“She was right there!” Maggs protested as the two Ghosts scooped him up and took his warknife and pistol away. “I was just trying to protect us all!”
“From what?” Ludd asked.
“The old dam! The old dam!” Maggs cried bitterly.
An armed fire-team slammed into the billet hall behind them, led by Kolea. They had their weapons trained.
“Shots reported,” Kolea growled looking at Ludd and the others down the foresight of his carbine. “Do we have contact?”
“False alarm, major,” Ludd said. “Just a little domestic incident.”
Kolea lowered his gun and clicked his microbead. “Kolea to all stations. Stand down, stand down. False contact.”
He looked back at Ludd. “What happened?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” said Ludd. “Can we find somewhere we can make Maggs secure for the time being?”
Kolea frowned. “Lock him up, you mean?”
Ludd nodded.
“Is he on charges?”
“I think it’s safe to say yes,” said Ludd.
Kolea whistled.
“I was only trying to protect us all,” said Maggs, quieter and calmer now. “You’ve seen her, haven’t you, Gol?”
“What’s he talking about?” Kolea asked.
“Who the feth knows?” Varl replied.
VII
He hadn’t been able to sleep, the air was so still. As he lay in his bedroll, it felt like he was being smothered. He got up and walked around, with no particular destination in mind.
That was a lie.
No particular destination at all.
The scratching under the floor knew he was lying.
Baskevyl wandered idly down through the lower levels of the house, nodding to sentry groups and watch positions as he went, stopping to share a few words.
All the while, he could hear the slithering underground, the mottled, slick, spinal cord thing moving through the rock beneath him, following him, following him.
No, not following, leading.
Baskevyl walked on, down a loop of stairs, passing lights that glowed and faded, glowed and faded, in time with the hideous scratching noise down there.
He reached the entry hole in the wall that led into the new section. The wall panels that had been pulled down had disappeared for firewood. Three troopers guarded the doorway: Karsk, Gunsfeld and Merrt.
“Quiet night, sir?” Gunsfeld asked.
“So, so.”
“We heard there was a thing just now, in one of the billet halls,” said Karsk.
“Nothing to worry about.”
“We thought it might have been another raid starting.”
“It wasn’t,” said Baskevyl. “You can relax. Not too much, mind. All right if I go through?”
Gunsfeld ushered him in. “Help yourself, sir.”
Baskevyl smiled a thank you, and stepped through the hole into the amber glow of the new section. He’d gone a little way when he heard a voice call to him from behind. Trooper Merrt had followed him down the tunnel.
“What’s up, Merrt?”
“I just gn… gn… gn… wanted to ask you something, sir,” Merrt said. He looked awkward and embarrassed.
“All right.”
Merrt held out his weapon. “What does that say to you, sir?”
Baskevyl peered at the gun. “It says… I think… er, ‘034TH’.”
Merrt nodded. “Right. Gn… gn… gn… thanks, sir.”
“Was that it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Carry on, then.”
Merrt waited until Baskevyl was out of sight, then he looked at his rifle again. 034TH. That’s what Gunsfeld had said too, when Merrt had asked him. Gunsfeld had looked as perplexed by the question as Baskevyl was.
The problem was, they were wrong. Merrt could understand that, because he’d been seeing 034TH too, for a long time.
But the more he’d studied the serial mark, the more he’d become convinced he’d been right all along.
It said DEATH. It absolutely, definitely said DEATH.
It slithered beneath him, so close to the surface, some of the brown satin floor panels seemed to lift slightly and drop back into place as it passed. He could hear it scratching and grinding, wet meat and bone on rock.
“All right,” he whispered. “I’m doing it.”
The scratching fell silent.
Baskevyl entered the library. He walked along the stacks until he was facing the book. It was bound in black leather, sheened and smooth, with an emblem embossed in silver on the spine—a worm with its long, segmented body curled around in a circle, so that its jaws clenched its tail-tip to form a hoop.
