[Gaunt's Ghosts 04] - Honour Guard

  He started to walk again, but had to stop quickly. He was still light-headed, and sometimes the wound ache in his chest came in bitter waves.

  “Are you all right, sir?” asked a passing esholi, a teenage boy in cream silk robes. There was concern in the eyes of the shaven-headed youth.

  “Can I help you to a seat?”

  “Mmmh… Perhaps, yes. I may have overdone things.”

  The student took his arm and guided him across to a nearby bench. Daur lowered himself gratefully onto it.

  “You’re very pale, sir. Should you even be on your feet?”

  “Probably not. Thank you. I’ll be fine now I’m sitting.”

  The student nodded and moved on, though Daur saw him again some minutes later, talking to several ayatani and pointing anxiously Daur’s way.

  Daur ignored them and sat back to gaze up at the high altar. The shortness of breath was the worst thing. Exertion got him out of breath so quickly and then he couldn’t catch it back because taking deep breaths was agony on his wound.

  No, that wasn’t the worst thing. A knife in the chest wasn’t the worst thing. Being injured in battle and missing the last mission of his regiment… even that wasn’t the worst thing.

  The worst thing was the thing in his head, and that wouldn’t leave him alone.

  He heard voices exchanging hard words nearby and looked round. So did all the worshippers in earshot. Two ayatani were arguing with a group of officers from the Ardelean Colonials. One of the Colonials was repeatedly gesturing to the reliquary. Daur heard one of the priests say “…but this is our heritage! You will not ransack this holy place!”

  Daur had heard the same sentiments expressed several times in the last day or so. Despite the abominable evil that moved towards them with the clear intent to engulf the entire world, few native Hagians wanted the evacuation. Many of the ayatani, in fact, saw the removal of icons and relics for safekeeping tantamount to desecration. But Lord General Lugo’s decrees had been strict and inflexible. Daur wondered how long it would be before a Hagian was arrested for obstruction or shot for disobedience.

  He felt an immeasurable sympathy for the faithful. It was almost as if his wounding had been an epiphany. He’d always been a dutiful man, dutiful to the Imperial creed, a servant of the God-Emperor. But he’d never thought of himself as especially… devout.

  Until now. Until here on Hagia. Until, it seemed to Ban Daur, the very moment an Infardi dagger had punched between his ribs. It was like it had changed him, as if he’d been transformed by sharp steel and his own spilt blood. He heard about men undergoing religious transformations. It scared him. It was in his head and it wouldn’t leave him alone.

  He felt he needed to do something about it, desperately. Limping his way from the infirmary to the nearest temple was a start, but it didn’t seem to achieve much. Daur didn’t know what he expected to happen. A sign, perhaps. A message.

  Such a thing didn’t seem very likely.

  He sighed, and sat back with his eyes closed for a moment. He was scheduled to join a troop ship with the other walking wounded at six that evening. He wasn’t looking forward to it. It felt like running away.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw a familiar figure amongst the faithful at the foot of the main altar. It was such a surprise, Daur blinked in confusion.

  But he was not mistaken. There was Colm Corbec, his left arm webbed in a sling tight against his bandaged chest, the sleeve of his black fatigue jacket hanging empty, kneeling in prayer.

  Daur waited. After a few minutes, Corbec stood up, turned, and saw Daur sitting in the pews. A look of puzzlement crossed the grizzled giant’s face. He came over at once.

  “Didn’t expect to see you here, Daur.”

  “I didn’t expert to see you either, colonel.”

  Corbec sat down next to him.

  “Shouldn’t you be resting in bed?” Corbec asked. “What? What’s so funny?”

  “I was about to ask you that.”

  “Yeah, well…” Corbec murmured. “You know me. Can’t abide to be lying around idle.”

  “Has there been any word from the honour guard?” Corbec shook his head. “Not a thing. Feth, but I…”

  “You what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on, you started to say something.”

  “Something I don’t think you’d understand, Daur.”

  “Okay.”

  They sat in silence for a while.

  “What?” Daur looked round sharply at Corbec.

  “What what?” growled Corbec.

