“Wall panels, right?” asked Baskevyl. “I knew it. I knew it was wall panels.”
“It’s not wall panels,” said Rawne.
“Tap at the walls, if you like,” Mkoll offered. It was the closest thing to sarcasm anyone had ever heard from him. Not like Mkoll, thought Gaunt. Not like him at all. If Oan Mkoll’s bent out of shape, we’d better put our gun barrels in our mouths now and say goodbye.
“Not the walls, then?” asked Gaunt. “So?”
Mkoll turned his eyes upwards at the cloche above them. The wind outside blew skims of dust in around the slits of the almost, but not quite, closed fighting hatches.
“It’s so horribly obvious, it’s not funny” said the chief of scouts quietly.
“Except, you have to laugh, don’t you?” said Varl. No one seemed likely to. “Or not,” Varl added glumly.
“I was told the shutters didn’t work,” said Gaunt. “I read Meryn’s report. The winding gear is seized with dust.”
“The winding gear is seized with dust,” said Mkoll. “That’s not the same thing. I’ll show you. Rawne, give me a boost.”
“Of course,” said Rawne, not moving. “Varl?”
Varl sighed, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and bent down with his hands locked in a stirrup.
Mkoll placed a foot in Varl’s hands and hoisted himself up into the dome of the cloche. He reached above his head and pushed his hands against the nearest shutter cover. It swung outwards without protest. Mkoll took a grip, and lifted himself up and out through the shutter. The shutter swung back shut.
“Holy Throne,” murmured Gaunt. “It’s that fething simple?”
Rawne nodded.
“The gears are jammed, see?” said Varl, pointing at one of the winding mechanisms on the collar ring of the cloche. “But they’ve been disengaged from the shutters. The shutters themselves swing free.”
“All of them?” asked Baskevyl.
“No,” replied Varl. “Nothing like, and not on every cloche, but a good few, right down this hallway. And the other fortified hallways too, probably.”
“We have squads checking,” said Rawne.
“They’ve systematically been in here and disengaged gears to provide themselves with entry and exit points?” Gaunt asked, wide-eyed at the notion.
“They must have been in here for weeks, months maybe,” said Varl. “Tinkering with the winding gears, poking about.”
“Am I the only one worried about what else they might have ‘poked about’ at?” Baskevyl asked.
“You’re not,” said Gaunt. He shook his head. “This place is like a sieve. A sieve would be easier to defend. Throne of Earth, and I thought this was a bad job already. How the feth does Barthol Van fething Voytz expect us to—”
“Expect us to what?” Rawne asked.
“Never mind. How did you find this?”
“As a consequence of our recent action against the Blood Pact up here,” said Rawne.
“Oh, tell the man the truth!” Varl snorted. Rawne glared at Varl. “Eszrah Night found it,” Varl told Gaunt.
“Eszrah?”
“Yeah,” said Rawne. “He got the spooks in his undershorts and came up here. We followed him.”
“I followed him,” said Ludd, quietly. No one paid much attention.
“I think Ez heard something,” said Varl. “You know, that sleepwalker fifth sense.”
“Fifth, Varl? How many senses do you have?” asked Gaunt.
“Ah, I mean sixth, don’t I?”
“I fething well hope so,” said Rawne.
“Anyway, we got jumped,” Varl went on. “Blood Pact all over us like a camo net. Then Ez just drops in out of nowhere like… well, like a Nihtgane, really. Reynbowed their arses to the wall, he did.”
“He’d gone out through a shutter?” Gaunt asked.
“He’d figured it,” said Rawne, grudgingly. “He came back in the way they did. Ambushed their ambush.”
Gaunt smiled. Beside him Ludd stepped forwards, gazing up at the dome. “So that’s it?” he asked. “I was still trying to work out where Eszrah had come from.”
He looked at Gaunt. “If they’ve been in here, the Blood Pact, I mean,” he began, “if they’ve been in here all this time, why didn’t they take the place?”
“What?” asked Rawne, scornfully.