He reached out to touch it. His fingers wavered.
He took the book off the shelf.
* * * * *
VIII
“What do you mean, you don’t know where she is?” Dalin asked.
“She’s just gone for a walk,” said Curth. “We’re looking for her.”
Dalin looked around at Cullwoe.
“She’ll be all right,” Cullwoe said. “She’s tough.”
Dalin turned and walked back to where Meryn stood at the door of the billet.
“Permission to help search for Sergeant Criid, sir,” he said.
“Two fire-teams, out here with me,” Meryn called over his shoulder. “Quick as you can.”
He turned back to face Dalin. “We’ll help you look, adjutant,” he said.
IX
“So, it’s true then, Vawne?” Van Voytz’s voice crackled over the poor link.
“That’s Rawne, sir. Yes, it’s true.”
Static hissed and buzzed. “I’m losing you, general,” Rawne said, pulling the mic closer.
“I said that’s a damn shame, Rawne. He was a good man, one of the best. I’ve known Ibram for years. Fine, fine officer. I’ll miss him. How are you coping?”
“The circumstances here are not good. We need assistance urgently. Munitions mainly, but reinforcement would be very welcome.”
“It’s coming, Rawne,” the voice on the link said. “Hold tight. I’ll try to arrange a munitions drop for you.”
“Sir, I’ve sent you particulars. Munition requirements, plus a plan for the drop.”
Static shrieked and moaned for a moment, “—in front of me.”
“Say again, Elikon?”
“I said, I’ve got your request right in front of me, Rawne. Looks doable. You’re sure about this drop site?”
“Confirmed, sir.”
“And you want an extraction too?”
“Yes, sir. If you read my communiqué, you’ll see why.”
Rawne waited. The vox gurgled and fizzled like a dud grenade. The signal strength indicators kept dropping back to nothing.
“Did you hear me, Nalwood? Nalwood?”
“Here, sir.”
“I said I’ll review this and try to set something up. I won’t leave Gaunt’s boys hanging out to dry. Expect contact from me around dawn.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Ech’kkah.”
Rawne paused. “Elikon, Elikon say again? Elikon, Elikon, this is Nalwood, this is Nalwood.”
The vox grunted and flared, letting out a sharp rising whine that made Rawne yank off his headset with a wince. The signal continued to flood out of the speakers.
“—ech’rakah koh’thet magir shett gohrr! Gohrr! GOOOOHHRRR! ECH’KHETT FF’TEH GOOOOHRRR ANARCH!”
The link went dead, cold and dead as hard rock.
“Beltayn!” Rawne yelled, leaping to his feet. “What the feth was that?”
Fifty metres away in the base chamber, Beltayn urgently nursed his voxcaster, one headset cup pressed to his ear.
“Channel interference, sir!” he shouted back. “I’m trying to recover the Elikon signal now!”
Rerval bent over Beltayn. “Try 3:33 gain—”
“Thank you, I am!
“That sounded like—”
“I k
now what it fething sounded like, Rerval!” Beltayn snapped.
Rerval went pale. “Do you think… if we can hear them… can they hear us?”
Beltayn wasn’t listening. He wound a dial over and threw two toggle switches. “Think I’ve got it… I think Eve got it back. Clean signal. Setting for balance.”
Beltayn sat back from the caster suddenly. “Feth,” he said.
“Bel?” Rerval asked.
Beltayn handed him the headset. Rerval pressed it to his ear.
He heard the voice, distant but quite distinct. It said, “Are we the last ones left alive? Are we? Someone, anyone, please? Are we? Is there anybody out there? Are we the last ones left alive?”
Rerval began to shake. “Bel,” he said. “That’s your voice.”
“I know,” said Beltayn.