  “You spoke.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Just then, colonel. You said—”

  “I didn’t say anything, Daur.”

  “You said ‘Sabbat Martyr’ I heard you.”

  “Wasn’t me. I didn’t speak.”

  Daur scratched his cheek. “Never mind.”

  “What… what were those words?”

  “Sabbat Martyr. Or something like that.”

  “Oh.”

  The silence between them returned. The basilica choir began to sing, the massed voices shimmering the air. “You hungry, Ban?”

  “Starving, sir.”

  “Let’s go to the public kitchens and get some breakfast together.”

  “I thought the temple kitchens were meant to serve the faithful.”

  “They are,” said Corbec, getting to his feet, an enigmatic half-smile on his lips. “Come on.”

  They got bowls of fish broth and hunks of crusty, huskseed bread from the long-canopied counters of the kitchens, and went to sit amongst the breakfasting faithful at the communal trestle tables under a wide, flapping awning of pink canvas.

  Daur watched as Corbec pulled what looked like a couple of pills from his coat pocket and gulped them down with the first sip of broth. He didn’t comment.

  “There’s something not right in my head, Ban,” Corbec began suddenly through a mouthful of bread. “In my head… or my gut or my soul or wherever… somewhere. It’s been there, off and on, since I was a held captive by Pater Sin, rot his bones.”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “The sort of thing a man like me… a man like you too, would be my guess… has no idea what to do with. It’s lurked in my dreams mostly. I’ve been dreaming about my father, back home on lost Tanith.”

  “We all have dreams of our old worlds,” said Daur cautiously. “It’s the guard curse.”

  “Sure enough, Ban. I know that. I’ve been guard long enough. But not dreams like this. It’s like… there’s a meaning to be had. Like… Oh, I dunno…” Corbec frowned as he struggled to find adequate words.

  “Like someone’s trying to tell you something?” Daur whispered softly. “Something important? Something that has to be done?”

  “Sacred feth!” growled Corbec in amazement. “That’s it exactly! How did you know?”

  Daur shrugged, and put his bowl down. “I can’t explain. I feel it too. I didn’t realise… Well, I didn’t until you started describing it there. It’s not dreams I’m having. Gak, I don’t think I’m dreaming much at all. But a feeling… like I should be doing something.”

  “Feth,” murmured Corbec again.

  “Are we mad, do you think? Maybe what we both need is a priest who’s a good listener. A confessor. Maybe a head-doctor.”

  Corbec dabbed his bread into the broth distractedly. “I don’t think so. I’ve nothing to confess. Nothing I haven’t told you.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “I don’t know. But I know there’s no way in feth I’m getting on that troop ship tonight.”

  He’d stolen a few hours’ sleep in a corner of the western city infirmary’s entrance hall. But as the sun rose and the noise of people coming and going became too much to sleep through, Brin Milo shouldered his pack and rifle and began the long walk up the Amad Road into the centre of the Doctrinopolis.

  Hark had told him to report to Guard command once he’d escorted the wo
unded party to safety. He was to present himself and arrange his place on an evacuation ship.

  The city seemed like a place of madness around him. With the fighting over, the streets had filled up with hurrying crowds, honking motor vehicles, cargo trains hauled by servitors, processions of worshippers, pilgrims, protesters, refugees. The city was seething again, like a nalmite nest preparing to swarm.

  Milo remembered the last, final hours in Tanith Magna, the same atmosphere of panic and activity. The memories were not pleasant. He decided he wanted to be out of here now, on a troop ship and away.

  There was nothing here now he wanted to stay for, or needed to stay for.

  A flustered Brevian Centennial on crowd control duties told him that Evacuation command had been established in the royal treasury, but the roads approaching that edifice were jammed with foot traffic and vehicles. The commotion was unbearable.

  Transport shuttles shivered the sky as they lifted up over the holy city. A pair of navy fighters screamed overhead, low and fast.

  Milo turned and headed for the Scholam Medicae where the Tanith wounded were being cared for. He’d find his own men, maybe Colonel Corbec, he decided. He’d leave with them.

