-transcoding headache simmered within his skull. The fresh air seemed to help a little, but not much.
“Great Sek is different,” Mabbon continued, “He possesses subtlety, and actively looks to his commanders for suggestions and ideas that he can incorporate into his strategy.”
“I’ve heard he has brilliance in that regard.”
“You will enjoy meeting him, when the time comes,” Mabbon said.
“I’m sure I will,” replied the pheguth.
“Serving under the Anarch, I won three worlds in quick succession. Each victory was due, in great part, to the active cooperation between Great Sek and the field commanders. It opened my eyes to possibilities.”
“Such as?”
“Such as… that the successful prosecution of this war against the Imperium depends on more than raw strength and fury. Our victory in these Sabbat Worlds will require guile and cleverness. Your Warmaster is a clever man.”
“Macaroth? Why, I suppose he is. A gambler, though. A risk-taker.”
“Audacious,” said Mabbon. There was surprising admiration in his voice. That is his strength. To fight as much with daring and intelligence as with iron and muscle. Great Sek has a good deal of respect for your Macaroth.”
The pheguth smiled. “Not my Macaroth, Mabbon. Not now.”
“Forgive me, sir,” the etogaur said. “But the Anarch certainly watches Macaroth’s moves closely. He has told me that he relishes the prospect of matching his prowess against Macaroth’s directly, when the time is right.”