X
It seemed a long way back to the base chamber. Hark wanted to lie down. More than that, he wanted painkillers. More than that, he wanted sleep. He was limping along a corridor in the middle range of the house on the southern side. Individual inset box gunslits formed a row of windows looking out down the pass. He sat down on the firestep under one of them, careful not to lean back. Shifting around he managed to peer out into the darkness. It was well past midnight, local. The night was virtually calm and very clear. He could see the black walls of the pass against the maroon sky, and the small, fierce moon hanging above them. The moonlight lit up the lower slopes of the house and made the dust bowl beyond the gate glow like a snowfield. He watched the wind chase zephyrs of dust across the shining dunes.
He heard footsteps approaching.
He took out his pistol, pretending to load it again.
Someone walked past him, stirring the air. He looked up, but there was nobody around. Hark tensed. The air had suddenly gone very cold. The pain in his back flared and he realised he was quite incapable of standing up. He distinctly heard the sound of Tanith pipes. Fear prickled across him.
Tona Criid appeared, padding along in bare feet. She looked like she was sleepwalking.
“Tona?”
She turned her head slightly, but didn’t seem to recognise him.
“Tona, can you help me?”
She kept walking, her feet making small, slapping noises on the brown satin flooring.
“Sergeant Criid, please,” he groaned. “I can’t stand, and there’s something badly wrong here, something terrible.”
She stopped in her tracks and looked back at Hark.
“He’s here,” she said. “He’s here.”
“Who is?”
“Caff,” she said. “Look.”
She gestured ahead of her. Down the corridor, in the dark, a light had appeared. It was tiny at first, but then it grew brighter until it had become a twisting, jumping, flickering snake of intense, baleful luminosity. It danced and crackled. Hark felt the hairs on his neck rise and smelled ozone. He knew it for what it was: corposant, freak electrical discharge.
“Tona, get back,” he said, trying to get up, but his legs were too weak. “Tona Criid, get back, now!”
“Look,” she said, smiling.
The light wasn’t a light anymore. It was a figure, a human figure, radiating light from inside its form. Tona began to cry. Tears raced down her thin cheeks.
“Caff,” she sobbed.
“That’s not Caffran!” Hark cried. He tried to rack the slide of his bolt pistol. It jammed. He fought at it, grinding it back and forth.
“Tona!”
The figure turned to face them slowly. It was tall. Its clothing was torn and ripped, and soaked with blood. It was quite dead, Hark saw that instantly. Gore caked its face and matted its short, blond hair.
It was Ibram Gaunt.
Criid uttered a cry of pain and disbelief. She lurched forwards and beat at Gaunt’s chest with her fists.
“You’re dead! You’re dead!” she wailed, thumping at him. “Where’s Caff? You’re dead! You’re fething dead!”
The bloody figure reached out its arms to embrace her. She pulled back, terrified.
Hark finally cleared his gun. He found his feet at last and rose, taking a step forward.
“He’s dead!” Criid screamed.
“I know,” Hark said. He grabbed her by the arm and pushed her back behind him. She did not resist. He faced the figure and raised his pistol.
“I don’t know what you are,” he said. “I know what you’d like us to think you are. Leave us alone.”
The figure opened its mouth, as if to reply, but the mouth did not stop opening. The jaws extended wider and wider in a hellish, silent scream, and noxious light shone out of the throat. The skin, the bloody lips, pulled back away from the widening maw, revealing teeth, revealing skull. Flesh and meat scurried backwards like acid-eaten fabric, stripping the face, the scalp, the throat down to muscle and sinew, then down to bare bone. Clothing rotted in a split second, decomposing back to dust, stripping the skeleton until it stood before them, gaunt and stark.
Its mouth was still wide open in that silent, endless scream. Its arms were still extended, the last gobbets of liquid flesh and tufts of rag dripping off them.
Then, and only then, it screamed aloud. The sound stripped out their minds and shivered their organs. It was a sound neither of them would ever forget.
Hark dropped his pistol and pulled Criid into his arms to protect her with the bulk of his body.
The screaming skeleton exploded.