  “Brinny boy!” a delighted voice boomed behind him, and Milo was snatched up off his feet in a one-armed bear hug of crushing force.

  “Bragg!” he smiled, turning as he was released.

  “What are you doing here, Brin?” beamed Trooper Bragg.

  “Long story,” said Milo. “How’s the arm there?”

  Bragg glanced contemptuously at his heavily bandaged right shoulder.

  “Fixing up. Fething medics refused to let me join the honour guard. Said it was a safe ticket out for me, feth ’em! It’s not bad. I could’ve still fought.”

  Milo gestured to the busy hallway of the Scholam Medicae Hagias they stood in. “Anyone else around?”

  “A few. Most of ’em in a bad way. Colonel’s here somewhere, but I haven’t seen him. I was in a bed next to Derin. He’s on the mend and cussing his luck too.”

  “I’m going to try and find the colonel. What ward are you in?”

  “South six.”

  “I’ll come and find you in a bit.”

  “You better!”

  Milo pushed on through the hectic hallway through the smells of blood and disinfectant the hurrying figures, the rattling carts. He passed several doors that opened onto long, red-painted wards lined with critically injured guardsmen in rows of cots. Some were Ghosts, men he recognised. All were too far gone from pain and damage to register him. After asking questions of several orderlies and servitors, he found his way to Dorden’s suite of offices on the third floor. As he approached, he could hear the shouting coming from inside down the length of the corridor.

  “…don’t just get up and walk off when you feel like it! For the Emperor’s sake! You’re hurt! That won’t heal if you put a strain on it!”

  An answering mumble.

  “I will not calm down! The health of the regimental wounded is my business! Mine! You wouldn’t disobey Gaunt’s orders, why the feth do you think you can disobey mine?”

  Milo walked into the office. Corbec was sitting on an examination couch facing the door, and his eyes opened wide when he saw Milo. Dorden, shaking with rage, stood facing Corbec and turned sharply when he read Corbec’s expression.

  “Milo?”

  Corbec leapt up. “What’s happened? The honour guard? What the feth’s happened?”

  “There was an ambush on the road last night. We took a few injured, some bad enough Surgeon Curth wanted them brought back here. Commissar Hark volunteered me to ride shotgun. We got back here at dawn.”

  “Are you meant to return?”

  Milo shook his head. “I’d never catch up with them now, colonel. My orders are to join the evacuation now I’m here.”

  “How were they doing? Apart from the ambush, I mean?”

  “Not so bad. They should’ve made it to the overnight stop at Mukret.”

  “Did we lose many in the attack?” Dorden asked softly. His anger seemed to have dulled.

  “Forty-three dead, fifteen of them Ghosts. Six Ghosts amongst the injured I brought back.”

  “Sounds bad, Milo.”

  “It was quick and nasty.”

  “You can show me on the map where it happened,” Corbec told him.

  “Why?” snapped Dorden. “I’ve told you already, you’re not going anywhere. Except to the landing fields this evening. Forget the rest, Colm. I mean it. I have seniority in this, and Lugo would have my fething head. Forget it.”

  There was a loaded pause.

  “Forget… what?” Milo dared to ask.

  “Don’t get him started!” Dorden roared.

  “The boy’s just asking, doc…” Corbec countered.

  “You want to know, Milo? Do you?” Dorden was livid. “Our beloved colonel here has this idea… No, let me start at the beginning. Our beloved colonel here decides he knows doctoring better than me, and so gets himself out of bed against my orders this morning! Goes wandering around the fething city! We didn’t even know where he was! Then he shows up again without so much as a by your leave, and tells me he’s thinking of heading up into the mountains!”

  “Into the mountains?”

  “That’s right! He’s got it into his thick head that there’s something important he’s got to do! Something Gaunt, an armour unit and nigh on three thousand troopers can’t manage without his help!”

  “Be fair, I didn’t quite say that Doc…”

  Dorden was too busy ranting at the rather stunned Milo. “He wants to break orders. My orders. The lord general’s orders. In a way, Gaunt’s own orders. He’s going to ignore the instructions to evacuate tonight. And go chasing up into the Sacred Hills after Gaunt. On his own! Because he has a hunch!”