“Why didn’t they take the place?” Ludd asked, turning to stare at the major. “They had all the time in the world. Why didn’t they secure it and occupy it? We could have marched up that valley three days ago and found Hinzerhaus fully defended against us.”
“I don’t know.”
“Ludd’s got a point,” said Gaunt.
“Maybe they wanted to play games with us?” Varl suggested.
“Maybe there’s something in here they don’t like,” said Baskevyl. “Maybe there’s something in here they’re scared of.”
“That’s just crap,” said Rawne. Baskevyl shrugged.
“If there’s something in here the Blood Pact is scared of,” said Varl, “we’re totally fethed.”
Gaunt looked up at the dome. “I want to see. I want to see where Mkoll went.”
“I don’t think—” Ludd began.
“That was an order, not an idle reflection.”
Rawne clicked his microbead. “Mkoll? The boss wants to take a look for himself.”
“I expected he might,” the vox crackled back. “All right. We’re clear out here. Goggles, no hats.”
Gaunt took off his cap and handed it to Ludd. He put on the brass-framed goggles Baskevyl handed to him.
“Rawne? Give me a boost,” he said.
“Of course,” said Rawne. “Varl?”
Varl sighed, slung his rifle over his shoulder again, and bent down with his hands held ready.
“Major Rawne,” said Gaunt. “Give me a boost.”
Varl straightened up, disguising a grin. With malice in his eyes, Rawne bent over and linked his hands.
“Thank you, Eli,” said Gaunt, and hoisted himself up.
VII
The shutter flapped shut and Gaunt was gone. Standing below the dome, looking up at it, they waited.
“So, I understand you’re acting commissar, what with Hark hurt and everything,” Baskevyl said conversationally to Ludd.
“Uh, yes, that’s right, Major Baskevyl.”
There was a long silence.
“That can’t be easy” said Baskevyl.
“No, sir,” replied Ludd.
The wind blew.
“So, er, you men had better start behaving yourselves,” Ludd added.
Varl started to twitch, as if afflicted with a tickling cough or an itch. It took about ten seconds for the twitch to turn into a full blown snigger.
“Sorry,” Varl said. “Sorry! I just—”
The snigger turned into laughter. The Guardsmen behind Varl started to laugh too.
“Would you like me to shoot them,” Rawne inquired of Ludd sweetly, “for discipline’s sake?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Ludd said, and turned away.
VIII
If there was a forever on bad rock Jago, you could see it from there.
Gaunt got to his feet. The wind, as if anticipating his entrance, had dropped to a whisper. The dust had died. In the west, down along the spiny backbone of the Banzie Altids, a goblin moon was rising. The sky was a dirty yellow, the colour of wet peat. Clouds gathered in the north, low and banked like meringue. Down below the vast cliff of the mountain range, blankets of white fog covered the landscape.
It was cold. Gaunt moved and his feet skittered away loose rocks that tumbled off down the sheer wall into the blanket of dust far below.
“Watch your step,” said Mkoll, appearing beside Gaunt and placing a steadying hand on his arm. “You want to see this, you do so on my terms.”
“Understood.”
On previous excursions out through the shutters, Mkoll had pegged a network of cables around the cloche. He clipped a safety
line to Gaunt’s belt. Mkoll was supported on one of his own.
“It’s a long drop,” he said.
“It is, it really is.”
They stood for a moment and looked out over the canyon behind the mountain ridge into the dust-swathed badlands.
“You sort of have to admire their balls,” Mkoll said.
“Yes,” said Gaunt.
“We found evidence of some climbing tackle, some pinned-up stuff, but they’ve been pretty much coming up here and getting in by fingertips and effort alone.”
“Right.”
“That’s got to be some ugly upper body strength.”
“Definitely.”
The drop was huge and the rock wall sheer. Gaunt looked down. The distance was immense and dizzying. Just a few hours before, he had been at the bottom end of this aspect, pinned down with Mkoll and Kolea. He remembered looking up. If he’d been trying to take Hinzerhaus from the north, the last thing he’d have suggested to his men was scaling the cliffs. He wouldn’t have expected them to even think of it, let alone try it. The tenacity of the Blood Pact was an object lesson. They had no fear, or limitation on their endurance.