They felt the Shockwave rock them. They smelled dust and fried bone and, worst of all, Gaunt’s cologne. Every wall lamp in the hall blew out and the light died.
Hark released Criid. They blinked in the darkness. They heard footsteps running up through the house to find them.
“What the feth was that?” Hark gasped.
Outside, the heavens lit up. Huge booming sounds echoed down the pass, the sound of a martial god’s boundless wrath. Hark staggered to the nearest window slit and looked out. Bombardment fire had lit up the sky behind the pass, making it a jagged silhouette, flash after flash.
“What the feth was that?” Criid asked him.
“I don’t know,” Hark replied quietly, watching the giant flares of light eat up the dark. “But I think this is the end for us.”
Day thirteen. Four sixteen, before sunrise. Conditions good.
What am I saying? Conditions good? I mean the wind is down and it’s clear. Nothing else is good.
Madness descended last night. Things happened that can’t be accounted for. Men saw things, felt things, heard things. I saw things. I will not record them here, became I do not know how have any way to explain them.
I had a feeling about this place from the very start, a feeling that the rational part of my mind put aside. I can’t ignore it any more. This place, this damn house, is evil. There is a presence here that is growing in strength. I believe it poses as great a threat to us as the enemy itself.
When we came here, when the rumours first started, G. had us ban words like “cursed” and “haunted”. I do not think such words can be ignored any more. We are in trouble, more trouble than we ever imagined.
The war reached us a few hours ago, in the middle of the night, at the height of the madness. Some kind of huge artillery battle is taking place beyond the pass, lighting up the sky.
This may mean the promised reinforcements are moving up to relieve us. Or it may mean we are about to be annihilated in the middle of a fall scale offensive.
—field journal, V.H. fifth month, 778.
EIGHTEEN
The Last Chance
I
“That’s you then, is it?” Rawne asked, watching the light shock quake and shimmer the distant morning sky beyond the pass.
“Yes,” said Berenson. “It’s been confirmed, though details are scant. Vox-links are poor. But, yes. As of midnight local, last night, the advancing strengths of the Cadogus Fifty-Second engaged the enemy main force. At Banzie Pass, actually, just as predicted.”
“Throne ble
ss the Tacticae,” said Kolea.
The three of them stood outside a cloche on the ridge line of the house, looking south through scopes. The day was bright and startlingly clear. The cloche domes studding the ridge on either side of them glowed gold like templum cupolas. The sky was selpic blue. Far away, beyond the crags and the western arm of the Altids, that blue buckled and quivered like silk in the wind. They could hear the thoom thoom thoom of heavy guns. It would have sounded like an approaching thunderstorm, except that the booming was too regular.
“Implications for us?” Rawne asked, lowering his scope.
“The prospect of relief at last,” said Berenson. “If the Cadogus main force has reached Banzie Pass, then the reinforcement companies must be close at hand.”
“Right on time,” muttered Rawne. “Three days, you said.”
“I did,” Berenson nodded.
“It’s not going to be that easy,” said Kolea. “They won’t let us go that easily.”
“Why not?” asked Berenson.
“Because we’ve hurt them,” said Kolea. “We’ve kept them out for days. They want this place, so they can secure the pass here. But that part is secondary. They’ll want to make us pay.”
“You can read their minds, major?” Berenson sneered.
“I’ve fought them before,” said Kolea.
“Are we in a position to fight them now?” Berenson asked.
“No,” Rawne replied, “but in a few hours, we might be. I’ve secured a munitions resupply. We can re-arm and hold on a little longer. As long as we have to.”
“When’s the drop?” asked Kolea.
“Waiting for an ETA,” said Rawne. “By noon, I hope.”
“Let’s hope we’re all still here come noon,” said Kolea.
Rawne looked around at him. “What’s that supposed to mean, Kolea?”
“You were here last night, weren’t you?” Kolea replied. “You saw the things that were happening. They’re getting worse, these—”
“Are we ever going to use the word?” asked Rawne. “Hauntings?”