  “Not on my own,” Corbec growled in a whisper.

  “Oh, don’t tell me! You’ve persuaded some other fools to go along with you? Who? Who, colonel? I’ll have them chained to their fething beds.”

  “Then I won’t tell you who, will I?” Corbec yelled.

  “A… hunch…?” Milo asked quietly.

  “Yeah,” said Corbec. “Like one of me hunches…”

  “Spare us! One of Colonel Corbec’s famous battle-itches—”

  Corbec wheeled round at Dorden and for a moment Milo was afraid he was going to throw a punch. And even more afraid that the medic was going to throw one back. “Since when have my tactical itches proved wrong, eh? Fething when?”

  Dorden looked away.

  “But, no… It’s not like that. Not an itch. Not really. Or it’s like the granddaddy of all battle-itches. It’s more like a feeling—”

  “That’s all right then! A feth-damned feeling!” said Dorden sarcastically.

  “More like a calling, then!” bellowed Corbec. “Like the biggest, strongest calling I’ve ever had in me life! Pulling at me, demanding of me! Like… like if I’ve got the wit to respond, the balls to respond, I’ll be doing the most important thing I could ever do.”

  Dorden snorted. There was a long, painfully heavy pause.

  “Colm… it’s my job to look after the men. More than that, it’s my pleasure to look after them. I don’t need orders.” Dorden sat down behind his desk and fiddled with a sheaf of scripts, not making eye contact with either of the others. “I came into Old Town with Kolea — broke orders to do it — because I thought we might get you out alive.”

  “And you did, doc, and feth knows, I owe you and the boys that one.”

  Dorden nodded. “But I can’t sanction this. You — and anyone else you may have talked to — you all need to be at the muster point for evacuation at six tonight. No exceptions. It’s an order from the office of the lord general himself. Any dissenters. Any absentees… will be considered as having deserted. And will suffer the full consequences.”

  He looked up at Corbec. “Don’t do this to me, Colm.”

  “I won?
??t. They ask you, you don’t know a thing. I’d have liked you to join me, doc, really I would, but I won’t ask that of you. I understand the impossible position that’d put you in. But what I feel isn’t wrong…”

  “Corbec, please—”

  “The last few nights, me dad’s been in my dreams. Not just a memory, I mean. Really him. Bringing me a message.”

  “What sort of message?” asked Milo.

  “All he says is the same thing, over and over. He’s in his machine shop, back in Pryze County, working the lathe there. I come in and he looks up and he says ‘sabbat martyr’. Just that.”

  “I know what’s going on,” said Dorden. “I feel it myself, it’s perfectly natural. We both know this is Gaunt’s last show. That Lugo’s got his balls in a vice. And that means, let’s face it the end for the Ghosts. We all want to be there with Gaunt this last time. The honour guard, the last duty. It doesn’t feel right to be missing it. We’d do anything… we’d think of any excuse… to get out there after him. Even subconsciously, our minds are trying to magic up ways to make it happen.”

  “It’s not that, doc.”

  “I think it is.”

  “Well then, maybe it is. Maybe it is me subconscious trying to jinx up an excuse. And maybe that’s good enough for me. Gaunt’s last show, doc. You said it yourself. They can court martial me, but I won’t miss that Not for anything.”

  Corbec glanced at the silent Milo, patted him on the arm, and limped out of the office.

  “Can you talk some sense into him, do you think?” Dorden asked Milo.

  “From what I’ve just heard, I doubt it. In all candour, sir, I doubt I want to.”

  Dorden nodded. “Try, for my sake. If Corbec’s not at the muster point tonight, I won’t sell him out. But I can’t protect him.”

  Corbec was in his little room, sorting his pack on the unmade bed. Milo knocked at the half-open door.

  “You coming with me? I shouldn’t ask. I won’t be offended if you say no.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  Corbec half-shrugged. “Fethed if I know. Daur’s with me. He feels the same. Really, he feels the same, you know?” Milo said nothing. He didn’t know.