So how are we supposed to stop them? Or even delay them?
He looked to his right. The top of the sharp ridge curled around, slightly north and then in a slant to the south-west. Its length was dimpled with cloche turrets and casemates, iron domes and boxes that dotted away for at least two kilometres. On the outside, the cloche turrets, like the one he was secured against, were worn matt and rough by the scouring action of the wind and grit.
Gaunt looked to his left. There, the ridge rose up to a peak. Cloche turrets and casemates dotted up the rise of the peak and down the other side. At the apex he saw the windcote from the outside, a brass cupola, the summit of Hinzerhaus. The windcote supported a broken finial of metal. A proud flag or standard had once flown there, Gaunt thought.
“You don’t like this place, do you?” Gaunt asked Mkoll.
Mkoll sighed. “Not at all. I honestly can’t think of another site I’d care to defend less. There’s something about it.”
“And that something’s getting to you?”
“You noticed? Yeah, this damn place makes me edgy, I don’t know why. Never known a place get under my skin like this. I didn’t think I was the sort of bloke to get the spooks. Now I’ve got “em, it’s making me doubt myself.”
“I know.”
Mkoll looked at Gaunt. “I feel sloppy and off form. I keep second guessing myself, and jumping at shadows. I hate that. I can’t trust myself. This place is making a fool out of me. And fools die faster than others.”
Gaunt nodded. “If it helps, it’s not just you. Everyone feels it. Well, except Rawne maybe, as he feels nothing.”
Mkoll smiled.
“There’s something about Hinzerhaus,” Gaunt went on, “and it’s playing on our nerves. We just have to learn to ignore it. It’s just an old fortress at the arse-end of nowhere.”
“Perhaps,” said Mkoll. “I just wish I could shake the feeling that none of us is going to be getting out of here alive.”
“Would it trouble you to know that I have the same feeling, Oan?”
“It would, sir, so you’d better not tell me.”
IX
They heard a cry, like the cry of a bird, and Gaunt thought for a moment that the denizens of the windcote might have returned.
But it was a human voice, hollowed out by the wind. Three figures appeared beside a cloche a hundred metres west of them.
Gaunt squinted. “Ours?”
“Yeah,” said Mkoll. “I’ve had men searching the outside of the ridgeline, cutting free any traces of Blood Pact rope work.”
They detached their safety lines and edged along the natural rampart of the rock towards the others. Gaunt felt relief every time they reached another cloche or gunbox, where he could hold on and steady himself for a moment. The alarming drop into distant clouds reminded him of Phantine and the view down into the Scald. Despite the chill, he was beginning to sweat. He had no wish to be where he was, especially untethered, if the wind rose again.
A long five minutes of concentrated effort brought them over to the others. The scouts Caober and Jajjo nodded greetings as Mkoll and Gaunt joined them. Eszrah ap Niht waited silently behind them.
“Found much?” Gaunt asked.
Jajjo pointed to the west. “A whole network of rope ladders and tether lines, about half a kilometre that way. Bonin and Hwlan have gone to cut them free.”
“Question remains, what do we do with the fortifications?” asked Caober. “I mean, they’re weak links unless we crew them.”
“We could try blocking them off,” suggested Jajjo.
“We crew them,” said Gaunt. “If this place is a fortress, let’s occupy it as such. Let’s man these defences. If the enemy comes creeping back up here, he’ll be in for a surprise.”
Gaunt looked at Eszrah. The partisan, wearing the sunshades Varl had given him long before, was staring up at the malevolent yellow moon.
“That was good work,” Gaunt said.
“Soule?”
“Good work, learning about the shutters. And I think Rawne’s fire-team owes you a debt too.”
Eszrah shrugged his shoulders slightly.
“There was something else, sir,” said Caober. He led them around the grit-burnished rim of the cloche to the southern side of the mountain rampart. They were overlooking what Gaunt thought of as the front of Hinzerhaus. There was the narrow pass that led to the gatehouse, though the gatehouse was hard to make out at that distance. Immediately below them, the main sections of Hinzerhaus grew out of the sloping mountain face: sections of old tiled roof, the tops of casemates built into the cliffs, and small towers.
“There, sir,” said Caober, pointing. Gaunt could see something a long way down the slope, in the lower area of the house’s southern aspect. It looked like a large, square roof surrounded by other, red-tiled roofs on two sides, and mountain rock on the other two.
“You see?” asked Caober.
Gaunt took out his scope and trained it for a better look. It wasn’t a square roof at all. It was a paved courtyard, open to the sky.
Gaunt lowered his scope. “Has anyone reported finding a courtyard so far?”
“No,” replied Mkoll.
“So there’s a courtyard slap bang in the middle of the lower southern levels, and we didn’t know about it?” Gaunt paused. “That means there are still parts of this damned place we haven’t even found yet.”
Day nine. Sunrise at four plus forty-one, white-out conditions. It has been explained to me that I am expected to maintain this field journal while H. is incapacitated.
Day’s activities two-fold. Teams are continuing to secure the objective, which includes taking up defensive positions in the upper fortifications + those casemates covering the main approach/gatehouse. Other duty sections resuming search of objective to find “hidden” areas, including some sort of courtyard space.
My own concern is my singular lack of authority. I cannot blame the men for it. I have followed on H’s coat-tails so far, and exercised his authority. Until now the men only had to tolerate or ignore me. I frankly do not know what to do. I wish to discharge my duties as political officer, especially at this trying time, but I cannot force the men to respect me. Have considered consulting G.
Water drop now overdue.
—Field journal, N.L. for V.H. fifth month, 778.
NINE
034TH
I
The wind skirled around the gunslits of overlook six. Larkin had propped the main shutter open with a block of wood. Goggles on, his mouth and nose wrapped up behind the folds of his camo-cape, he trained his scope out into the dust storm.
“See anything?” asked Banda snidely. She’d given up watching, and had retired to the back of the casemate to brush the dust out of her scope. Her long-las leaned against the stone wall behind her. It was cold in the bunker, esp
ecially with the shutter lifted, and dust blew in, filling the air with a faint powder. Banda shivered. She took a swig of sacra from her flask. A lot of Ghosts had begun filling their empty water bottles with liquor from contraband supplies. Something to drink was better than nothing, now the water had all but gone.
“Want some?” she asked Larkin, holding the flask out. Larkin shook his head. “That stuff’ll just make you more thirsty,” he said from behind his dust-caked muffle. “Rot your brain if you dehydrate and keep supping it.”
“Yeah, well,” said Banda with a shrug and took another sip.
“Plus, you won’t be able to shoot worth a damn.”
“Gonna write me up, Mister Master Sniper? Huh? Gonna put me on report?”
Larkin didn’t answer. He didn’t especially care if Jessi Banda went crazy drinking still juice. He certainly didn’t want the bother of writing her up. What good would that do?
Overlook six was one of the main casemate towers above the gatehouse on the southern slope of Hinzerhaus. When the dust dropped back, it afforded an excellent, marksman-friendly line down the throat of the pass. When the dust rose, it afforded feth all.
Kolea came in through the hatch. Banda hurriedly tucked her flask away.
“Larks?”
“Hello, Gol.”
“Anything?”
Larkin shrugged. “I think I saw some dust just now.”
Kolea managed a smile. Like most of them, his lips were cracked and dry, and dust infections were reddening his eyes. There wasn’t enough fluid in the place to mix up counterseptic eye wash.
“Beltayn just got a squirt on the vox. We think it may be this mythical water drop, but he can’t fix the signal.”
“I can’t help you,” said Larkin. “Sorry.”
Kolea nodded and turned to go. “Make sure you don’t work too hard there, Banda,” he remarked as he passed her. As soon as he was out of sight, Banda extravagantly gave him the root, a hand gesture popular amongst disenchanted Verghastites who found words failing them.
“Hey,” said Larkin suddenly. He set his scope up at the shutter again, focusing it. “Hey, Gol! Gol!”